ria

A chilly wind picked up, making you wrap your burgundy cloak tighter around you. The litter was prepared, caravans readied, and everyone was eager to depart, but Lyonel lingered for a bit longer.

"My lord, we should ready to depart," Raymont said. He was Lyonel's youngest cousin who served as his squire. He was a good lad and kept everything organized and on time, an attribute that was not your beloved husband's strongest suit.

"A few more minutes, then we can go," Lyonel said, leaning on his antler crutch. You rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, knowing he still held hope that Ser Duncan might join him.

Time passed, and the hedge knight did not show, making your husband sigh heavily.

"Let us go." The disappointed look in his dark eyes nearly crushed you. His lips gently brushed across your cheek, standing close as you mounted your horse.

"Ser Lyonel!" a deep voice bellowed across the field, and the party turned to look. Over the grassy hill rode Ser Duncan atop his huge brown destrier, which the older, brown stot following behind.

A grin broke across Lyonel's face. "Good lad, you decided to join me after all."

Dunk nodded, his face still bruised and swollen with his left arm in a sling. "I've had enough of princes, m'lord."

"Ride alongside my wife and me. We must be going, or Raymont will have all our heads," Lyonel said, clapping the horse's flank. He mounted a black palfrey, having lost his destrier in the Trial at the hands of Prince Maekar Targaryen.

The little took off, departing for Storm's End, where new adventures awaited.

Everyone was feeling sore and tired by the time they arrived at the castle. You rolled your shoulders as the household servants bustled around, and you instructed them to start preparing hot baths and a room for Dunk. Lyonel had his arms full with Roslyn and Jocelyn, fussing over the dark haired girls and showering them with attention. Their wide, dark eyes peered at Dunk curiously.

"Come and introduce yourselves, my darlings," you smiled, extended your hands out to them, and brought them closer. Roslyn was the elder, and Jocelyn was younger by three years. Lyonel adored them equally, even if they were constantly trying to get him to name a favorite.

"Miladies," Dunk said, giving a small bow, and the girls giggled.

"We will spend time together before supper. I must settle our guest in," you told them, kissing the top of each of their silky, dark heads.

"You and Ser Lyonel are kind for hosting me, milady," he said, towering over you, even bigger than your good husband. "Your daughters are as beautiful as you."

"Thank you, and we are happy to have you. My husband is quite fond of you, Ser, understandably so," you said, showing him to his quarters after winding up the stone staircase leading to the drum tower.

"You are kind to say so, milady," he said, ducking his head while his cheeks pinkened.

You escorted him into the quarters, where a steaming bath awaited him. "I will send in some of the stewards to help attend to you."

"No need for the fuss, I can handle it, I'm certain," he insisted.

"You are injured."

"It's alright."

You placed a hand on your hip. "You are as stubborn as my husband, it seems. Then let me assist you."

"N…no! That….you are a lady!"

"Very astute, Ser Duncan. I can assure you the sight of your cock will not make me faint. I've been surrounded by too many of my husband's men to pale at one."

His jaw dropped. How he yearned for the touch of a woman, yet how could he ask such a thing from a noble married lady?

You could see the hesitation all over his face. "I assure you, it will not upset my husband in any way. I have tended to many of his men over the years, plus we don't want the water to get cold."

The men who were more than simple companions. Beesbury had been one, and you knew his death tolled on Lyonel. Guilt swirled inside him, but who else would have rallied to aid in the Trial other than the dear man? The man who would have followed Lyonel to the ends of the world, and for whom Lyonel would have done the same. Over the return to Storm's End, which took a little over a fortnight, you saw the bond deepen between Lyonel and Dunk, but you did not begrudge it. Lyonel had always been honest with you about where his desires lay, and it only made you love him more. He was a good husband, a good father, and gave you freedoms along with whatever you desired, so you could not deny him of his true nature. You only asked for his honesty regarding the trysts, which he always honored.

"I…thank you, milady," Dunk murmured, and it was charming to watch such a large man attempt to make himself small.

You moved closer to help him undress, carefully removing the sling. The bruises and face swelling had gone down, but you would make a poultice for him later that evening. The blush spread down his cheeks toward his neck as you tenderly and methodically removed his clothing. You didn't let your eyes linger, not wishing to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. He got into the bath on his own, groaning as he sank into the hot water.

"Seven Hells," he sighed.

You chuckled. "Yes, a hot bath can solve nearly all issues." You dipped the sponge into the water before lathering it with soap, starting with Duncan's broad back, careful of his injured shoulder. His wounds were healing nicely, but you would give them a thorough examination after the bath.

Soft sighs toppled from his mouth as you massaged his scalp. You closed your eyes, getting lost in the movements, remembering two summers ago as you tended to Humfrey and Lyonel in the bathhouse after the Lannisport tourney. Helping to wash the dirt and blood from them, the sweet kisses they left on your skin, the way their fingers curled inside you, the heat from their bodies as they enveloped you between them. Lyonel instructing Humfrey how to suckle your nipples. The hazy image of Lyonel's cock buried inside Humfrey as the honey mustached man gripped the stone's edge. A blurred memory from days past.

"There we are, Ser Dunk, clean as fresh linen," you smiled, noting the thin film of grime that coated the bathwater.

"I feel like a new man, thank you again, milady," he grinned, those blue eyes meeting your gaze.

"I've had the steward lay out some of my father in law's clothing for you. The dear man departed years ago, but he was almost as big as you. I can have my seamstress alter them if need be. I could arrange for supper to be brought to your rooms, but you are welcome to join us in the Round Hall if you wish."

"I would like that, milady. You've been most kind."

"'Tis my pleasure, Ser Duncan. I will leave you to rest."

He reached out, squeezing your hand. His touch lingered on your skin, like flames crackling over your fingertips. You found solace in your private quarters, where the ladies helped tend to and bathe you, dressing you in a rich golden dress embossed with vibrant purple grapes.

"Please arrange for an Arbor red this evening," you told them. You yearned for a taste of home.

Lyonel found you warming by the fire, embroidery hoop in your lap and half asleep. A gentle hand landed on your shoulder. The familiar scent of leather and musk wafted under your nose.

"Duncan is settling in nicely," he commented, studying you with his dark eyes. "You are to thank for that."

Your hand curled around his fingers. "I enjoy him, as do you, I suspect."

"You've always been perceptive, clever girl."

He pulled his fingers from your grip before kneeling in front of you. The firelight caught in the flecks of gold hidden in those dark eyes. How fitting they were for a Baratheon man. He drew your hands toward his mouth, placing soft kisses upon them. His beard made your skin prickle.

"Does it upset you?" Warm mouth spreading heat over your skin.

"Lyonel, if it truly upset me, I wouldn't have married you all those years ago," you smiled.

"You have never felt neglected?"

"Never," you assured him. "I know you would give them up if I asked, but I only wish for your happiness as I know you do for mine."

"The Gods truly blessed me with you," he whispered before laying his head in your lap. You lazily dragged your fingers through his curls, remembering when you laboured with Roslyn and how he had ridden through the night to return to Storm's End to be by your side. He didn't want you to be alone or miss the birth of his first child. You'd never forget the proud look on his face as he held her in his arms. The bonny babe wrapped in a gold cloth.

"All this will be yours one day," he whispered to her.

"I am sorry about Beesbury," you whispered, "I know how special he was to you."

"He was a good man, a fine man, and he is with the Gods now."

"I promised our girls I would spend time with them before supper," you hummed, gently massaging his scalp as you had done with Ser Duncan earlier.

"Ah, well, do not keep our little lasses waiting," he smiled, rolling to his feet.

"Go and visit with Dunk; he would be happy for your company." You rose, pulling Lyonel's face down and kissing him softly.

Supper was a warm affair, with your daughters transfixed by Duncan's endless appetite.

"You will be well fed here, Ser Duncan," Jocelyn said.

"I have no doubt, milady," he chuckled.

The girls entertained Dunk with their dancing once supper ended, and you knew that he would be favoured in these halls.

Many moons passed, bringing the three of you closer into an intricately woven web. While you had cared for Beesbury, participating in the occasional dalliance, you had never truly fallen for one of your husband's paramours. But there was something different about Dunk. He was pure hearted, a knight of the people. It was hardly surprising how he won over the hearts of many at Ashford, even the departed Prince Baelor. Your daughters took it upon themselves to teach him letters, helping him to read and write, and never poking fun at him. He doted upon them, constantly parading around the castle with them tossed over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing more than a simple bag of flour. Most of his days were spent with Lyonel in the training yard, and the hedge knight picked up skills easily. He was stalwart.

You came to welcome the shy smiles he would toss your way. The way those blue eyes would sparkle. The rosy flush that clung to his cheeks and neck. The rough feeling of his hand beneath yours when he would help you to stand or dismount from your horse. It all made your heart skip a beat.

You couldn't ignore the hushed whispers between him and Lyonel. The swollen lips of your husband as he crawled into your bed. The all too familiar bite marks marring Dunk's pale shoulder when he undressed, the colors of your husband's house falling around his feet. A strange jealousy began to bloom deep inside your belly, but you did not wish for it to fester and cause you to rot.

"Will you share him with me?" you whispered to Lyonel one evening.

"Hmm?" Lyonel hummed, half asleep next to you.

"Dunk. I wish you to share him with me," you stated more clearly.

"Truly?" He shifted to face you.

"Yes, please. I have never asked for much, but might I partake with you?"

"If that is what you desire." He grazed his knuckles down your cheek. "I could never deny you."

And so it began.

Dunk was green, eager to please both you and Lyonel. That head, hair kissed by fire, disappearing between your thighs with your legs tossed over his broad shoulders. Once hesitant in the beginning, his movements grew bolder until he knew exactly how to trace his tongue over your swollen pearl. The sweet reward of your release, soaking his tongue, was all he needed to show him that he had done a wonderful job.

There were the nights that he and Lyonel entangled. Two valiant warriors curved together, melding into each other. The hedge knight's weight wedged on top of the Laughing Storm, cock buried deep inside. Sweet sweat beading down your husband's neck and forehead while Dunk set a gentle pace.

The best nights were when the three of you intertwined. Each man's mouth wrapped around your breasts, making you writhe and drip with pleasure. Taking your time stroking their cocks until the flesh stiffened and leaked. Your body learned to bend and adjust in ways you never thought possible, learning to accommodate two cocks buried inside your willing, eager cunt.

The only strict rule was that Dunk could not finish inside you. Lyonel could not risk you becoming the topic of cruel gossip or feeling shamed should a child emerge from the union. Neither you nor Dunk could argue with such logic.

The storm raged outside, heavy rain falling like pellets against the castle walls. In your chambers, the fire roared in the hearth, bathing the room in an amber glow. Various flickering candles were scattered across the room. Red and gold silks were draped over the canopy of your bed. Three golden goblets were filled to the brim with crisp Arbor white, and a silver platter filled with plump red grapes, almonds dipped in honey, ripe red cherries, cups of sweet cream, and halved figs sat in the middle of the bed. All this helped to create a cozy, yet sultry atmosphere.

You wore only a gauzy, thin robe, but the two men coupling you and the roaring fire staved off the cold. Lyonel wore nothing at all apart from two golden rings threaded with a golden chain through his nipples, and Dunk was just in his thin breeches. There was still a shyness that lingered beneath his surface, only furthering the endearment you and Lyonel held for him. You dipped your finger into the sweet cream, gently licking it away. Dunk lay on his back, slipping almonds one by one into his mouth with the sticky honey lingering on his fingers.

You crawled toward him, straddling his thick chest and lifting his hand to your mouth. Slowly, you suckled the honey from each fingertip. You would never get over how big he was. His cock swelled against the curve of your arse. Lyonel watched through heavy-lidded eyes, white wine dribbling down the corners of his mouth as he indulged one thirst.

"Open her up for me, Ser Dunk," he whispered huskily.

You gasped as Dunk maneuvered your body with ease, bracing you against his chest while using his large hands to spread your thighs wide.

"The sight of that cunt would make the most skilled of sailors crash right into the rocks," Lyonel mused, reaching down to stroke his cock. "They would beg to drown in it."

"I agree, milord. 'Tis a thing of beauty," Dunk hummed. One of his hands slipped down your belly to cup you between your legs before skimming his fingers over your flesh. His middle one sank deep inside you.

"We are men of good taste, are we not?" Lyonel smirked. With hazy vision, you watched Lyonel coat two of his fingers in oil.

Dunk nodded, nuzzling your shoulder while Lyonel positioned himself between your thighs. "Very good taste, milord."

Dunk's finger buried inside you made warmth flutter through your belly, spreading lower like slow dripping honey. Like the honey lingering on your tongue from his fingers. You whimpered when the digit was removed, leaving you longing for something to clench around. He tilted you back, keeping you against his bare, warm chest as more of you was exposed to Lyonel's eyes.

"Deep breath, my darling," Lyonel murmured before kissing your belly. His hot kiss lingered on your skin, burning an invisible mark that was soothed away by Dunk's palm. You inhaled slowly, filling your lungs as Lyonel's fingers aligned with your puckered arsehole. The slip of the oil allowed them easy entrance into the tight ring. "You wished to know what it felt like."

Ah, yes, you had been curious as a cock had never filled you there, yet it seemed to bring Lyonel and Dunk great pleasure. Just two nights ago, Dunk had spread Lyonel's cheeks wide and delved his tongue between the crevice. Meaty fingers digging into your husband's plush arse while the hedge knight devoured him. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you wished to experience it. It was not unpleasant once adjusted to the feeling. A feeling of being stuffed impossibly full.

"You're doing so well, milady," Dunk whispered into your ear, the praise enveloping you like a warm robe. The wisps of the one you were currently wearing clung to your perspiring skin. You groaned when Dunk rolled the stiff, aching flesh between the rough pads of his fingers.

With two fingers still buried in your arse, Lyonel lowered his mouth to your cunt. You twitched in Dunk's grasp while your good husband suckled and lapped at your swollen pearl. His fingers curved upward, sinking in deeper and hitting a pleasure spot inside you. Thick, pleasurable moans spilled wantonly from your parted mouth as you tumbled into an intense release.

"Dear Gods, woman, you do intend to drown me," Lyonel said with a wide grin, the aftermath of your release clinging to his beard and mouth. Gently, he withdrew his fingers before standing to wash his hands at the basin. Dunk stroked your body, peeling the thin covering away from your body.

"May I, milady?"

"What a sweet lad to ask," Lyonel teased.

"Leave him be," you chided. "Please, Ser Duncan, you may."

He kept you braced against his chest, your legs hooked over his wide thighs, before plunging two fingers into your sopping cunt.

"Ah!" you gasped, clenching around them. You felt Lyonel's hand on your cheek, thumb sliding between your lips.

"Open."

You obeyed, parting your mouth wide. The white wine trickled into your mouth, splashing against your tongue and quenching your thirst with the crisp taste of citrus. You sputtered softly, closing your mouth and feeling a thin stream run down the corners of your lips, then dribble down your neck. Dunk's free hand massaged your breasts, and soon your toes curled as you toppled into another peak. Heat prickled across your body, chest heaving softly in the aftermath, and you felt as if you could melt into Dunk's chest. The two men moved you carefully, settling you against the golden pillows with Lyonel hand feeding you cherries dipped in sweet cream while Dunk wiped you down with a wet cloth.

"How are you feeling, sweet wife?" Lyonel asked, tucking a stand of hair behind your ear.

"Very well, mayhaps a bit tired," you smiled. The juice from the cherries stained your lips.

"Then rest." His hand rubbed your hip and thigh. "Do you mind if Ser Duncan attends to me?"

You shook your head, stroking Dunk's face as one cheek pressed against your thigh. "Not at all. I will merely enjoy the show."

"The Gods truly broke the mold with you, good lady wife," Lyonel whispered.

"Never forget it," you quipped playfully before tugging on the golden chain between the piercings, eliciting a soft hiss from him, then helped Dunk from his breeches.

He left you with a searing kiss before turning his attentions to Dunk. You hugged a pillow against your naked body as you watched Dunk dribble and smear oil between your husband's cheeks. Lyonel stretched like a lithe panther on his belly.

"Milord," Dunk whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of Lyonel's neck. His hand tangled in the damp mess of Lyonel's curls as he lined up his cock. You squeezed the pillow tighter against your belly while watching Dunk's leaking, engorged cock sink deep into your husband, disappearing between his pert arse.

They kept his position for a while before switching to another, with Lyonel's legs braced against Dunk's shoulders and the Laughing Storm's knees nearly to his ears. The golden chain was clasped between Dunk's teeth as he rolled his hips, driving himself deeper into Lyonel. It was truly a beautiful sight to behold. The heat and desire between them bled heavily through the room. Lyonel left a sticky, pearlescent mess over Dunk's belly while the hedge knight's spend leaked from your husband's puffy hole. You tended to them after, wiping them down and kissing them before the three of you curled together.

i just can't stop thinking about how BAELOR is older than the men you usually date, and the way he'd have you gripping the bedframe as he circles the tip of his tongue across your needy, throbbing, swollen clit.

it would be morning—the sun has barely risen and he's lying in bed, with your clothes thrown carelessly around the vintage frame and his arms circled around your thighs. sunlight, warm and golden, would seep in through the blinds, bleeding across the wooden floor little by little, occupying the space as a clock, somewhere nearby, ticks, and ticks, and ticks.

it had rained the night before: not too violently, not for too long, just hard enough for a faint chill to remain whenever the wind blew in through a set of wooden blinds that were left open half-way. it makes the beams creak and the walls whistle, and it brings a shiver up your spine.

it is, after all, the beginning of summer.

BAELOR’s hands, however, feel hot against your skin. his fingers are splayed along the expanse of your thighs, digits pressing into the plush skin as he circles them in a caress. and his tongue, running along your puffy, glistening folds, feels the warmest of all.

"look at how pretty she is," he murmurs, pointing his words with a lick. "how she throbs and leaks, begging for my touch. tastes so sweet, too. could just—mhm, could just lick her for hours, pretty girl."

he just about has been.

he’d started just as you were waking up, dragging his fingers along your slit under your sleeping shorts, sucking them into his mouth before asking you to ride his face instead. and how were you supposed to refuse?

"no, no," he hums, sucking your clit into his mouth as he pulls you down lower against his face. "i didn't say hover, pretty girl. i said sit."

a moan rips through your lips as his tongue enters your hole, and he circles it around as he revels in the sound. he gulps, savoring your taste, feasting on your slick, whimpering against your skin at the way you begin to move your hips over his head. he sucks around your hole as he kneads at the bottom of your ass, working his lips in tandem with his tongue.

his hands move again, making you gasp, making your teeth sink into your bottom lip the moment he uses them to land a spank just over the place he was kneading. and, as if feeding off of your response, as if growing only from your pleasure, does it again the moment you begin to move faster.

"that's right. mhm, take what you need. yeah, just take what you need," he moans against your skin, moving his face upwards to rest his tongue beneath your throbbing clit. he lays it flat, feeling you move against it, your cunt dripping down his chin.

and there’s a part of him that’s still ashamed. there’s a part of him that still whispers and grumbles in the back of his head, telling him that he’s too old for you, that you deserve better, that you should want better—

you quiet it, moaning over him. he puts it to rest, willing it away if only for a moment, nibbling on your clit as he treads a hand between your folds, collecting moisture with his fingers.

he moves his thumb back, digit dripping with your slick, and circles it, softly, tenderly, along your asshole. he hears you gasp, feels you tremble, and tongues at your clit as he applies more pressure with his finger. the tight, puckered ring of muscle clenches under his digit, and he presses in, and a moan, broken and hoarse, echoes across the room.

yours. or his?

BAELOR laps at your cunt, moving his finger in slow, delicate motions, accompanying your moans with the wet, debauched sounds of his sucking.

“i’m so—BAELOR, i’m—”

“gonna cum, pretty girl?” he groans, moving his finger in deeper, sucking your clit in harder. “soak my face, yeah? gonna do that for me?”

you want to answer. you try to.

but then BAELOR’s tongue flicks along your pearl once more, and you’re weightless, and you’re sinking down, and you’re soaring up. your hands grip the headboard so tight your knuckles begin to hurt, and you’re seeing blue, and pink, and white, and all the colors of the rainbow on the back of your eyelids as you move faster against his face, riding out the bliss.

your orgasm ripples through you in a way that has him all but feeling his, almost succumbing to it, almost coming untouched.

he’s careful when he pulls his finger out of your hole, caressing it once more when it starts to clench at the loss.

his cock rests over his stomach, soft and heavy, bright red and leaking. you lean back, opening your mouth as you spit on your palm, and he groans into your clit. your head is fuzzy with want when you take reach back and him in your hand, hot, throbbing, wet against your palm as you grip on his base.

“can i ride it?”

BAELOR stops. he halts in his movements at your question, his brain trying to make sense of the words as he tastes you on his lips.

“pretty girl, i can’t—”

“i know,” you say, noticing the way he moves his hand back up so they both rest on your hips. “i saw something online, and i want to try—you don’t have to be hard. and i’ll stop if it doesn’t feel good for you, i promise.”

there’s a pause.

seconds trickle by raindrops on his skin, and he feels them drip, drip, drip away as the voice, speaking louder, being meaner, pops back inside his head. you shouldn’t have to settle. he should be able to make you feel good, his cock should be—

“please. i really want to try it.”

and then, there’s that. there’s you, quieting it again, almost as if sensing his shame before he can let it fester. before he can let it burrow.

"alright,” BAELOR says, parting from your cunt so he can speak, breath hot against your tender skin. “try whatever you want, love.”

he presses one last kiss upon your clit, smiling when it throbs, and he knows he would have given in either way. you take in a breath, deep, and stretch your back to move down against his figure.

your fingers map down your descent: kissing his clavicles, feeling the mat of hair on his chest. they trail down his stomach, caressing his belly, following the path set by a graying happy trail.

and then, with your eyes set on his, you let yourself hover over his lap for a brief, fleeting minute. your skin is still buzzing in the aftershocks of your orgasm, charged with electricity, eager for more.

"go on, pretty girl. rub yourself off on my cock. make yourself cum on it again," a pause. he takes in a breath, moving an arm to have it rest under his head.

there is something he doesn't say—he does not need to. it lingers between you, restless, charged, and you lower your cunt onto his cock, your lips glistening with his spit, his cock covered in yours, and feel the head of it come in contact with your clit.

you don't need him to be hard get him off. it feels just as good, just as he is.

"that's it. that's my girl. rub that perfect pussy all the way along my cock. cum on my—fuck, cum on my cock."

it throbs under you, twitching as your clit runs all the way down from the base to his sensitive tip. you move your hips in a slow, circling motion, putting down pressure, and a moan catches in his throat. you move your hips back, rubbing yourself faster against him, and it breaks free.

and there’s no shame in this moment. he doesn’t overthink. he doesn’t let himself stray away from the way your tits move with each and every one of your movements. he doesn’t let himself stray away from the sound of your moans, soft and melodic, loud and violent, each and every one existing as a response to him.

he doesn’t let himself stray away from the way your folds, dripping and puffy, swallow the humiliation whole as they take on his cock.

he is not feeble. he does not fade away.

he watches as another orgasm rips through your body: making you shake, making you shiver, making you rut down against his cock in fast, desperate motions that have him choking on air. you look beautiful like this. otherworldly. he decides to treasure the sight for as long as he lives.

and he cums like that. you’re hunched over, stiff nipples pressing down against his chest, hips still moving down against his cock as he begins to spill. white messy ribbons paint the outside of your cunt, and you don’t stop moving, and he feels like he’s on fire.

your hands find his over the mattress.

a sound is born somewhere along the bottom of his stomach, traveling upwards, ripping past his lips as a breathless moan. he doesn't close his eyes, doesn't dare to miss a moment—just stares at you as he pants.

he looks at you, lost in your pleasure, with your eyes closed and your head laid to rest over his figure. his cock is soft, beating with a pulse, resting between your slit the way a heart would inside a ribcage. he still smells like you. his cum is smeared across the inside of your legs, warm and thick, and his fingers close in around yours, tight and sure.

and bringing these up again because #MyTruth

anyways!

“Then what happens?" 

“You move on to other colours or you’re gone.” She says. You nod and sit down next to her on one of the sofas.

“How long have you been here?” You ask. 

“Just over three weeks.” 

“What does green mean?” You ask. 

She just smiles, squeezing your arm “You’ll learn.” Before you have time to ask her more, the first girls are called into the room. 

___

This time you’re in room 22. 

You knock on the door and wait. 

When the door is opened this time you look up to see a handsome dark skinned man with deep chocolate brown eyes. He takes your breath away and he has the most beautiful smile.

“Come in.” He offers moving to the side of the door. You nod and walk into the room, it looks the same as all the other rooms you’ve been in, only this time the bed is on a different wall. 

“Whats your name?” You ask, feeling more confident this time and walking over to sit on the sofa next to him. 

“Kyle.” he replies, you tell him your name and he doesn't take his eyes off you. You watch his eyes flick down to your lips and you know what he wants but you wait for him to lean in and kiss you. He kisses long and slow, taking his time to search around your mouth before dragging his tongue against yours.

His hand runs up your side pulling on one of the straps on your dress, you let it fall down your shoulder, when he breaks from the kiss you see a shine in his eyes as one of his hands comes up to stroke your cheek. 

“Have you ever sucked dick before?” He asks and you almost gasp. You nod thinking back to what John taught you. You might not be perfect but you know the basics. At the end of the day you’re here for his entertainment. He hums and rests one of his hands on your thigh. 

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” He says riding his hand up your thigh and nudging your dress up. Before you can over think anything you slip off the sofa to your knees, he smiles leaning back on the sofa and undoing his belt and shimming down his pants and underwear.

He’s already getting hard which means you’ll have less work to do. He spreads his legs and you crawl in between them watching as he strokes himself waiting for you to get comfy so you can take over. You reach out for his cock taking it in your hands and pressing your thumb over the tip. He lets out a long breath relaxing back into the sofa. 

You wet your lips before locking your mouth around the tip and flick your tongue before taking him all the way. He moans and his hand rests on the top of your head. 

“Fuck, christ.” You almost smile at the praise instead pulling your head back all the way to the tip and swirling your tongue. You’re not sure if what you’re doing is right but his moans travel straight down to your pussy. He gently presses on your head when you take him all the way and you have to squeeze your eyes closed so you don’t gag. 

“Look at me.” He says on your next stroke. You flick your eyes and see him looking down at you with utter admiration on his face. “Touch yourself, make yourself feel good.” 

You hum at the instructions and move one of your hands from his thigh to your clit. You have no idea how you’re going to keep pace and touch yourself at the same time but maybe that's the challenge. You keep looking at him too which gets harder the lower you go down his cock. His other hand comes to cup your face. 

“Just like that. I want to see your eyes roll back when you come.” You moan again as a throb travels through you. You work your fingers harder and press your tongue down the underside of his cock which makes him tip his head back and squeeze your hair. Now you know what he likes you focus on pushing yourself closer to the edge which turns out is much easier then you thought. 

He mutters praises at you moaning every time your tongue flicks over the head of his cock, the taste of salt from his pre-come fills your mouth making it water as you speed up your thrusts and your fingers. You moan around him to let him know you're close as your rhythm falters. 

“Thats it, love. Come for me.” He says breathlessly, you lock your eyes onto him as you come. It takes so much effort not to bite down as pleasure floods through your body, it’s hot and greedy as you suck trying not to let the unbelievable amount of saliva in your mouth leak out. Kyle gently grips your hair pulling you off his cock and you breathe staring up at him. 

“Bloody perfect.” He says breathlessly. “I need to see more of you.” He lets your hair go and you stand up, he smiles as you grab the bottom of your dress pulling it off over your head, before you’re even finished he grabs your hips pulling you over to him and pressing a kiss on your abdomen. His hands move down to grip your arse and he squeezes gently. 

“Should we move to the bed?” You ask, he presses another kiss just above your clit and shakes his head. 

“I want you here. Now.” He says with a low voice, you nod and reach out to pull on the collar of his shirt he gets the idea and helps you undress him. He’s handsome, toned with defined muscles and strong arms, you run your hands down his chest as he shuffles his trousers off. When he’s finished you straddle over one of his knees. 

He hums and runs his hand up your back as you rock your hips moaning at the friction, he smiles and you reach down to stroke his cock with your free hand. 

“Is this how you want me?” You ask, you’re still getting used to dirty talk and you have no idea if you’re actually good at it. 

“There are so many ways I want you, we would run out of time.” He says grabbing your arse a manovering you so you’re closer to him, you kneel up so you're hovering over his cock and use one of your hands to guide him to your entrance. 

You ease yourself down on him moaning at the stretch as you work your way down until he’s seated inside of you. He relaxes back into the sofa, his head falling back and his hands staying on your hips. You’re not sure what to do now, you’ve only had sex on the sofa once and you were laid on your back, nothing like this. 

“Christ, you feel-” The words catch in his throat and you feel him spread his legs. You raise up and his strong hands help support you providing you with more leverage. He moans as you ease yourself back down. “Just like that.” 

You smile down at him and move up again, it doesn’t take long for you both to find a steady rhythm, he bucks his hips too in time with you rising up and down.“Lean forward.” He says, squeezing his hips, you nod and lean against his chest, you can feel his heartbeat under your hands.

“Thats it.” It feels amazing, so good in fact you forget to move making him do all the work as you moan in his ear. He traces his nails up your back and it makes you shudder, clenching around him. 

He moans then pressing his lips against the soft skin on your neck. He sucks deep making you call out his name, his tongue runs up and down as he leaves more marks along your neck and shoulders. You start to move again chasing the high. You feel the coil wind up in your lower body. Your movements become uneven and you’re panting as you try to keep up with how fast Kyle is driving his cock into you. 

“Kyle.” You breathe in his ear arching your back. 

“I know, I know. You can hold on. Just a little longer.” He says panting and upping his pace, you can barely keep up. Your whole body feels tight as you hold out trying not to come.

“Please.” Although it comes out more as a whine which makes him chuckle. His fingers dig into your arse again and you raise your hips in an attempt to lessen the intensity but it doesn’t help. 

You can feel him getting closer, his heart is beating so fast in his chest and he’s mumbling sweet nothings against your ear. You moan back in reply, panting his name as a warning before you can’t hold it any longer and the coil snaps. 

“Fuck!” You cry out with him as you both come. His cock throbs inside you, filling you up. He stills his hips but now you want more stimulation and lean back to continue to ride him. You rock our hips watching him squeeze his eyes closed, his hands help move you over and over through the over stimulation.

It’s only when your thighs become sore and you start to slow he looks up at you, his eyes are glazed over. He looks utterly beautiful under you. 

Don’t fall in love. 

“That-” He clears his throat as his cock throbs into you again. “That was amazing.” You smile feeling heat rush to your face. 

Suddenly an alarm rings out from the other side of the sofa. 

“Shit.” Kyle says as he gently pushes you off him and gets up going over to the source. He picks up a phone, stopping the alarm before turning to you. 

“I have to go.” He says quickly pulling on his pants and a shirt. You feel nerves rise in you, what if you’ve done something wrong. 

“Will you be back?” You ask, he smiles and comes over to you still with his shirt open. His hands find your face then he kisses you, deep and needy almost like he doesn’t want to leave. 

“It would take an army to stop me.” He says, you feel relief and watch as he heads for the door. He turns just before leaving. “Don’t leave.” 

You nod, then he’s gone. 

You’re not sure what to do so you make your way over to the drinks station to pour yourself a gin and tonic. You’re about to take a sip when a scream rings out. It makes you jump and you almost drop the glass looking over to see the door ajar. Panic grips you and before you can talk yourself out of it you put your drink down and shrug on one of the long dressing gowns. 

You hear the scream again as you make it to the door, you pull the gown around you and head towards the noise. You can hear what sounds like a woman crying. 

“Do you have any idea who I am!” A man shouts. “I am an elite member of this club!” 

“Not any more.” You recognize that voice, you see light coming from an open door and as you turn into it you gasp as you take in the scene before you. John is pinning a naked man to the floor, Kyle is in the corner of the near identical room trying to comfort a sobbing naked woman. 

Your heart rate spikes, clearly something has gone very wrong here, before you can ask or offer to help someone barrels past you crashing into your shoulder and forcing you into the room. 

“Sorry, lass.” A tanned accented man says rushing over to Kyle with a medical bag in his hands. You look at the woman again, her hair is a mess and her nose is bloodied. Anger rises in you and you look back at the man John is holding against the floor. John locks eyes with you.

“Gaz!” He calls pressing the squirming man harder against the ground. You look at Kyle who stands and frowns at you leaving the woman with the mohawked guy and coming over to you. 

“C’mon, you don’t need to see this.” He says trying to move you out of the room. 

“What happened?” You ask letting him. 

“One of the patrons got a bit rough.”

“What, are you like a bouncer or something?” You ask. 

“Somthing like that.” He smiles, leading you back into your room and closing the door. You clearly look more shocked then you feel as he comes over to you and wraps his arms around you pulling you into a hug. “She’s going to be okay. We make sure all the girls are safe.”

You’re contemplating what he means by we when he breaks from the hug and looks down at you with a smile on his face. His hand comes to cup your face and his thumb strokes your cheek. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.” You swallow, he nods looking past you then leads you over to the sofa. You sit down and he passes you the gin and tonic you poured earlier. You sip it quickly, letting the alcohol warm and relax you.

“Does it happen often?” You ask suddenly. Kyle shakes his head. 

“Once the panic button is pressed we react pretty quick. That's what the alarm was, it alerts all security personnel plus John.” He explains, you frown at him. “Did no one tell you about the panic buttons?” You shake your head. He presses a kiss on your forehead before going to the head of the bed and moving a little curtain you have always wondered what it was. It reveals a red button. 

You get up going over to him and he slips his arm around your waist. 

“There’s one over by the sofa too. You’re always safe here.” He says, you nod swallowing and he moves you so you’re facing him and his hands land on your waist. 

“Who’s John?” You ask. “I mean what does he do here?”

Kyle smiles. “He owns the place, well technically it’s split four ways but he’s the CEO you could say.” 

“I had no idea.” You feel yourself blushing, Kyle chuckles and brushes a strand of hair out your face. 

“Don’t worry, I heard you spent time with him.”

“Yeah twice.” You say. 

“He likes you.” Kyle smiles, his thumb brushes over your mouth. “But I think I like you more.” He presses his lips to yours and kisses you long and slow just like before. He guides you over to the bed and when the back of your legs hit it you break from the kiss to sit down. 

“I’m not done with you yet.” His voice is low and smooth. He drops to his knees and you automatically spread your legs for him. You move to the edge of the bed as his greedy mouth locks around your clit, you throw your body back on the bed pulling on the strap to undo your dressing gown so you can get to your nipples. 

He hums when he sees you pinch one between your fingers and it sends another wave of pleasure through you. His tongue is long and slow as he licks up from your entrance then back up to your clit. The rush of adrenaline ignites a new burn inside of you, you run your hand over his head and press him down on you deeper. 

You want more, you need more. 

“Kyle, please. Don’t be gentle.” You say, he chuckles darkly and takes his mouth off you. You whine in frustration pressing your hand down on your clit as he stands up and drops his pants. It happens so quick, he’s just as needy as you are and before you know it the head of his cock is at your entrance. He presses into you and you arch your back for him. 

“Yes please, more.” You beg which makes him chuckle again. He hooks his hands under your knees and pulls them up so your hips are raised. You rest your legs over his shoulders as he fucks into you deeper and faster. You feel amazing, it’s nothing like before, it feels like a whole new experience with the left over adrenaline working its way through you. 

You rub tight circles on your clit with one hand and play with your nipple with another. Kyle’s hands hold your legs in place as you feel him chasing his own high. 

“Fuck, love. Might have to keep you all to myself.” He says between pants. 

“Do- do you pay extra for that?” You ask, you’re not even sure of the words coming out your mouth. 

“I’ll pay extra for you.” He murmurs. You smile and arch your back again as he hits a deeper spot inside you. 

“Kyle.” You warn him, you’re not going to be able to stop the crescendo cresting inside of you. 

“Fuck. Come for me.” Kyle orders and you nod, crying out his name as you come. It feels unbelievable, almost like you’re floating, you hold your breath focusing on the throb through your body and the sound of Kyle’s moans as he comes too. 

His cock pulses inside of you as he works you through the orgasm, his thumb replacing your fingers with his thumb. You mumble thank you’s to him as he slows his thrusts, eventually stilling inside of you. When your legs finally start to shake with overstimulation it feels like you can breathe again for the first time. 

“Easy.” He says leaning over you and pressing a kiss on your lips. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” You look up into his deep brown eyes. 

“So are you.” You breathe, he smiles and kisses you again. “How much time do we have left?” One of his hands comes up to stroke your cheek. 

“As much time as you need.” 

___

Jack makes a conscious effort not to dwell on the consequences of what, in hindsight, had been a truly abysmal series of decisions.

Best case scenario he’d be labeled as a pervert. Worse case, he’d lose his job and spend the rest of his life unable to show his face anywhere in the city of Pittsburgh without wanting to walk in traffic. 

And honestly, it would all be deserving. There are very few respectable interpretations of having his subordinate bent over the balcony railing where anyone with functioning eyesight could look up and catch them in the act. 

It’s made worse by the fact that every time his cock drives into you, another sweet little mewl spills out, each one louder than the next. It leaves him with a brutal urge to hear it again, makes him less careful than he ought to be. Makes the risk feel secondary.

He tells himself his coworkers on the patio are too drunk to notice. Most of them seem to be. They’d all been generously overserved at dinner, then even more generously self-served once they stumbled back to the Airbnb.

So drunk that he’s pretty sure Santos had Whitaker by the shirt at one point and shoved him straight into the shrubs bordering the patio while yelling something about George?

He hadn’t caught the rest. Hard to focus on much of anything when you’re clenching around him like the way you are now.

“Poor thing,” he says, leaning down close enough that his mouth brushes the soft shell of your ear. “You must’ve been so desperate for it to let me have you out here like this.” 

You let out a weak little whine, head lolling against his shoulder.

“S’your fault.” Then, more broken on the next thrust. “Y-You made me like this.”

He has no rebuttal for that. He is responsible for the behavior you’ve displayed on this trip. 

Desperate. Pent up, restless, a little spoiled from how thoroughly he tends to you when you’re home and no one else is around to interrupt. Usually, if you want him, you get him. In the kitchen. In the shower. Half asleep in his bed with his hand already between your legs before either of you say a word. 

But this trip has been one long exercise in frustration. Coworkers roaming in packs. Thin walls. Doors opening without warning. Someone always needing something stupid, always shouting down the hall, always appearing right when he gets his hands under your dress.

So when you finally get him alone on the balcony, all it takes is one look. One kiss. You settling into his lap while he sprawls back in the chair, drink loose in one hand, the other already sliding up your thigh. After that, there’s no stopping it. 

Now your panties are tugged aside, your dress bunched at your waist, and the obscene little sounds of him pushing into your soaked cunt disappear beneath the music and laughter below.

“Yeah,” he mutters. Soothing something he has no intention of fixing. “Know I did. Sorry, baby.”

Your fingers reach behind you for him, interlacing with the hand he has on your hip. 

“Jack… please, ‘m so close.” 

He reaches down through the slick heat between your thighs and presses two fingers to your clit, working you harder.

“That’s it. My good girl.” His voice drops lower. “Better be quiet unless you want everyone downstairs finding out just how good you take my cock. ”

And you do try. He feels it in the way your body tightens against him, in the way you bite down on the sound for half a second too long. 

But then your pussy clenches hard around him and whatever noise you were trying to swallow slips free anyway. Such a pretty sound it nearly takes his knees out from under him. 

Jack’s hand stays at the swollen bundle of nerves at your clit, working you through it because he’s selfish enough to want every shudder of your orgasm, every pulse.

He gives two more rough thrusts, maybe three, and then he’s done for too, climax hitting him hard and mean, his jaw going slack as he presses deep and rides it out inside you.

He stays folded over you after, chest heaving against your back, lips finding the strip of skin where your dress has slipped off one shoulder.

He tastes the coconut lotion there. Hint of tiare flower, half faded now beneath sweat and night air and sex. Summer in a bottle. It makes his head feel pleasantly blank all over again.

So he presses slow kisses there, then more, then drags them up toward the strap of your dress like he can’t quite stop.

His voice is still rough when he mutters sweet-nothings into your skin: Sweet girl. So good for me. Knew you could do it.

Then you’re turning in his arms as much as the angle allows, all wobbly and sweet, reaching back for his face. Your kiss lands crooked at first, more smile than anything, but he kisses you anyway, like he’s got all the time in the world. 

It is, briefly, a perfect moment.

Then he opens his eyes.

Robby, down on the patio, tips his glass toward him.

Jack closes his eyes once.

Fuck.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

Your schedules never seemed to align to both have a day off, and Jack was getting antsy at the prospect that he had kissed you days ago, but couldn’t take his girl out for a date. 

A particularly stressful case one evening broke his patience. 

An MVC trauma case had rolled in just before his shift was about to end, the man was in his late-thirties and the crash seemed to have paralysed his lower limbs. He worked to treat the most imminent problems, but Jack could tell the man knew what had happened to his legs, and was grieving silently. 

Not long after he’s finished treating the man, a tall, blonde woman rushes into the trauma room just as Jack was about to exit, and the look on her face was fear followed by complete devastation. He watches her sob as she rounds the table to sit next to her partner, moving strands of hair away from his face so she can lean in and press her forehead against his.

Jack stands off to the side watching the scene unfolds, and his breath hitches as he hears the couples’ cries, their pleas of love for one another, the fear that she had almost lost him; lost him before they could finally get married, he overhears. 

The woman promises that nothing could ever change the love she has for him, begging to scrap the big, fancy wedding they’d planned, wanting to elope, not bearing to waste another day of not being married to him.

Something twists low in his chest, patience wearing thin and excuses himself from the room, desperately needing to find you.

He couldn’t wait.

Jack’s shoulders are tight when he exits the trauma room, shaking his head and searching for you, hoping you hadn’t left for the day.

───

You’re zipping your bag up where it rests on your chair, when a low, familiar voice startles you from behind. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

“Uh, going home and sleeping. You should try it sometime, y’know–” You begin to tease back, turning to look at him, but his face is serious, tight, making you falter. You’re about to ask what had happened, never having seen him so disturbed.

He speaks before you can ask, shaking his head and commanding,

“No. C’mon, we’re grabbing food.” His voice is gravelly as he grabs your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, before picking up your coat holding it out for you to slip into it. Your heart warms at the sweet, domestic gesture. Nervously, and heavily blushing, you turn, and let him drape you in the coat. You move to take the bag from Jack, but he shakes his head, holding it tighter. 

“Let’s go.” His voice is low, and you feel his hand rest on the small of your back, guiding you to the exit. You almost just let yourself fall into the comfort of allowing Jack to take over, enjoying not having to think for once.

“Jack– hold on.” You say a little flabbergasted. Shen and Lena give you both an amused look as you pass, clearly they seem to know what’s going on whilst you’re left in the dark.

“We’re exhausted, I look a mess right now– we just finished a 12 hour shift!” You try and reason with him as he hurriedly leads you to his truck. 

“So?” He gives you a look that implies what you said has no grounds for protest, whatsoever.

You scoff, completely taken aback, and swivel to face him once you reach his truck, searching his face for an inkling of an idea as to what’s up with him.

“Jack–” You try, but he just leans past you, and opens the truck door for you, nodding his head signalling for you to hop in. 

“First of all. You ain’t a mess, sweetheart.” He says, almost offended by the notion. 

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you watch as he reaches for the seatbelt and buckles you in, and before pulling away, he rests his forehead on yours and whispers, “You looking fuckin’ amazing all the time.” 

You can't help but let out a flustered whine at his praise, blush covering your face as you meet his intense stare. His expression begins to soften once he looks you over, realising you’re finally here with him. He softly brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“Diner food okay, doll?”

───

You feel the car come to a stop across the street from a 24/7 diner downtown, it’s cutesy, it has a retro feel to it. You go to open the door, but his hand gently catches your wrist mid-movement. 

“Ah ah. Stay.” He commands with a soft-but-stern tone, willing you to obey. 

You smile to yourself as you watch him round the hood of the truck, you’ve never received this kind of princess treatment, and your heart clenches. You thrum with anxiety as you wait for him to open your door, begging yourself to not make a fool of yourself and somehow faceplanting out of the truck.

Checking that no cars are passing, he opens the door and holds his hand out for you to take. You can’t stop your smile from growing or the heat covering your face, utterly touched by his gentlemanly gestures. 

“You don’t have to do all this, you know?” Your voice is quiet, but slightly teasing as you hop out of the truck, holding his hand. “I already like you.” 

Jack sighs when looks down at you, wrapping an arm around you to rest on your hip before moving you to the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the road. 

“I ain’t doing this to impress ya.” He grumbles out, bringing his lips to your temple. “It’s how you deserve to be treated, honey.”

You’re speechless. 

He needs to stop making you blush, you’re already flustered and overwhelmed by all of his actions within the short span of time you’ve left the ER, and the date has barely begun. 

You’re barely able to focus or think straight, which is why when you reach the doors to the diner, you mistakenly make a move to open the door, and Jack almost hangs his head in soft frustration

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” He says in disbelief. You look up at him with a confused expression, watching as he enters your space, and opens the door for you. God, he’s so traditional. Your grin is wide as you stare at him, unable to keep it off your face as you enter the Diner.

You let him order first, as you stare up at the menu above the counter. You’d heard him order a savory dish, something with eggs. It’s healthy, and though you’d wanted something sweet like pancakes you start overthinking, not wanting to look unhealthy or childish in front of Jack, completely baseless worries. 

He turns to look at you, seeing your brows are furrowed and a worried look paints your face as you’re trying to decide. He reaches back, squeezing your hand tilting his head. “Honey, get whatever ya want, yeah?” 

Your smile is tight and shy again when you order the pancakes, nerves wracking your body for no good reason, just another moment anxiety seems to spike randomly.

“Will that be separate or together?” The cashier asks about payment whilst finishing up the order, and both you and Jack speak at the same time.

“Separate–”

“Together.”

His tone is final as he looks at you with an incredulous expression that you even tried to offer to pay on your first date. You begin to shake your head, feeling guilty about making him pay for you, but he taps his card and gives you a stern look.

While you’re waiting for the food he wraps you in his arms and whispers into your hair.

“Let me take care of you. Please.” His voice is gentle but pleading.

Your heart clenches as you look up at him from where you’re wrapped around him, face touching his chest. Vulnerability flickers in your eyes, unsure if you should admit to Jack just yet, how hard it is for you to let go and be cared for. 

But he just smiles, patting your hair, and silently, you think he already knows.

Grabbing your food, you look for a place to sit, but you notice Jack is… walking out? You frown again, catching up to him with confusion painting your face. Did he not want to eat together? Had you completely misinterpreted this as a date? Maybe he just wanted to grab food before going home.

He snorts at the confusion, back tracking a little and cupping your face with one hand, a thumb stroking back and forth across your cheek. 

“You think I was gonna take ya to a diner for our first date?” He croons, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, kid, who have you been hanging around with before me?”

───

What you hadn’t expected was for him to bring you to a remote spot that overlooked the city. It was still early in the morning, a fresh spring fog coating the city from above as you sat on a bench and had breakfast.

You’re too in your own head, you know this. But you can’t stop. You’re painfully aware that this is a date, you want to act the right way, say the right things, be charming, be funny. But it inevitably leads to complete silence from you and jumpy eyes darting around focusing on anywhere but him.

Sighing, he sets his takeout container on the bench beside him, before scooting closer to you. 

“Hey, what’cha worrying about over there?” He nudges his knee with yours. He meets your eyes and finds insecurity and so much shyness. He tilts your head up using his fingers on your chin, making sure you really hear him when he speaks.

“You still get me so nervous.” You breathe out shakily, laughing a little at the prospect knowing he’d already kissed you stupid days ago.

“You got no one to impress, yeah? S’just me.” He teases a little, recalling your words from earlier. 

“Plus, I already got a taste of those lips, doll.” This raises a shy laugh from you and you groan while you nudge his knee back playfully, clearly calming down. He has a way of easing you, making you comfortable around him like no one ever has. You lean your head down against his shoulder, bringing your hand to trace patterns on his scrubs. 

In the comfortable lull between you both, you break the silence.

“What happened today? Why were you so… worked up?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment by bringing up negative emotions.

Jack pauses, you feel him tense beside you. But he places a hand on your thigh and rubs his thumb back and forth comfortingly, searching for the right words.

“I just… didn’t wanna waste any time.” He admits softly, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“I know what I want, and we’ll go as slow as you want– but I’m not waiting around to miss key moments with you.” He leans down to where you rest on his shoulder and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lingering there for a moment after his admission. 

Your breath hitches at his intensity, realising how serious he is, that he really wants this, wants you.

“Now,” he pauses, using his hand to lift your head off his shoulder. “I’ve been dreamin’ about kissing you again for days.” His rough voice whispers, searching your eyes for permission, any indication you want this as much as he does.

You don’t give him time to find it.

Immediately, you lean in and crash your lips to his, faster and passionate than your first. 

Jack is genuinely taken aback by your little show of confidence, and he makes a surprised whine at feeling your lips again. 

You pull back, wide eyed and shocked at what you had done. “Fuck–”

He growls at you having broken the kiss. You don’t get time to sit with embarrassment at how desperately you’d kissed him, you notice how blown out his pupils are and he immediately cups your face bringing you back in. 

He had so effortlessly taken over, comforting you and pleasing you with one kiss that your worries dissipate, your body relaxes into him, and you let yourself feel it.

For the second time, Jack had kissed you stupid.

First Personality Shifts

Slowly, but surely, Jack was getting you to come out of your shell. He was discovering parts of you he hadn’t known existed, and loved it.

He was encouraging you to grow, to flourish, which is how he discovered how sassy you could get. 

The night shift were working overtime, wrapping up cases here and there, during a particularly brutal shift. You’d been working around 15 hours now, exhausted but powering through.

You and Emma, a day shift nurse, were assisting a trauma case led by Jack and Dr. Robby, much to the dismay of Shen and Ellis. It was a particularly tricky case, you’d all been in that room for ages, holding your breath during a risky procedure as the room stays silent. 

After a while, you watch Jack and Robby step back from the patient, letting out a breath of relief before Robby raises his thumbs, signalling everything went perfectly. You see them smile, their eyes crinkling from under the mask.

Small cheers and laughs filter through the room, the tension easing out.

“You’ve still got it, man.” Jack praises Robby. 

Robby almost looks reluctant to accept the approval. 

“Nah man, that’s all you.” Robby retorts, his hand patting Jack’s back whilst Robby went to leave the room.

“Take the compliment, Robby.” Jack raises his voice to reach where Robby was leaving the room, knowing how his friend gets. Robby pauses in the doorway turning to face Jack.

“No, seriously, brother. Everyone could learn a thing or two from you.” Robby says loudly enough so his residents can hear, making it a point.

You hear them go back and forth for a while, your brain is finally slowing down from exhaustion, they do this all the goddamn time, which is why you don’t even process it when you blurt out your next sentence.

“Careful, Jack’s ego is inflated enough as is.” Your voice is somewhat quiet, you really meant it for just Robby and Jack. 

The room erupts in small giggles, Robby’s eyebrows lifting in surprise and smirking at Jack. He can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Oof, damn girl.” You hear Ellis joke from behind you.

Your wide eyes shoot up to meet Jack’s, your tired brain catching up and afraid you’d offended him. But he’s stood there, completely still, and grinning so hard. He almost looks proud. 

Jack didn’t think he could fall for you any harder. 

He was wrong.

───

You had finally gotten comfortable enough to ask for his comfort.

Before you met Jack, you couldn’t imagine asking for help for the littlest of things, afraid of inconveniencing people. Jack had reassured you, time and again, that he wants to be the person you go to when you need help. 

So you do.

At first, it was adorable for Jack trying to get you to ask for help. Being a slight tease about it, encouraging you to use your words.

You’d had a rough shift, you weren’t meant to be going to Jack’s place after work, but god did you need him today more than ever.

You’d been in the room for a few trauma cases, neither of which had ended with the patients pulling through, one being a pediatric case. You’d also opted to do an evidence collection for a sexual assault patient, knowing how busy Lena had been tonight, the floor needing her more than ever, so you’d taken over for her.

Safe to say, by the end of the night, you were a wreck. You felt on the verge of tears for hours, like the littlest thing could set you off. You were emotionally depleted, you wanted to just switch off, and you knew Jack could help.

So you approached him quietly, anxiously, your hands fidgeting. He was grabbing his bag out of his locker, so you slid in next to him, your back against the lockers next to him searching his face, checking if he’s too tired, because you wouldn’t want to be a burden.

“Hey, baby.” He smiles at your appearance next to him, glancing over at you. 

“Everything okay?” He says gently after noticing your stature. He can tell you’re anxious. He pauses from where he’s gathering his stuff in his lockers, turning to face you fully now. You’re staring into his eyes, you’re hesitant.

“Talk to me.” He commands gently, his hand coming to yours to break apart your nervous fidgeting.

You swallow the lump in your throat, asking for help always ended with tears for you and you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now.

“Jack.” You just whine, silently begging that he’d understand what you need without you having to vocalise it. Your eyes water slightly, needing his comfort desperately.

“C’mon, baby, use your words.” He coaxes, his hand cupping your cheek. “You can do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth across the apple of your cheek, catching any tears if they fell.

“I need you.” Your voice is shaky, broken. It’s all you can manage without completely breaking down at work.

“Yeah?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you, but a smirk tugs at his lips. “Atta girl.” His praise causes an involuntary, but quiet whine to leave you. 

He’ll stop the teasing for tonight, he sees how much you need him and the fact you had even verbalised your need for him was progress. He’s so proud of you.

“You need me, baby? C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, beckoning you into his hold. You’re a little embarrassed as you hug him, worried someone will find you like this, all vulnerable and mushy. 

“You did so good, baby, asking me for help.” He strokes your hair, comforting you. “C’mon. I’ll bring you home.” 

A protesting whine escapes you before you realise, the idea of him dropping you home alone upsetting you. You had just said you needed him, hadn’t you?

“Hey, hey.” He says quickly, needing to settle you down before you get more upset. “I meant home. Our home. You’re mine, baby. Imma take care of you now.”

───

However, one particular night, he uncovered an unexpected, but one of his favourite sides of you.

It’d been a rare evening where most of the night shift were off for the day, well at least those fun enough to drink with.

You and Jack hadn’t even bothered to try and hide your relationship around your coworkers, they knew too much. It wasn’t much of a problem anyways, not that either of you were overly affectionate at work. 

Lena supported you, but continued to encourage you to err on the side of caution, worried you’ll get hurt. Shen, however, lived for teasing you both. 

With a few drinks in your bloodstream, you had shuffled closer to Jack within the booth, searching for his touch. Shen, sitting opposite you both kept giving you knowing looks. It’d started with your thigh against his under the table, a gentle, grounding presence. But drink after drink, it hadn’t been enough. You wrap your arms around his forearm, your head on his shoulder now.

You’re definitely feeling the drinks, tipsy if not drunk, and you’re practically all over Jack. It's like you wanted to crawl into his skin. He’s definitely enjoying how clingy you’re being tonight. He leaves soft kisses in your hair from time-to-time, not trying to go full on PDA in front of his friends. But you were making it very hard for him to keep his cool. 

The drinks get to your head, making you both loose-lipped and a little sleepy. 

Your eyes fall to his hands. His fingers idly trace around the condensation on his glass as he politely listens to a story Ellis is telling. Truthfully, you hadn’t been clocked into the conversation for a while now, Jack occupying so much space in your mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.

His hands just looked so good. They were so big and veiny, and his fingers were so thick. You don’t know what had gotten into you, but you were so incredibly entranced by his hands. 

Without thinking, you slide your hand that rested on his bicep, down his arm until it landed on his hand, gently pulling it away from his glass. He lets you, doesn’t even look down to see what you’re doing, assuming you wanna hold his hand. But you just turn his hand over, palm facing up, and reject his attempt at intertwining your hands together.

You let out a small, short whine in protest. Keeping his hand laying flat on the table while you take your nails and gently trace your fingers in his palm, up his fingers and back down. They were so worn, tough. Nothing like your soft hands.

This touch from you makes him shiver, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. He glances down at your face, your eyes are glazed over and you seem completely infatuated by his hand. He watches you turn over his hand again, and you begin to trace his veins, like you’re completely hypnotised.

His breath comes out shakily, now completely zoned out of Ellis’ conversation. 

“What’ya doing, honey?” He whispers quietly into your hair, ensuring no one else can hear him.

You peek up at him from where you rest on his shoulder. God, you’re drunk. He’s so beautiful.

“Your hands are realllyyyy hot.” You blurt out, drunkenly as you continue to toy with his hands. By the power of the universe, the table had erupted into laughter at Ellis’ story at the same time you’d blurted that out, such that no one heard.

He stills at your comment and almost barks out a laugh. He holds it in, not wanting you to get all shy on him. Not when his shy girl has gotten so confident. 

“Is that so, baby?” He practically growls into your ear, lifting a drink to hide his smirk.

“Mhmmm.” You hum in affirmation. Your focus shifts from his arm to wrapping both hands around his bicep, it flexes slightly as he brings his drink to his lips. “Y’r arms too. Soooo big. Wanna bite ‘em.”

He genuinely chokes on his drink at that, something possessive stirring in his chest. His shy, sweet girl, completely fawning over Jack. 

He blinks around, making sure no one heard what you said, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else hearing your desired rambles for him. Looking up, he notices Shen’s cocky smirk as he glances between the two of you. Jack’s about to tell him to mind his own business, but you beat him to it, by doubling down.

“Like it's unfairrrrr.” You mumble into his bicep.

“Unfair?” Jack asks, confused.

“How are you sooo– ugh!” 

He tilts your chin to look at him, wanting to know where all this flattery is coming from, and you have a lovestruck tired expression.

You pout as you take him in, his curls, his scruff, his face. 

Oh.

Something more present and aware flashes in your eyes the longer you stare at him, like you’re realising you spoke the words out loud. Your eyes widen slowly, mortified, and heat rushes to your face as you stare at him silently, replaying everything you just said. In public.

You dart your face around the table and make eye contact with Shen who's laughing under his breath. Oh fuck. You probably just embarrassed Jack and yourself.

You detach from him so quickly it gives him whiplash.

“Oh my god, I’m so–” Your voice is incredibly apologetic, horrified, and you won't even look at him in the face.

“No, hey. none of that.” Jack’s voice is firm. He brings his hands to cup your face, making you look into his eyes. “I like you like this, cheeky, confident.” 

You want to be happy at his words, but you can’t help but feel guilt and nausea stir in your stomach. Your drunk brain is making it very hard to think straight. You bite your lip anxiously.

“Do you…” You hesitate, looking into his eyes. “Do you wish I was more like that?” You have to ask. Maybe sober you wouldn’t feel so insecure, but you’re tired and your mouth is still feeling braver than your brain. 

“God, no, honey–” He pauses trying to find the right words, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. “I mean– Don’t apologise for this. I want you, every version of you.” His tone is pleading. You calm down a little at his words, feeling silly at how quick your mind jumped to the worst case.

“Want you even when you’re drunk outta your mind and thirsting over me like this–” He teases which gets cut off by a groan from you. You can’t help but smile as you hide your face into his neck again.

First Time

You’d been dating Jack for a little while now, but you still hadn’t had your first time together. Jack waited for your signal, he wouldn’t push, he’d wait until you were comfortable enough to be with him.

Which you were. You wanted to be intimate with Jack for so long, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your brain, stopping you from initiating.

Your past relationships, as Jack had slowly realised, weren’t exactly the best. You weren’t ever cared for like you are with Jack, which extended to sex. Sex had never really been about you and your partner, it’d always been about his pleasure, his needs. 

And now you’re with the most perfect guy, you don’t know how to navigate being intimate in a way that isn’t focused only on him. 

This thought was really getting to you one evening. You and Jack were at his place, just having finished dinner, and now you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap as you absentmindedly watch TV. His hand is giving you gentle strokes up and down your leg, and you can’t stop thinking about needing to warn him about your relationship with sex.

“Jack?” You ask gently. He doesn’t look over, he continues stroking your leg whilst humming in response.

You bite your lip anxiously.

“Um– I need to tell you something.” Jack’s hand falters his motions on your leg and he turns his head quickly, concern flashing on his features. Your tone, so nervous and anxious, had worried him, his chest twisting.

“Baby, what’s going on?” He coos, but he’s definitely on edge.

“It’s nothing, really. Um–” You pause, realising you hadn’t thought about a way to approach this with him. “I just really wanna have sex with you–” You blurt out. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. You wince and close your eyes in embarrassment. That’s definitely not the right way to do this

Jack’s face is even more confused, amusement flashing his features.

“Right. Baby, I’ve been waiting for you…” He reminds you gently. 

“No, no, I know.” You huff frustrated. “I– it’s about that. I just– fuck.” Your frustration builds at yourself for not being able to articulate your words well.

Jack sits up now, sensing your discomfort. He brings you closer to him, leaning on his shoulder now.

“Honey, focus, you’re okay. You can tell me anything.” His voice is immediately grounding. You breathe out shakily.

Silence hangs between you both, before you finally admit it.

“I can’t finish during sex.”

Silence continues to permeate the room. You’re so mortified. You don’t turn to look at his face. You can’t.

“You mean– you haven’t or you can’t?” His voice is gentle, a hand coming to stroke your hair. He’s definitely suspicious of your confession.

“I dunno… both, I guess. I’m not saying this to make it a challenge– people have done that before and it just makes it worse. I’m just warning you beforehand my body is wired differently and I don’t want you to feel bad if you can’t make it happen–”

“Oh, honey, is this why you’ve been hesitant to have sex?” He asks softly, interrupting your rambling.

You just hum in affirmation, embarrassed. 

Jack mulls over your words, he won’t argue and tell you he will make you finish but he seriously thinks this is a product of your previous boyfriends being inattentive and careless with you. Anger twists in his chest thinking about you thinking you’re somehow inadequate when it was your boyfriends who just took and took. 

“Listen to me, baby.” He tilts your face to look at him now. “I don’t care about that y’hear me?” He watches your expression falter, eyes full of vulnerability.

“If you can’t? Fine. I don’t want you any less, I just wanna make you feel loved, baby.” He can tell you’re still hesitant, but you nod. 

You smile shyly and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his lap as he plays with your hair. 

The days following your conversation you think over his words more, and a few days later, you tell him you wanna do it– be with him. 

He checks in multiple times throughout the day, making sure you’re okay, that you’re absolutely sure. But you also notice how much more often his touches linger. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but you can’t stop thinking about him. Everything about him that day is so much more gentle and careful with you. 

That evening, when he leads you onto the couch your body is thrumming with anxiety. You know what's about to happen, he knows. Why are you so scared? You’ve never been more tense, more afraid of something going wrong. This is the man you love. 

When you both sit on the couch, cuddling like you always do, he doesn’t make a move. Maybe he’s waiting for you. Your leg shakes as you try to figure out what’s meant to happen, what you’re supposed to do. 

Before you can overthink it, you drape yourself over his lap and crash your lips to kiss, a hungry desperate kiss. 

He returns it, a grunt of surprise before melting into it. Hands coming to gently rest on your face. The kiss is almost rough, your tongue intertwining with his. You can do this, you can make him feel good. Your brain already slips into making sure he’s pleased, unable to shake the habit from the past.

You move against his lap, and he groans in pleasure. The noise he makes thrills you, wanting to hear it again, you’ve never heard him like this. You try to grind again but he pulls away breathless, shaking his head.

“Baby, slow down.” He practically laughs caressing your cheek. He can’t lose his cool already, not when he plans to make you feel good.

Fuck.

Shame floods your chest and your cheeks heat, climbing off of him and curl up next to him. You somehow messed this up, you want the couch to open and swallow you up.

“Oh, my sweet girl. C’mere.” He coos, turning to face you. He realises how his words may have come across like a rejection, and that’s the last thing he wants you to think.

“I don’t wanna rush this” He places a hand on your thigh, dipping his head trying to find your eyes. He can tell how nervous you are, how much you’re overthinking this. “Lemme take over, yeah?” He asks softly. 

You meekly lift your head to meet his eyes before nodding. His eyes are blown out, he looks hungry. But there's an edge of restraint, he's holding back.

You don’t even have time to feel guilty before he cups your face and brings your lips to his again, slow, passionate. 

He leans forward, crowding you back against the couch until he’s lying over you. Your heart jumps at the closeness, the position you’re in.

You become breathless, almost gasping for air between each kiss. 

Jack moves from your lips, placing sweet kisses down your jaw. Your body erupts in goosebumps, you’re practically shivering at the contact. You don’t even register your hand lifting to comb through his hair, pulling him down onto your jaw for more.

You feel his lips twitch into a smirk.

“That feel good, baby?” He rasps. The low grumble of his voice has you bucking your hips into him, desperate for him. You get completely lost in his kisses–

“Words, baby.” He commands pulling away to look into your eyes. He smirks smugly as he sees how wrecked he’s made you with just his kisses.

You blink processing his request, breathless and annoyed he’s stopped kissing you.

“Yeah– please, Jack. Don’t st– ah!” You’re cut off by his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck, just below your ear. You whine as he sucks on your skin, for sure leaving a mark. Your body shivers again with the thought of him marking you that you involuntarily tug at his hair, which provokes a growl from Jack.

He detaches from your neck breathlessly dipping his head like you’ve just wrecked him with a simple tug.

“Do that again.” He commands low, before hungrily returning to your neck sucking more spots over and over.

A surge of confidence fills you knowing you have the capacity to make him feel just as wrecked as he does you. You continue to rake your hands through his curls, tugging occasionally loving his whines, as he sucks spots lower and lower down your collarbone and chest. 

His hand trails under your shirt, his cold hand making contact with your tummy and you tense involuntarily. He pauses looking up from where his head rests on your chest.

“You need to slow down?” His tone is so soft, gentle, it almost makes you cry.

“Nononon– please keep going,” you almost beg “Your hand was just cold.” You laugh embarrassed while stroking his hair.

He smirks at your neediness trying not to tease you more. 

He holds eye contact while his hands trail up your torso, goosebumps erupting throughout your body once again. You get flustered as he stares so intensely and you try to look away.

“Eyes on me.” He coos, bringing his fingers to tilt your head back to face him. Heat rushes in your face, your body practically shakes with anticipation. 

He lifts your top off so slowly, that you almost just beg for him to hurry up, for him to touch you. His hand slowly slides up from your hips up to your breasts, a hand coming to cup you over your bra as he returns to sucking spots at your collarbone. You get lost in the sensation once more, not noticing his other hand working at removing your bra. Once you peel it off he just stares. You almost go to hide, feeling self-conscious under his stare.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” He groans before directly leaning down and taking a nipple into his mouth.

Your hands grip the couch roughly and your back arches into him involuntarily.

“Fuck– ohmygod–” you whine at the sensation of his tongue swirling your nipples. You feel jack smirk against your breast, cocky fucker, before returning to suck on them hard. 

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good, you had no idea kisses and touches like this could wreck you.  

His teeth unexpectedly grazes your nipple and you moan. Your body shakes with overwhelm, you bring your hands to cup jacks face needing him to pause. 

His lips detach from your nipple and his pupils are black. He looks like a man starved. He tries to go back to sucking but you hold his face steady.

“Need– fuck– need a break, feels too good.” You pant. 

Jack blinks and his cocky smirk returns.

“Oh yeah?” He rasps, with a mock condescending tone. 

You want to even the playing field a bit so you paw at his shirt, needing him to take it off, which he complies by ripping it clean off so quickly you barely register it. He leans down to capture your lips again, but you push your body upwards into his to manoeuvre you both into sitting position. You’re on top of him now, your turn to wreck him. 

His eyes narrow and smiles at your little show of dominance, and he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, for now. 

You lean down to return the kisses he gave you. You test out his sensitive spots, kissing and sucking spots along his neck whilst raking your nails along his biceps, his back, his chest. 

His breathing is shallow and you hear him whine. 

Bingo.

You continue sucking in that spot on his neck, one hand tugging in his hair and another raking nails on his bicep. You love the sound of him falling apart. 

You feel his hips involuntarily buck into your and you know you have him under your finger. It’s your turn to smirk against his neck, peppering small kisses up his jaw before locking eyes with him and grinding down straight into his lap. 

His hands jolt to your waist, not roughly, but a firm presence. He holds you down as he groans loudly, coming to rest his head on your chest. You try to move again but his hands on your waists prevent it, and he sounds destroyed. 

Your smug, cocky victory is short lived. 

His hands are on your thighs in an instant and you’re suddenly jolted upwards, your legs wrap around his torso as you let out a startled yelp. He’s carrying you. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, baby.” He murmurs into your neck as he carries you towards his bedroom.

You’re plopped down onto his bed and you bounce a little. You don’t even get time to speak before he’s on you again, his kisses desperate.

His hands paw at your bottoms, sliding them off in one quick go before he cups your panties.

“You enjoy almost getting me to blow my load in my pants, hmmm?” He teases feeling how wet you are already. “Making me feel like a fucking teenager again–” He growls before latching onto your breast again.

His hand slides your panties off as he sucks you, and it all feels too good you whine as you paw at his belt, wanting him to take his pants off too, to be on equal playing ground.

Groaning, he reluctantly detaches again before quickly working at his belt. The sound of the clink and him sliding it through the loops has your stomach flipping as you breathlessly stare at him from the bed. 

As soon as they’re off he’s on you again, his fingers coming to your clit, spreading the wetness from your folds up and making small circles. You jolt a little at the feeling, not expecting his touch there.

“Jack– fuck– what’r you doing? You don’t have to–” You begin to tell him to not waste his time on you, you already know you won't be able to cum.

“M’working you up, baby.” He coos, not slowing his motions. “No pressure to finish, yeah? Just wanna make sure it doesn’t hurt.” 

You hesitate, staring into his eyes and you realise he’s being sincere. You swallow a lump in your throat, feeling extra vulnerable at the lengths of care you feel he’s taking for you. You nod before falling back against the bed, just letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his touches.

You feel the way his fingers move slow circles against your clit, how they adjust every time your breath hitches, as he’s searching for the right tempo and pressure to make you feel good. 

You can hear how wet you are, you almost feel embarrassed how his fingers glide through your folds so easily. He continues to pepper gentle kisses down your neck as his fingers stroke you, they move lower and lower until they reach your entrance.

You gasp as he pushes his fingers inside you, feeling full.

You let out small whines of pleasure as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He shushes you by placing his soft lips to yours, continuing to mumble sweet words.

“Just let go for me, baby.”

“Thaaaats it.”

“Rub your clit for me.”

You reach down to add pressure to your clit and immediately jolt at the feeling. It feels different. The pressure from his fingers inside you, curling upwards and continuously thrusting at a consistent pace is getting to you. 

Your lower stomach twists, he sucks on your neck as he rubs against the spongy spot inside you, you realise the pressure feels good. That the way you’re rubbing yourself as he thrusts into you while whispering is working. You try so hard to keep it there. Keep rubbing. Keep focused on the feeling. Focusing on his words–

It disappears. 

“Fuck!” You huff frustrated, tears welling in your eyes. He pulls his fingers out immediately, worried he’s hurt you and you curl up into yourself. “I can’t do it.” Your voice is wobbly as you berate yourself, wiping a tear off your face.

“Hey, easy, baby.” He soothes by rubbing a hand on your back. His heart clenches at the sight of your teary eyes.

“M’sorry, Jack,” you sniffle. “You spent so much time on me and I couldn’t–”

“No. Hey.” He stops you, firmly. “No apologies. M’not mad, not upset.” He coos, moving your hair away from your face.

“I did all of that because I wanted to. You didn’t ruin anything, y’hear me?” He cups your face making you look into his eyes.

You nod shyly, but you’re still feeling low about it, he can tell.

“Jack– It’s okay if you wanna just fuck me now. M’ready. I want it too.” You whisper looking up into his eyes, still on the verge of tears.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence.

“No.” His tone is final.

He has an inkling that you’re in your own head too much, putting too much pressure on yourself to perform even when he told you there’s no expectations. He can feel your frustration, just wanting to fix this for you. An idea lands in his head.

“I’m not done with you.” He says gently whilst moving down your body again. “If you’ll let me, I wanna try something else, yeah?” 

“But–” You begin to protest, feeling guilty he has to try so hard on you.

“It’s for me. Not for you. Humour me, okay?” He asks so politely, you don’t wanna deprive him of something he enjoys. So you nod. 

“Lay back for me completely, baby.” You oblige, breathing heavily. 

 You feel his fingers in your folds again, they linger on your clit before he gently thrusts them back inside you. You lie back, continuing to feel the pressure but you can’t shake the guilt.

You feel his hot breath ghost over your mound. You jerk your head up, he’s staring directly at you before he places his lips directly on your clit and sucks. 

Your body jolts, arching your back off the bed, your hand landing in his hair once more. You were not expecting this.

“Jack– ohgod.” You breathe as he simultaneously works his fingers inside you and tongues your clit. He smirks at your reaction.

“That feel good?” He’s cocky, but he’s also checking in on you. You nod fervently and guide his head back down. He obliges wordlessly and gets back to working your clit. You’ve never been made to finish with someone else's fingers, but no one has ever tried this. 

He hears your small whines and it takes all the restraint in his body to keep focused on you, as much as he wants to just take his cock and slide it inside you, to watch your eyes widen as he fills you up, he wants you to feel good. 

You feel the familiar pressure build in your lower stomach. 

You start squirming, your lower half somehow both chasing his mouth but trying to get away from it. You’re getting overwhelmed, your body experiencing too much at once, and this is where you usually tap out, where it dissipates.

Jack senses it. He feels you clenching around his fingers. Feels your whines becoming more high pitched and breathless. He doesn’t want you to think too much about finishing, can’t have you waiting for the build because it’s gonna drive it away.

He doesn’t change his pace, his fingers continue thrusting, and his tongue doesn’t speed up on your clit, he keeps everything consistent.

“Jack–” You whine, feeling overwhelmed but knowing it’s not going to work, edging towards overstimulation.

He glances up to meet your eyes but doesn’t stop his motions, searching your face. He can see you’re wrecked. He’s desperate for you to fall off the edge, you’re right there. 

So he distracts you.

In one smooth motion, he removes his mouth. You almost whine in sadness before he replaces them with his fingers, eliciting a stronger reaction from you, and he says, in the most casual tone:

“You finish your charting?” 

What?

“My– Jack– what?” You huff out breathlessly but he doesn’t slow his fingers from toying with your clit and thrusting inside you

You try to answer his question, racking your brain.

But you can’t think.

It feels too good.

Your mind goes completely blank.

And you let go.

You fall apart completely. You clench around his fingers and your legs shake involuntarily.

“Fuck–!” You moan loudly. Jack continues to work you through your orgasm, not stopping for a minute.

He pulls the pleasure from your body, the only thing you register is the waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. Your back is arched off the bed and your eyes are squeezed shut as Jack manages the impossible.

You didn’t know it could feel this good.

You finally start squirming trying to get away, and he eases his fingers out of you. You’re practically shaking, breaths coming out heavily as you lay on the bed completely destroyed.

You feel him slide up the bed, tucking himself under you so your head rests in his lap and he just strokes your head, moving strands of hair out of your face from where they’ve stuck to you as you’ve gotten sweaty. 

You slowly calm down, coming back to yourself and shyly open your eyes. He’s already staring down at you, smiling so wide. 

Despite yourself, you blush. Like he hadn’t just made you completely fall apart.

“My sweet girl.” He coos, stroking your cheek.

You try to hide your face in your arms, feeling impossibly shy at his words.

“Oh, c’mere, baby.” He coaxes you out of hiding. “Y’getting all shy? After I just made you cum so hard?” He teases gently and you groan, turning around to sit in his lap, resting your head in his neck.

“Jaaaaack.” You whine.

“Okay, I hear ya, baby. No more teasin’,” he rubs a hand down your back, then his tone gets impossible quiet, like you’ve never heard before. “That was okay, right, sweetheart?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours.

You can’t help but laugh. 

“Okay?” You scoff.

“Jack, that was– everything.” You tell him, kissing his cheek. 

He settles down a little after that, the brief shyness leaving him. 

“My turn, please.” You beg whilst reaching down to his crotch where you can feel the erection poking through from where you’re sat above him.

He grabs your wrists as you touch the waist band of his shorts, stopping you, you frown.

“Darlin’, believe me. Any other night, absolutely,” He pauses stroking your cheek. “But I need you so bad right now, need to be inside you.”

“Oh.” You whisper, a shy smile coating your face as you realise how wrecked he is. Rising from his lap and allowing him to remove his boxers, you settle back down onto the bed. He’s on top of you in an instant. “Jack– I can get on top, wanna ride you.” You say shyly.

“Fucccck,” he groans. “Baby, I want that, but I’m not gonna last. Next time. Let me feel you this way. Please.” He begs while positioning himself between your legs.

You wrap your legs around him as the tip of his cock slides through your folds. Your breath hitches when it nudges against your clit, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock makes it twitch against you, and he lets out a low groan at the feeling. Jack repeats the motion a few times before bringing the tip to your entrance.

You instinctively brace, knowing how painful it always is. Jack sees this, leaning down to kiss your neck and calming you down, relaxing you.

“S’okay, relax.” He coos before dipping his head into your neck, and pushing in.

He pushes in slowly, so slowly he’s losing his restraint. 

But it doesn’t hurt. 

He’d worked you open so well, kept you so relaxed, you just feel full.

You moan as he bottoms out, a hand tugging at his curls and the other gripping his bicep. You nod fervently,

“You can move, please, move–” You don’t even finish your begs, your permission is all he needs to start letting go and thrusting into you.

You swear you’ve never felt so good in your life, the level of intimacy is unmatched.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He whines 

His eyes meet yours as he thrusts, and as always his stare is intense. His pupils are blown and he looks destroyed. 

He fits so perfectly inside you, you’re so full, you can’t help but moan. 

You’re clenching around him so perfectly, your breasts bouncing with every thrust and he can’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re doing so good f’me.” He praises even though he looks like he’s on the edge. 

Holding himself up on one arm to continue his movements, he brings a second to your clit.

You don’t expect his touch once more, so lost in how full you feel, how heavenly it all is, that you hadn’t realised how close you were again, and his simple touch pulls a second orgasm from you.

You fall apart even more, gripping his hair, nails leaving marks on his bicep as you shake around him, clenching. 

That’s all he needs to finish.

Your beautiful moans, the way you don’t break eye contact, the feel of you coming undone on his cock, he’s gone.

His thrusts stagger, becoming more desperate and frantic, his hold on your waist tightens as he grips onto you bringing you down onto his cock. His head lulls next to your head, hot breath in your ear as he groans, his seed spilling inside you. 

He’s completely wrecked, his last few after-orgasm thrusts jolt you, overstimulating. He lets his body go and completely crashes down onto you like a weighted blanket, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.

You’re both breathing so heavily, he’s still inside you as your aftershocks move through you, clenching involuntarily, but he seems to enjoy the feeling even as sensitive as he is.

“Y’were perfect for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear. 

Your heart clenches at his words, how soft he’d been with you the whole time. He was so caring, so focused on you, praising you throughout the whole thing, he never took, he just kept giving and giving. He made sure it didn’t hurt. You realise that you’ve been accepting subpar treatment your whole life and just brushing it off.

In your post-orgasmic blank brain, you can’t process the emotions and a few silent tears spill from your eyes at the complete overwhelm of emotions.

Your sniffles are what alert Jack, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart drops into his stomach, panic flooding him.

“Hey, hey, talk to me.” His tone is so soft you feel guilty for worrying him. He moves to pull out, but you’re not thinking straight and you lock your legs around him, not wanting him to leave.

You just reach around and koala-bear hug him. He settles a little knowing he hasn’t hurt you, that you still wanted him touching you.

“Gotta talk to me, baby.” He pleads, cupping your face.

You’re not silent for much longer, calming down enough to stop his worry.

“You– felt so good.” Your voice is high pitched, almost shy. “You cared for me.” You sniffle.

Jack’s heart practically breaks.

“Oh, baby.” He coos, bringing you into his chest. Peppering many kisses into your hair. “M’always gonna take care of you.” He says so gently you can’t help but let out another tear, but you’re smiling now.

“I love you.” You whisper, eyes full of tears, him still inside you. 

He breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Baby you got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” He kisses you, soft, passionately.

“I love you too.”

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

——

It all started the day after, when you returned to training with your group.

“Oh, you’re joining us today? Sergeant Mactavish said you might take a break.” 

“They tried to make me but I knew i’d be bored out my mind. It’s okay, I want to train.” You give a forced smile as if your cheeks will hide the eyebags before starting your warmups like everyone else. One of them claps you on the back, giving you a grin and mentioning how they missed you for the time you had been gone.

 Even training goes well too, like you never left. At one point you had almost frozen up when you were beaten by your opponent, but your instinct kicked in immediately and you scrambled backwards. The Second Lieutenant loved to see you writhing.

Whatever the circumstances, you swore you’d act like everything was okay. The last thing you wanted was to cause any more trouble for the 141. 

“Good round, kid.” Your teammate helps you up, grasping your hand to pull you to your feet. “You lost a bit of weight on that course..” He raises a brow at you and then awkwardly pats your shoulder. “Anyway, you did good, and you look stronger too!”

Stronger? Is that what the torture of that course had really done to you?

“Hey— you okay? You look like you’ve seen a gh—“

“Forgot I had to run an errand straight after training. I need to go.” You pull out of his worried grip, his hand left awkwardly in the air as you grab your bag hastily and leave the room with the door thudding shut.

Your chest is tight, like you’re feeling the result of six weeks of abuse all in one moment because of one stupid comment. How did it make you better? It was hell, it was unfair, everyone there turned against you and—and—

“Mactavish— have you done the work I asked you to do?”

There’s about three seconds before you get caught and you dash into the electrical closet, holding the handle so abnormally tight that the red marks start to bloom across your palm. 

Dont come in here, dont come near here. Please dont see me— please dont—

You only let out a sigh of relief when they finally turn down the corridor, chest heaving as you struggle to come to terms with it all.

————-

It’s been a day or so since that.. happened. But still lunchtimes were always more dreadful. Especially since you still aren't let out of that forsaken team who really doesn't want you around. To be fair, they’ve been less vocal about their opinions on you recently, or maybe it’s because you just let any fight you had left die out altogether.

“Wow.. you actually lost a few kilos? I never thought I'd see the day.” One of them mutters, but only a few snickers pass around compared to the usual. It wouldn't typically bother you, and you didn't explicitly react anyway. Yet something in you just stilled for a moment, bile churning in your stomach at the thought. 

This is what you had wanted—to be approved by them.

So why did it feel so wretched?

You know why— deep down you do. It’s because the Second Lieutenant is the reason for this. Because he picked on you and ostracised you, kept your portion sizes one fit for weak prey and not predators like everyone else is supposed to be. He forced this on you.

How could you even complain? Not when they’re smiling in your face, praising the change about you, the obedience in your actions, the quick reactions.

Even if you’re unworthy, even if you were just forced to adopt all of those traits because that's only what the situation allowed for. Would they shame you if they knew the truth? Would they call you weak for thinking you’re the victim? 

You swallow down the bite harshly, so much so you can feel the edges cut against your throat as you force it down. “I didn't do it on purpose.” is all you can say, a weak defence. Then you stand, dumping the scraps and leaving the mess hall.

——

The gym is thankfully empty and you’ve been waiting all week for it to be. It reminds you of all the nights you stayed up, trying to perfect your technique, trying to be accepted for once.

No matter how hard you push your limits, your muscles still cry out in pain, just as your head is consumed by flashbacks of those weeks. Still, you keep pushing to just fight back even a little, to prove you’re enough despite it all. That you’re not weak, and you can handle it, certification or not.

“Drink a little, catch ye breath before the next set.” Soap stands before you as you come up from a curl up, shocking you so much that you fall back against the mat. “Oops— didn't mean to scare ye.” He reaches down quickly to pull you back to sitting up before sitting on the bench nearby.

“S-sorry, I was thinking and you just.. caught me off guard.” Before you can ramble on any longer, you chug down half your water bottle instantly, making him raise a brow.

“Dont worry about it, bon. Just making sure you keep yourself healthy.” He flashes a grin at you, and you nod quietly to his words. Healthy. Not strong.. not thin or in good shape— Healthy.

You part your lips, wondering if you can really ask for this, if he’ll laugh in your face and say he’d beat you in seconds. What if he’s busy too? 

“Y’need something?”

“N-no, it’s alright. Was just hoping you hadnt caught me doing too easy of a set, it’s only warmups i promise.” You joke and he laughs, shaking his head. 

“Don’t know what yer talking about; this is the hardest part of my workout.” He gives you one last chuckle before leaving you to it again, a wave of relief settling over you.

——————

“Are you holding up okay? You’ve been pretty.. quiet, all week now.”

Now you’re here, Simon staring at you as you unravel your boots. You don't know what had even happened in the past week—everything had been one massive blur.

The nights started being more sleepless, always rolling around and waking up with a tight chest. The comments made by people didn't help either, even if they weren't intended to be rude.

Time started to blend into each other, your mornings started to feel like a schedule and every conversation wasnt worth remembering. You were living like autopilot, and you couldnt really even care. 

“I’m just trying to get back into routine…” You mumble out and he wants to call you out on your lying but he really can't this time. He’s been barely around, only giving you a few minutes of his time because he really cant afford anything with this current Shepherd situation. Still, he doesnt like not talking to you like this— hell, he feels like there’s a shift between you two and he hates it.

“Seems to be more than that.” He mutters, letting out a soft sigh as he stands from your bed. Slowly he makes his way to your drawers, pulling out a fresh shirt and joggers for you to wear to bed. “You sleeping in mine or am i coming to yours?”

“It’s Thursday..”

Your eyes do seem to widen a little bit, excited at the prospect even if it’s a weekday and out of his rules. But it’s still much duller than the reaction he was hoping for.

“I want to. When i come out, you better have made your mind up” He doesnt wait for your answer, tossing his mask on his bed as he heads into the bathroom.

—

“Thought you liked my bed better..” He mumbles as he finds you sat on your own, following close behind. He watches as you quietly slide beneath the covers, slipping behind instantly after you settle. “We wrapped up everything concerning the Second Lieutenant. He won't bother you again.”

He lays on his back beside you, an arm laid out which you tuck yourself beneath. His hand curls in your hair, gently scratching at your scalp before tugging you closer until you’re forced to roll over, face pressing against his bicep. “So you’ll be back earlier now?”

“Yeah, no more disappearing. For a good while at least.” 

You nod quietly, letting an arm fall across his chest, gently gripping the thin shirt he’s wearing. He continues to move his fingers across your head, stroking gently as your eyes fall shut. Something isnt right with you, but he doesn't know how to point it out after all this time. Especially after everything that happened to you. He can't exactly nose into all your business.

“How about I help you with some training tomorrow?”

At that you stiffen, and he’s suddenly afraid he had said the wrong thing entirely. Instead you look up at him, slightly propping yourself up on your elbows. “Really? You’ll train me?”

“Yeah? Why not? Good for both of us, I reckon. I want to see how much you learned at that course too.”

———————————

“Lieutenant– you’re here already?” You tilt your head as you exit to see him there standing outside the room you just had scheduled training in and he nods, beckoning you to follow which you instantly do.

“Course I did. Promised, I'd help you today, wouldn't I?" You nod eagerly at his words, following him outside so you don't have to push through the bustle of soldiers just to get there. There’s a few teams out on the track, a grouped session it seems, and you’re naturally drawn to the noise. 

“Ye got a minute Lt?” Johnny approaches up ahead, making you immediately nod, letting him delay your workout for a second. When he doesn't start immediately talking you get the hint, sheepishly smiling and heading over to a small bench to wait.

“It’s about the recent stuff with the Second Lieutenant..” He sighs and Simon raises a brow, assuming the past few nights he spent figuring it out with the Captain was more than enough. Had something changed?  “Price wouldn’t let me look, it’s her medical exam.”

“Thanks Johnny, i’ll read it when I can.” He pats him on the shoulder after taking the files from his hands, ignoring the concern rising. You’ve been doing okay, if he presses further you might get annoyed with him.

“Private, what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get out– now!”

Both of them turn their heads, not towards the Sergeant yelling across the field, but to your harsh flinch in their peripheral view. Your body had frozen up but you had reacted harsh enough that it was impossible to ignore.

“They’ve done that a few times, Simon..” Johnny sighs, having heard your CO mention it but he wasnt sure if he should report it not. You got startled sometimes– but this was totally different.

“I’ll.. look into it properly.” He stares down at the file as you take a deep breath to steady yourself, seemingly just noticing how you reacted. “Thanks again.”

He can't stop repeating the image in his head as you walk beside him, tapping away at something on your phone. You never even did anything wrong, clean as a slate compared the crimes of the taskforce. Even this medical file has him dreading everything; what would he find in there?

“Alright, come on.” He stills the anger thumping through him, concentrating on you as you stand before him on this mat, the room mostly empty. “Show me what you’ve got.”

———

His hand catches yours and you tense, already expecting the throw down. That wasnt just the Second Lieutenant who did that, your old teammates always finished a spar the same too. 

After all, a real fist fight wouldnt end after you surrender.

His do.

“Mmm, definitely a lot faster than the last time we did this. You really did a lot of work didn't you?” He doesnt let go of your hand, gently guiding it where he wants to demonstrate. “Try hit here next time, same move, just aim for this area, okay?”

You nod, trying not think too hard about the fact you can feel his pulse beating beneath your hand, or the slight rub of his thumb on your skin as he helps you. So, you start from the beginning, the same move, aiming there. He staggers back this time and your eyes widen in relief, before immediately panicking once you realise what you did.

“S-sorry should i have not gone that hard?! I didn't mean to—“

“Relax, I wouldnt be SAS if i couldnt handle a good hit or two every now and then.” He chuckles, patting your shoulder and finding his footing again. So you go again, and again, and each and every time he adjusts you correctly, even when your body braces for a blow it hardly ever comes.

It feels.. wrong.

“You’re going easy on me.” You’re chugging water again, like it’ll inject energy directly into your veins, but it’s the closest thing you have right now.

“I’m not gonna punch your teeth in, am I?” He rolls his eyes at your complaints, offering you a snack bar.. annoyingly it is your favourite. 

It’d be more concerning if you declined it though, so you reluctantly take it, ignoring the way your mouth waters at the thought of the dark chocolate drizzle on it. It’s been a while since you’ve had sugar, surprisingly. 

“You think im weak.” You huff in return, chewing down the first bite whilst feeling yourself start to thrum with life at something entering your system for the first time in hours.

“No one in your team is strong enough to go up against any SAS soldier.” He hums, poking your cheek just to rile you up until you're glaring at him. “And i dont think you’re weak. Don’t fancy dealing with an incident report today.”

“What would you do if i was a real traitor huh? You’d underestimate me, and then before you know if i’d kill you” With your hands planted on your hips, you challenge him, narrowing your eyes.

Unlucky for you, he just chuckles, shaking his head despite your faux serious demeanor. “I’d like you see you try. Now, come on, we’ve got half and hour until dinner.”

——————

You’re in the shower, scrubbing the grime of the day away and he collapses into his desk chair, rolling backwards from the force of it. Something was definitely wrong— there was no doubt about that, but he couldnt just say it outright. You had been a lot more happier today than the last two weeks.

His gaze drifts down to the files Johnny had handed him, and he glances one more time towards the bathroom door before opening it. The card rustles as he undoes the cover, revealing the medical reports beneath, just as he was told. The blood tests show your vitals were lower than usual, along with your measured weight— he’d consider that almost a dangerous low. 

To be honest, he had noticed the change himself, but you’d been dressing yourself in a way where it didn't seem this bad. He flicks to the next page, the documentation of injuries whilst out on the trip, delivered by a nurse who had been working there. 

You had broken your nose within the first week. 

The report states that it was an accident, but after hearing how your teammates confessed to Kyle about what happened, he knows it’s a severe understatement. With each page he turns, he only sees more and more injuries, small and big, but too many regardless.

A loose sheet falls out when he reaches the end, already sick to the stomach, and he recognises it as the information Kyle collected from your teammates. Their witness statements.

—————

The bathroom door clicks open and you stretch your arms above your head, wondering if you should dry your wet hair since it’s already nearing ten pm now. Though when you look up to see him sitting on your bed, his gaze set on you, you pause. 

“C’mere, we need to talk.”

The words are heavy, but not harsh, and somehow that scares you a little more. In a way he feels like the Captain did in that interrogation room— what if the accusations were back again? Your heart thumps erratically in your ears as you step forward, your clothes sticking to your damp body like a rope around your limbs. “Lieutenant, I—“

“You never call me by my name anymore.” He suddenly says, and you stand before him— this time you’re the one looking down at him. 

“I.. in the interrogation room it felt like i’d get in trouble if i did. I just.. i didn't want it to make it worse than it was.” You stammer out, already well aware that you hadnt addressed any of them by anything other than their rank for weeks now. It felt wrong to pretend you were actually on their level.

He reaches out, hand wrapping around your wrist in a way that has your eyes locked onto him, fighting to not brace for impact like you usually would. Instead he pulls you forward, a small tug that you easily follow, until you’re standing between his knees, his eyes staring up at you. There’s silence for a few moments, and he takes advantage of it to slowly move your sleeve upwards. 

“You lost a lot of weight..” He wants to say more, you can tell, but the feeling that’s been attacking you all week suddenly comes back full force, making you swallow. You should’ve known he’d prefer it too. “Y-yeah.. everyone keeps saying that.”

“They’re worried about you too..”

You pause for way too long, and he notices, propping himself up so he can look over at you. “Y’alright? You dont feel ill or somethin’, do you?”

“No- no, it’s just.. a lot of people were glad that’s all. Happy I lost weight.”

“What?” His tone is sharper than usual, and he suddenly turns you around to face him, his eyes narrowed and almost pissed. “I’ll support whatever you want, but this isn't healthy to lose weight this fast. Why would they even say that?”

“Simon..” You begin, his sudden words throwing you off guard. Where everyone else had praised the lasting effects of the abuse, he had validated your feelings— but now it just feels wrong. 

He just shakes his head, the rise and fall of his chest too heavy for you to challenge. Now he sees it right before him; the marks where the stitches would’ve been, the fresh pink scars, and the faintest remains of the extensive bruising that was pictured in your files.

“Turn around.” He murmurs and you do, letting him lift you to sit atop his knees and you feel the cool air hit your back as he witnesses the marks back there even worse than the others. Even with the week passed, he can tell— he knows what was here before.

The shirt falls again, arms now snaking to your middle as he pulls your back flush against his chest. “Why didn't you tell any of us?”

“It’s part of the job. You all get scraped up too.” You mumble, tensing when he lets out a heavy exhale, only for him to shake his head against your hair.

“No. This is not part of the job, sweetheart. This is not right—” His words are angry in your ear, fingers grasping the fabric of your shirt as his arms tighten.

“I-it’s bad luck. He just didn't like me— it happens to everyone.” 

That’s what they all told you— he was a nepo baby, you just have to deal with it. It’s his way of discipline. There isnt any such thing as unfair or unjust— fairness doesnt exist on a battlefield.

“And who the fuck told you that, huh?”  He turns you around in his grip, forcing you to look at him and his narrowed brows. He’s pissed, and you know it’s not aimed at you and yet still it makes you freeze up. “That’s bullshit. No one in authority should ever be sending a soldier to bed looking like this— even if they’re a right twat. You hear me?”

“Simon— we were training, it’s my own fault for not dodging effectively. If I had been just a bit better—“

“Dont say that.” 

You pause, looking up to see his eyes shut, one hand pinching his brow as he grimaces. “Training is called that for a reason. You learn the moves, and you practice them. Your instructor doesnt let you feel the effects of a true fight until he knows you can. He abused you, and no one fucking stood up for you.”

You knew that. Of course you fucking knew that. 

This entire time you’ve been well aware of what he did to you, how cruel it was. You feel the pain every morning when you wake up, every time you hear a voice rise too high or even worse a hand coming too close. You knew but everyone else refused to.

“I’m not weak.” 

“I didn't say—“

“I’m not!” You pull away as he tries to pull you closer, standing before him again. The beat of your heart is pumping hard and you wish your arms could wrap around yourself to contain it tight. 

“I- i worked hard the entire time! W-when he cut me off from the s-showers i went down to the lake, when he wouldn't let me eat i rationed- it’s— it’s not— i cooperated for the e-entire interrogation a-and—“ 

You choke on your own words, feeling that sickness rise in your throat, the guilt and shame swelling it shut. It’s all too much— the throbbing where the bruises once were, the cold bed of the cell, the growl of your stomach. Your palms push hard at your eyes, rubbing the skin raw and red as you force any sense of wetness down— down back into your body. Soldiers don't feel like this— they don't complain and they listen to orders exactly as told. They don't question the system.

“I got through it..I did everything like I was told.”

You mumble through hiccups, making your throat jump as your eyes squeeze shut. “Why is that not enough? Why won't you all just let it go already?” The dam breaks, sobs leaking onto your palms despite your best efforts.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that— none of this is because of you.” He stands, reaching a hand out hesitantly but deciding against it as you continue to sob, sleeves already way past damp.

“It’s been a whole week and i’m still in pain— i’m still acting like this. I- i didn't even get the certification Simon!” This time you turn away, cheeks glistening in the lamplight as you hiccup, too embarrassed of yourself to face him. “It has to be my fault.. you never even responded to my messages once.”

This time, he truly has no answer for. He was planning to tell you why, he really was. But then he got so angry seeing that they took advantage of your proximity to the team and used you as leverage like that. The General of all people stooped that low.

When he just sighs, sitting back down on your bed, you finally take a glance at him, having managed to settle the tears for a few seconds. He looked exhausted and entirely done with all of this. You couldnt help but feel the guilt weigh heavy on your chest.

Every single time he’s forced to comfort you. Rumours, illness, menstrual pain, anxieties and even your own pitiful insecurities. You should’ve known from the first day you showed up here that you’d be your own demise, stuttering like a child as you stood outside his room. What good have you done since that day? Apart from grabbing him a meal or the odd task, you were useless to him. Maybe he was right, you didn't deserve any of this because you werent even someone that useful anyway. Why they’d choose to frame you of all people if beyond you.

For a moment you just stare at him, the muscles in your face tightening and your breaths only getting more frantic. What have you done? You ruined it— he gave you, so, so many chances. And you blew it? Should you beg for forgiveness? For him to hold you one more time? It’s been so long, months since he’s had you properly. One step, you could move forward and maybe he’d give you mercy. 

You can barely make a strangled noise before you’re suddenly turning, grabbing your keys, wallet, phone and your jacket, zipping it up high. You don't know where to go, but you can't let him babysit you much longer.

———————————

Maybe you’ll sleep out here tonight, with the quiet ripples of the lake, just like every night you did for two weeks of that course.

It feels stupid to have run away like you did now, but somehow crawling back seems even worse. Not for your dignity, you gave up on that long ago, but because of the fear he might actually be relieved you’re gone.

“Don’t do anything stupid; it’s not worth it.” 

You scramble to your feet insantly, spinning on your heel to see the Captain there, his signature jacket wrapped over a warm sweater beneath. His eyes are just as tired as Simon’s have been, but still somehow his authority is strong over you, arms crossed over his chest.

“I- i wasnt going to..” You mumble, slowly shuffling away from where your legs dangled off the edge to stand up properly. 

“You’re standing by the lake at midnight, kid. Come here, now.”

He gestures to you to come over, and you instinctively glance at the time on your phone as you slip your shoes on. It was past midnight, almost halfway now— how did time go by that fast? You come to stand before him, hands flat at your side and throat tight as you keep your gaze ahead— like a loyal soldier.

“You’re going to get sick.” He pulls the hat off his head, placing it on yours and making sure it covers you properly. Maybe to hide away a bit of your red rimmed eyes too. “Inside, now.”

——-

His office is warm, but you dont get the honour of sitting on the small couch this time, forced to sit right opposite his desk.

“You can start by explaining why you were out there, on your own, at midnight, looking like this.”

“The Lieutenant was concerned about me and i.. ran away. It was my fault.” You say, voice quiet but clear now that he’s the one asking. It’s been a week since you spoke to him last, when the interrogation was all over and you were free. “He wasn't happy with the results of my medical exam..how i was treated on the course and i.. i..”

You can’t finish your words because you dont know how to describe your response. A disagreement? An argument? A breakdown? It was too embarrassing, but here you are now, your eyes boring holes at your lap.

“I’m guessing you wanted to just move past everything that happened. Pretend it strengthened you, instead of the impact it actually had.” He crosses his arms as he sits down, eyes set straight on you and not moving for a second. 

You stare down at your body, the way your limbs feel heavier than usual, the familiar ache in your stomach you learned to ignore. You quietly nod, in hopes that’ll make it somewhat better. “Yes sir.”

“Simon’s right; You didn't deserve any of that, nor me yelling at you in that interrogation room.” He begins, and you listen, not daring to argue for even a second. “If anything, the blame is completely on the 141 this time.”

“Sir—“

“That Second Lieutenant is the son of a General we’ve had.. problems with. I cant disclose it, you understand, but there’s no doubt this was a direct effort to get back at us. That was a cruel attempt to cause distrust between us as soldiers, and weaken us.”

Wait what? You were targeted and this wasnt just because of a stuck up son whose got daddy’s money. “So.. he didn't hate me, he was just listening to his orders?”

“Exactly that, kid. Simon was the one to realise the true nature of this, and the  sergeants worked very hard to get testimonies from your teammates on the course. It seems even they had been forced to play along with the lies too.” He rummages around in his drawer for a moment, and pulls out a report of some kind, sliding it across to you.

Slowly you read through it, reading the list of the new orders for the Second Lieutenant or rather his ‘punishments’. The eight month long deployment was in one of the worst places you’ve heard only in rumours, but alas, it was either that or have a case against him for abuse of power. “This is only what’s on paper, you can rest assured that he’ll recieve worse things coming for him.”

“Thank you..” You’re grateful, really, and maybe a but of you is curious as to what that last thing he said means.. then again, Price almost looks proud of himself when you look at him. Did you even want to know what they plan to do to him?

“It’s the least we could’ve done.” He shakes his head at your gratitude, sliding the report back into his drawer again and locking it. “It’s happened now, no changing that. Trying to move forward is the smartest thing to do, but right now you’re only pushing yourself into the ground, kid. And I think you know why.”

You did, you really did. Somewhere deep down, probably subconsciously. You knew that you used the tactics you hated so much on yourself— because if you did it to yourself, then none of it ever happened. It wasn't as bad as you think it was. 

“Captain,” You begin, hands grasping the fabric of your trousers, only realising how cold you really are now. He gives you a nod in response, leaning slightly back as he keeps his gaze on you. Your own head lifts, swallowing harshly as you try and look at him without crumbling. 

“..I dont want to do this anymore.”

“You want to quit?” He raises a brow, but something in him stills just a little. It’s not often a soldier this far in will end up leaving— he’s only see a few do it, usually due to family problems or other issues that take precedence. Or they always had planned to leave at this point. Did he really drive you to this point? Where you thought you had no other option?

“No, just.. I know i selected that course when i was applying but..” You chew at your lip, and let out a long sigh. Thankfully your tears have all but run dry, so even if you feel like you could bawl your eyes out, you wont. “The whole physical field doesn't.. suit me. I thought i’d be stronger if i did it— like all of you. Everyone my rank chooses it, only a few select the others..”

“So you want to specialise in a different field? I’ll admit, i didn't expect you to want to do a close combat role anyway.” When he doesnt immediately dismiss your thoughts, you perk up a little, looking up at him.

“I- i’m not making the wrong decision, am I? The other ones are still good pathways?” Your eyes glimmer in his overhead light, the red rims of your eyelids practically shining despite everything that’s happened tonight. He hadn't expected the sudden relief when you denied wanting to quit. After all, it was their teams fault that you got in all that mess.

He chuckles, shaking his head at your nervous words— you really were a rookie still.

“Only cocky privates think close combat is the only redeemable job. If it werent for the specialists, the 141 wouldnt get any of our jobs done— that includes Sergeant Mactavish’s knowledge in demolitions.”

You swallow sharply, nodding to his words and taking them in. All this time you’d been so afraid that this was akin to giving up, admitting you’re weak and not cut out for this work. Little had you known that this whole time, the answer had been waiting for you. “Will I still be able to stay here?”

“Depends on what you choose. Might have to take a year out to move to a different unit.” You blink, suddenly terrified by that notion. It’s been a year and a half of living beside Simon, every single day without fail.What would you do without him?

“Relax, kid. You dont have to choose right now.” He stands, coming around the desk and pats your shoulder. “If you dont want to do close combat, you dont have to. But, I should still give you this.”

You hadnt seen him grab the envelope when he came over, clean white and you take it from his hands carefully. It seems a bit smaller than a4, and you carefully rip the edges before pulling out the sheet inside.

Certificate of Completion awarded to..

“This is mine..?”

“The other instructor signed it for you, as well as the General himself. For all the trouble his son caused to you.” Your thumb follows the curve of the signatures, before nodding quietly to his words. He didn't stop you from wanting to do another course even though he knew you achieved this one, with a high score too.  “Do you still want to transfer?”

“..Yeah. I do.”

A part of you knew that you always wanted something else but you were too afraid to admit it, fearful of what the others thought. But after everything you’ve experienced in these past months.. maybe it was a sign.

“Good. Then we will talk about it tomorrow after we grab breakfast.” He ushers you up and you follow him towards the door, rubbing your eyes without a second thought. You really were quite tired now, and the time blinks closer to one am. “You’re lucky you didn't want to actually quit.”

“Why?”

“Wouldnt let ya. My lieutenant relies too much on you.” 

Your cheeks burn at his words, and you shake your head, hands flailing about. “Sir, that’s not true— he probably hates me now anyway.. I totally freaked out on him..” You cant believe you’re telling a Captain about this of all people, but it comes out before you can stop it, shoulders slumping like a petulant teenager. “Sorry for disturbing you so late at night, sir.”

“I’m the one who caught you, to be fair.” He huffs chuckles, leading you out his office and walking beside you down the empty corridors. “You need to give yourself more credit— you had to navigate an extremely hard situation on your own, kid. It’s not easy having no one to back you. I’m sure Simon, of all people, understands your frustration.”

“You really think so?”

“Swear by it.” He stops outside the room, and knocks before you can, taking the pressure off. You stand there nervously but Simon soon opens the door, eyes softening immediately when he sees you and then moving to Price who had brought you here.

“Borrowed her for a bit” Price teases, a smile peeking through before he nudges you to move forward and you do, your throat bobbing nervously. “Come to my office tomorrow, kid, alright?”

You nod again, and Simon looks between you two before turning back to Price. 

“Thank you.”

“Sort yourselves out and sleep. You both look like your soul’s been sucked straight out of you.”

—————————-

“I’m sorry I never responded to your messages.” He says it as soon as he clicks the door shut, as if he cant hold it in any longer. The sheets on his bed are tousled, like he had tossed and turned until you arrived just now. “I read and listened to them— at least the ones before you deleted it.”

“It’s alright, i didn't mean to throw that back on you before, I know you were busy—“

“I wasn't busy.” He lets his chest sink, and you fall quiet, confused to what he’s getting at here. “On a mission, months ago, we had an ally turn against us. He had information he should’ve never had about us— naturally we assumed someone must’ve leaked it. He looked directly at me, and told me to look into the people i know.”

For a moment you pause, unbelieving he had surrendered information that easily. Sure, it was vague, but still more than he’d ever tell.

“Price explained it to me, about the General that’s causing you problems. I.. understand.” You say with a soft sigh, feeling guilty for freaking out on him but he adamantly shakes his head, not taking your words.

“No—I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid of me to be suspicious of you and i knew it, i did so i dont know why i was.” 

He falls silent, throat clogged, because of course he knows why he did it. He doesnt even trust himself, let alone others. You wormed your way in so quickly, he had jumped to the idea that you must be a traitor because there’s no way he could ever act like this. Actually be close to someone. Good things never last with him, and he was sure this must be the catch he was always waiting for.

“When I saw you getting interrogated, I knew deep down it would never have been you. The sergeants helped me realise it. I’m.. really sorry. I should’ve defended you sooner— I should’ve checked on you the night you returned and the entire past week.”

It hurts that he didn't trust you initially, but even a seed of doubt in this line of work is something you must listen to. Besides, he may have not communicated it to you the best, but it’s clear he worked very hard to get you out of the situation when he could’ve just let them ‘handle’ it. And you’re incredibly grateful for that.

“Let me fix it, okay? You can ask anything of me— absolutely anything.” He wants to reach out, it’s obvious by how his fingers twitch but still dont move forward, hesitant. 

So instead, you take the leap. It’s like the block between you vanishes, and immediately you wrap your arms around him tightly, squashing your cheek against his chest, right to his heart. The feeling is so foreign and so familiar it has you letting out a deep sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “Just.. hold me, please.”

One hand rests on your back carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear into thin air. Slowly his other hand joins it too, until he’s holding you too. His nose presses against your hair, breathing you in as much as he can. “Y’can sleep in my bed the whole week, hell the month. I’ll do all your shopping, and whatever you need i’ll buy.” The promises are mumbled against the crown of your head as his arms lower, landing on your legs as he hoists you up easily and carries you over to his bed. 

Gently, he lays you down, and only now do you see the ointments he has arranged on his bedside table. “What’s this..?” You raise a brow but he sits down next to you, the mattress sinking before he starts to open one of the tins. 

“For your bruises, it’ll help. Roll up your sleeve, okay?”

Your mind eases as he spends the next few minutes rubbing soothing ointments to the aches in your joints, before pulling the covers high and sliding in beside you. The lamp flicks off and he wraps his arms around you, easily dragging you with how your limbs have become dead weight.

With you settled atop of him, looking content and not as miserable as before, he can finally let the anger leave him, chest sinking against your head. Sleep hasn't weighed so heavy on you in weeks, laying like a thick blanket over your mind now that you know you’re finally free from this torment. 

“Y’asleep?” His voice is quiet, probably expecting you to not answer at all. You were seconds away from drifting off aswell, but something in you forces you to let your eyes open, glancing up at him.

You give a lazy noise in return, and he chuckles, hand grazing your neck. “Just glad you forgave me. Don't know what i would’ve done, might’ve got on my knees and begged.”

“Still got time.” You mumble and he laughs, nose burying into your hair as he squeezes you tight.

“In the morning, you need some good sleep for once.” He breathes out another sigh, letting silence fill the air once more, and the weight of you on him settles deep into his bones. He made the right choice, even if it was terrifying. He refuses to ever regret meeting you. “Don’t think i didn't hear your stomach rumble earlier— i’m gonna get you eating normally, y’hear me?”

Fuck— you were praying he didn't actually hear that on the way back from the mess— right after you had literally eaten dinner. It just had to go and start making noises, didn't it?!

“I am eating normally.” You grumble, weakly pushing away from him in a weak attempt to express feigned annoyance at his insistence. Not that he lets you, easily pulling you flush against him again. 

“I’ll just tell the chefs to pile it higher on your plate, they aint gonna say no.” He chuckles at his own admission of abusing his rank’s power, and you attempt to hit him with your elbow, failing easily.

“But if i use your rank to get a better dessert that's somehow a crime.” 

“Dont make me bring up your dentist reports.” His hand rubs up and down your side, letting the warmth of his hand ease you. “I’ll get you some bloody good dessert for the whole month, you’ll pray the mess hall even gets close to it one day. Now, sleep, before I put you out myself.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” He lets out a snort at that, only to hear your breathing finally even out against him, chest sinking. 

Still, he just quietly watches your body relax, how you completely let yourself be at peace. He wants to engrave it in his mind, because only now he’s realised how easily he can lose you. This time his hands splay across you too, gently grasping your shirt like you’ve done to him many times too. He understands it now— he’s always the one leaving you behind— he knows what it’s like to miss you like this.

His grip is probably selfish, something Johnny would poke fun at him for and Kyle would say he’s ‘actin’ a little desperate there?’ whilst Price would nod along ‘like he’s starved’. But he lets himself have it this time, eyes slipping close as he lets himself sink the same way you did. If he didn't, then one day he’d regret it a million times over. Luckily that day wasn't today.

So instead he lets the breath that’s been keeping him stiff go, breathing in the scent of you that melts his mind into jelly. “Night, love.” He murmurs, his breaths finally evening out to match your pace even in his sleep.

—————————

buy me a coffee! Rookie masterlist

sleeping so hard tonight im exhausted and the examdidnt go well, also fr going on a break now i need it thanks for the support hope you guys like this :)

taglist:

“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.

Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.

“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.

Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.

“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.

It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.

“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.

“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”

“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.

“Good, that’s what I thought.”

When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.

Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.

Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.

A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?

“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.

“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.

“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?

“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.

He doesn’t say anything.

“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?

“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.

“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.

It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.

The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.

“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.

A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.

Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.

“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.

“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.

The colonel sighs.

“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”

You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.

“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.

But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.

Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.

It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.

You don’t even know if you should say anything

“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.

With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.

Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.

“You like it? It’s cute right?”

The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.

Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.

Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.

“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.

You’re stunned.

Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.

So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.

“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.

You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.

“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.

You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.

“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.

Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.

“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.

Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.

You can’t wait till this is over.

It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.

“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.

So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.

You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.

And it pisses you off all over again.

But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.

The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.

This time you decided to bring something else along with you.

It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.

“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.

With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.

You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.

“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.

A bit stunned, you give it to him.

He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.

“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.

“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.

Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.

“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.

“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”

“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”

A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.

“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.

“Din…” you repeat it.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.

Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.

When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.

“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.

“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.

“What do you say, kid?”

Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.

The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.

Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.

“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.

“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.

Suddenly, a chuckle follows.

Din laughed.

You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.

“A fair statement.” Din agrees.

And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.

Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.

The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.

“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.

“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.

“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.

That’s when you realized he just joked with you.

“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.

“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.

“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.

You stay stubbornly quiet.

“Don’t worry… They’re a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.

Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.

“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.

“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.

“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.

The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.

“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.

“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.

“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.

You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.

You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.

Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.

Except that time comes sooner than expected.

The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.

Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.

“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.

You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.

But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.

“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.

Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.

“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.

She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.

“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.

His helmet tilts towards you.

“Sometimes,” you shrug.

“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.

“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”

You want to strangle her.

“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.

It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.

All you can do is shrug again.

Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.

“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.

A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.

“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.

“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.

“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.

“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”

You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.

A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.

“Kid.” Din chides.

“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.

Din sighs, truly parental.

“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.

“I do.” Din answers, confident.

“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.

“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.

Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.

“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.

“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.

“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.

“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.

They were to remind you to come home safe.

“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.

A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.

“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.

You turn and find he’s already looking at you.

Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.

Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.

Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.

“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.

“No, I stole it.” You quip back.

“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.

“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.

“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.

You playfully elbow him.

Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.

“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.

“Mweh!” He squeals.

“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.

“No.” Din answers back firmly.

“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.

“No.” Din repeats again firmer.

A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.

“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.

Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.

You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.

The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.

Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.

Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.

You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.

“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.

“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.

“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.

“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.

“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.

“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.

You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.

Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.

It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.

Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.

“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.

“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.

His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.

The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.

“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.

“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.

“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.

“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.

With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.

“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.

“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.

“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.

As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.

And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.

Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.

“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.

Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.

“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.

“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.

Then you hold up the new charm.

“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.

“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.

“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.

“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.

“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.

Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.

“What do you say, kid?” Din says.

Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.

Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.

“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.

The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.

You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.

“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.

“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.

This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.

But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.

The wound isn’t looking good.

You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.

You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.

Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.

Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…

“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.

“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.

Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.

You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.

“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.

You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.

A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.

“What was that?!” One of them screams.

Then a blaster shot silenced him.

“Step away from her now.” Din.

Or someone sounding like him.

The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.

Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.

Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.

And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.

You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…

And he’s here to save you.

A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.

“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.

He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.

What is he doing?

The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.

“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.

“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.

Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.

“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.

An exhale escapes Din, relieved.

“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.

“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.

Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.

“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.

Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.

You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.

“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.

He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.

“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.

It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.

“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.

How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?

“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.

There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.

But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.

“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.

You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.

But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.

Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.

A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.

Raid strike this week, get ready

It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.

“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.

“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.

As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.

Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.

Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.

“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.

“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.

Din doesn’t say anything.

“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.

“Seems like it,” Din agrees.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.

Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.

The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.

“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.

Din simply and silently nods back.

Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.

But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.

It’s time to fly.

“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.

“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.

All you can do is laugh before parting ways.

“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.

You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.

Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.

Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.

“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.

“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.

“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.

The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.

Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.

That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.

A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.

But again, you’re proven so wrong.

Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.

A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.

But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.

Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.

It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.

So you do.

You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.

Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.

“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.

“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.

“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.

Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.

You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.

Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.

It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.

The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.

“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.

“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.

“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.

“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”

Teva takes a moment then sighs.

“Make it quick.”

Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.

“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.

“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.

The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.

Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.

“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.

“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.

But in a flash, he zooms past you.

“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.

Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.

Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.

Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.

Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.

But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.

All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.

“You were incredible.”

“You flew… amazing.”

Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.

Then you laugh.

“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.

“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.

“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.

Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.

Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.

“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.

You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.

Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.

“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.

The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.

“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.

“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.

“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.

“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.

“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.

Of course he’s a damn natural.

Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.

“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.

“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.

“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.

Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.

“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.

Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.

Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.

You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.

He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.

Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.

A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.

Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.

Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.

You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.

Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…

Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.

“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.

His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.

“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.

A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.

You even tell him that.

“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.

A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.

The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.

Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.

He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.

“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.

You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.

“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.

You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.

“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.

This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.

“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.

“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”

It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.

“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.

You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.

“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.

Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.

So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.

A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.

“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.

In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.

“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.

Another x-wing lands outside steals your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.

“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.

“You wanna see?”

He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.

“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.

Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.

The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.

“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.

“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.

“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.

“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.

He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.

There you arrive at your x-wing.

“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.

“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.

“Get in,” you urge.

Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.

“Can we even fit in this?”

“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.

The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.

Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.

“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.

As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.

“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.

You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.

“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.

“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.

You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.

So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -

Right between the V of Din’s legs.

You crouch low and drag him down too.

“Wh…what are you-”

“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”

“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.

“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.

The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.

You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.

“See… told you we’d be fine.”

He stays quiet.

It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.

You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.

But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.

“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.

“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.

“I would.” You immediately counter.

“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.

So you try to recover fast.

“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.

You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.

Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.

You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.

“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.

“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.

His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.

Din exhales, breathy and deep.

You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.

Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.

Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.

You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.

The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.

He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.

“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.

Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.

Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.

Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.

Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.

But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.

Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.

“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.

You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.

“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.

“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.

His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.

“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.

“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.

Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.

His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.

“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.

“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.

“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.

“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.

“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.

“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.

Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.

So you lean closer to his helmet.

“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.

But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.

How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.

“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.

“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.

This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.

Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.

It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.

So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.

Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.

Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.

Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.

The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.

“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.

Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.

“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.

He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.

A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.

His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.

Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.

He quickly hisses your name.

“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.

Who are you to deny your mandalorian?

He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.

Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.

You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.

A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.

He nods firm, so sure.

So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.

When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.

Now you don’t want Din to leave it.

A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.

Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.

His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.

“Where?” He slurs urgently.

“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.

“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.

“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.

Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.

His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.

Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.

“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.

You shake your head no.

“You’re the only one.” You reveal.

His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.

An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.

After this night, you find him everywhere now.

Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.

Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.

The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.

You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.

Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.

You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.

But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.

“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.

“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.

He chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.

“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”

You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.

But you’re reminded he does have a home.

“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.

“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.

“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.

“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.

Slowly your eyes close on their own now.

“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.

Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.

“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.

A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.

You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.

But those daydreams get shoved away fast.

Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.

Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.

Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.

That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.

“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.

“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.

Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.

You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.

“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.

You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.

“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.

“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.

He barks a laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.

“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.

“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.

It makes you and Zeb snicker.

Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.

“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.

“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.

But he leaves you and Din alone.

It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.

So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.

“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.

He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.

You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.

Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.

You don’t hear from Din for half a month.

It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.

Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.

It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?

“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.

“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.

He smiles at you kindly.

“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”

Shit.

“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.

“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”

Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.

“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”

He is. But he’s more than that.

He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.

“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.

It’s unfortunately true.

How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.

The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.

Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.

Din has returned, but he’s not alone.

Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.

At least Din and the baby are safe.

Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.

“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.

“Tell me about it.” He sighs.

The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.

“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”

His somber tone says more looms.

“Din…” you mutter cautiously.

He turns to you.

“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.

“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.

Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.

But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.

The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.

“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.

His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.

“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.

You nod, fighting harder against tears.

Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.

With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.

This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.

You throw yourself into any available mission.

Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.

“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.

You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.

But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.

Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.

“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.

“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.

Absolute dread is unleashed in you.

You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.

“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.

Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.

“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.

“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.

“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.

“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.

Anger burns through your veins.

“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.

“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.

More Delphi officers stand up.

Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.

You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.

Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.

Ward calls out your name. This is it.

Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.

She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.

“I should sit you out on this mission.”

“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.

Her smirks grows bigger.

“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.

You’ll happily accept that too.

The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.

Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.

Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.

That’s what this feels like.

You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.

Yet Din remains inside.

And Ward gives the command to light the place up.

“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.

Then, the stronghold goes under flames.

You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.

“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.

Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.

A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.

“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.

Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.

Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.

But Ward of course arrives first.

You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.

“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.

Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.

“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.

“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”

Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.

You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.

He’s here.

Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.

“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.

The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.

While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.

He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.

“Welcome back,” you croak out.

Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.

“Had to bring this back.”

With a watery laugh, you shake your head.

“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.

A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.

Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.

“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.

“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.

Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.

Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.

Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.

Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.

It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.

Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting

Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.

“Come.” Someone snaps gesturing at you. You nod and walk over to the door. “Stand on the mark.” he points into a bright white room which has nothing inside other than a large floor to ceiling one way window. You do as you’re told and stand on the x on the floor and look at your reflection in the mirror. 

Why did you agree to this. You could have walked away and kept your dignity now you’re stood here knowing there are people on the other side betting on you. Betting on you so they can sleep with you. You’ll never know how much, not until you get paid anyway. A light flicks from red to green and the man at the door calls you back. 

“Virgins always sell quickly.” He sighs as he picks up a room key. “Room 45, knock on the door and wait to be called in. Do not enter the room until you are called.” You nod and turn to head out the waiting room. You catch some of the other women turning their nose up at you and realise you’re the only one in red. 

“Oh and try and have fun.” The man calls, you turn quickly and nod before leaving the room. 

___

You knock on the door and don’t get a reply. 

You’re not sure what to do so you wait a few seconds before knocking again. This time the door is opened by a man, you look up at him. He has the end of a cigar hanging out his mouth, the smell of sweet tobacco fills your nose. 

He steps to the side and you walk into the room, you can feel his eyes looking over you. The room is nice, low orange lights make the place feel cosy and smaller than it actually is. There’s a faux fireplace with a plush sofa, coffee table and a drinks trolley. The man closes the door behind you, he’s dressed smart, black pants and a white shirt. The collar has been loosened just like the tie. Over the sofa arm he’s thrown his jacket and waistcoat. 

“Do you drink?” The man asks, you shake your head. You want to keep your head straight. He hums, goes over to the sofa and sits down. He snuffs out the but of the cigar in an ashtray then picks up a small glass of amber coloured liquid. 

You walk over to stand on the other side of the coffee table. You look over at him, he’s handsome, older than you thought he was going to be. He leans back on the sofa and takes a sip of his drink. You try to remember this is a fantasy, there are cameras somewhere. You think back to the non-disclosure paperwork you signed before being washed, waxed and dressed in a red dress that barely covers anything. 

“Whats your name?” You ask. 

“John.” He replies, swilling the liquid in the glass. He looks tired, like he’s just had a long day. Maybe he works in an office or something. You could be standing in front of a CEO or a bank manager, maybe even a member of the royal family from the whispers you heard. 

“What made you do this?” He asks pulling you out of your head. He doesn’t look as intimidating as you thought, he scratches his beard scanning you with his eyes once again. 

“I-” You hesitate, not sure where to start. “I wanted to try porn, a friend recommended this place. She said the pay was good, especially for virgins.” 

“You’re a virgin but you wanted to do porn?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. You nod feeling heat rush to your cheeks. He chuckles and drains his glass before standing up. He walks over to you, his fingers ghost your skin, he pulls on the dress strap and it falls away. 

He hums from behind you, you can smell the smoke and alcohol on his breath. You’re naked underneath, that's what the instructions were. John walks around to stand in front of you. 

“Are there cameras in here?” You ask looking over at the rather large mirror next to the bed. 

“I pay for them to be turned off.” His hand comes to pull your chin back to him. He looks down at you with greedy eyes, his voice drops low and his gaze flicks to your lips. A second later he’s kissing you, you’ve only ever been kissed a few times so you’re not sure what to do but John is slow and soft. 

You can’t tell if it’s for you or not but he takes his time before he presses his tongue past your lips and into your mouth. He brushes it against yours as his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs trace your jawline and he tips your head up slightly before kissing you deeper. 

“Christ, you’re gonna be the end of me.” He breathes, breaking from the kiss. He guides you over to the only other piece of furniture in the room, a large silk covered double bed. His hand travels down your back and he cups your arse gently squeezing it. 

“Lay down.” He orders, you nod and lay on the bed not sure what position he wants you in. You feel stiff, not like the other girls you’ve seen around here. They’re all beautiful, could be supermodels if they wanted to be but instead they’re here at a shady private club hoping rich men will pay to fuck them. 

It’s like prostitution with extra steps, and you don’t even get to keep all the money. 

You look down as you hear the clicking of a belt buckle and see John dropping his clothes at the end of the bed. He’s not what you expected, hairy for sure but with defined muscles and strong arms. His cock rests in his hand, he’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever seen and he looks at you with a cheeky grin on his face. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you ready.” He says, then grabs your ankles and pulls you down the bed slightly. You swallow hard, suddenly nervous at the prospect of having sex with this hunk of a man. He runs his hands up your legs and thighs until he reaches your waist then pulls you down again, you look to see him kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed. 

“Has anyone ever touched this pussy before?” He asks, you feel heat rushing to your face. 

“No.” You say mustering the courage to talk. 

“What about you?” He asks, throwing your knees over his shoulders, you spread your legs further for him and you can feel his breath on your sensitive skin. “Have you ever played with yourself?”

“Yes.” You admit feeling strangely guilty, he smiles though then presses a kiss on the inside of your thigh. 

“Tell me, where did you touch yourself?” He asks in a low voice, his eyes dropping as he presses a light kiss on your clit. “Here?” 

You hum in response feeling a tingle through your lower body from the simple touch alone. He smiles and one of his fingers presses between your folds and against your entrance. 

“Here?” He asks again. 

You swallow before humming again. He smiles at you, whatever you’re doing he seems to like it. He gently presses a finger inside of you and you moan gripping the silk sheets tight. 

“Did you ever do this? Have you ever made yourself come?” He asks, pressing in another finger. 

“A couple of times.” You say, your voice is slurred and breathless. He hums happily in response and before you get a chance to say anything more he presses his tongue against your clit. It feels like electricity through your whole body, nothing like how it felt when you’ve done this alone. His strokes are in time with his fingers curling up inside you and pressing on a spot you never knew even existed. 

“John.” You warn him as hot pressure builds up in your stomach. Everything feels fast, you clench around his fingers which just makes him go faster. It’s almost like he’s trying to drink you up with each lap of his tongue. “I’m. John I-” 

You come embarrassingly fast. John doesn’t stop though, he pulls his mouth off your throbbing clit as he uses his fingers to work you through the orgasm. A low grumble leaves his throat and he presses another kiss on your clit before standing back up. 

He crawls onto the bed next to you, you’re not sure what to do now. Maybe you’ve come too fast and it’s all going to be over now, if you haven’t put on a good show people can demand your money back. He doesn’t seem disappointed though, he runs his hand up your stomach to one of your breasts. He pinches one of your nipples between his fingers, it feels strange, you’re not sure if you like it but before you can say anything his mouth replaces his fingers. 

This time it feels better, his hot tongue draws little circles around your nipple before flicking it. 

“Have you ever done this?” He asks, pulling his mouth off quickly. 

“No.” You admit, he hums, placing his mouth back. It makes the ache come back to your core. You moan and he moves one of his hands down to your clit, you squeeze your legs closed out of instinct and his mouth comes off you again. 

“No, no. Not tonight, you’re open for me.” He says gently pressing on your thigh and you open your legs for him. You just want him to touch you again and he does. “Watch.” He moves his fingers down to your entrance then presses them inside of you. 

“See that, nice and wet. Fuckin’ perfect.” He says, you watch as he pulls his fingers in and out of you slowly, almost too slow. You want more, you need more, it's almost a pain needing him, wanting him. 

“John.” You breathe. “It feels good.”

“Good.” He says pressing a kiss on your cheek. “I want to open you up some more.” You turn to look at him, his eyes are blue and glossy. “Then you’ll be ready to take my cock.” 

Nervousness jumps inside of you but you fight the urge to close your legs again instead gripping the bedding as you watch John fucking you with his fingers.

“Want you to come again, nice and hard.” He says almost through gritted teeth, his palm slapping your clit with each furious thrust. You’re nodding and reaching the peak way quicker than you expected. You’ve heard about multiple orgasms in stories but you’d never thought it was real until now. 

You call out his name as you come then flop against the bed. 

“Tha- that was my first.” Your words are breathless and you don’t even remember finishing the sentence but John seems to understand. 

“I’m glad I was your first.” He says, pressing another kiss on your cheek. You prop yourself up on your elbows so you can watch him pump his cock a few more times. It makes your mouth water, you want him inside of you. You need him. He chuckles almost like he can hear your thoughts. He moves so he’s straddling over you and his strong arms move you into position so you’re further back on the bed and against the pillows. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, You look up at him. You can see kindness in his eyes, and something else too. Greed. You have to remember this man paid to be here with you. 

You nod. 

“Good girl.” He mumbles, the words make you shiver and he smiles. “Do like that? Being called a good girl?”

“Maybe.” You say as you feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. You look up at him apprehensively and he seems to feel it on you too. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll go slow.” He says and as he does he presses into you. There’s a burn and a stretch, way more than his fingers. 

“Breathe.” He reminds you still inside of you. You had no idea you’d stopped breathing. You feel full. “Does it hurt?” 

“No, it feels good.” You say, he smiles and looks down between you both. 

“I’m going to move okay. Let me know if anything hurts.” 

You nod. He’s being way nicer than you thought he was going to be, and he’s right he does take it slow rocking his hips then stilling inside of you letting you get used to him. You’re not sure how long you do this for but when your breathing starts to pick up and you squirm under him he starts to speed up.

You moan for him, throwing your head back into the cushions. 

“Touch yourself.” He says, you move one of your hands down to your clit without even thinking. The contact makes you squeeze around John’s cock and he stills inside of you pressing kisses into your neck. “Don’t stop.”

You nod and speed up your fingers to try and time them with John’s now feverish pace. It feels like everything inside you is expanding with each thrust of his cock. It’s nothing like you thought it was going to be but at the same time it’s amazing and you don’t want it to end. Every time you clench around John he grunts and his pace falters. 

You like that you have this strange power over him but you know you can’t hold it for much longer, your own fingers are struggling to keep up. Everything is so sensitive, each movement sends throbs through your body. It's something you could never experience by yourself, not even with the shitty vibrator you have at home. 

“You feel good.” You say between pants. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to say during sex, John chuckles and hooks his arms under your knees pulling you up. “Fuck.” You moan as he hits a whole new spot you didn’t even know was there. Your hand presses hard on your clit, you’re getting close now and you know he can feel it. 

“Oh love, I’m going to fill you up. So fucking full with my come.” He blabbers as he drives into you faster, it feels so good though and your brain can hardly formulate a response. 

“Please, please.” You murmur back, you want whatever he’ll give you. “I want your come, John.”

“Oh yes, and you’re going to get it.” He replies and you clench around him again, he lets out a low guttural groan that sends shivers down your whole body. 

“Yes, please. John!” You cry out his name throwing your head back as he pushes you over the edge. It’s a whole body experience, you’re still crying out for John as he pumps into you a few more times before he stills and you feel his cock throb, filling you up. 

“Christ, fuck.” He grunts, rocking his hips and making you twitch from over stimulation. He pulls out and you look down to see his cock still dripping, he fists it a few times squeezing out the last few drops of cum on his fingers before pressing them inside you. You whine as he curls his fingers hitting that perfect spot again. 

“I know, I know.” He coos. “Don’t want you wasting a drop though.” He pulls his fingers all the way out before pressing them back inside. His other hand finds your clit and his fingers rub tight circles. 

“John. I can’t.” You squirm. 

“Shh, yes you can. C’mon love give me one more.” His voice is low and reassuring. 

“Yes, yes.” You agree mindlessly arching your back as he speeds up his fingers. You can feel his come dripping out of you and the sounds of wet sex fill the air. His fingers on your clit are relentless and it’s not long before you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. 

“John.” 

“Come, love. Come for me.” He orders, you nod and cry out as you come throbbing around his fingers. As he works you through your fourth orgasm your body suddenly feels exhausted. You lay there panting and look at John who bends over to kiss you. It’s long and slow, you can taste yourself on him. When he breaks from the kiss he pulls his fingers out of you and brings them to your lips. 

You can see them slick with white come, you open your mouth and let him press his fingers deep into your mouth. You lick them clean watching as his eyes glaze over. He presses his fingers as deep as he can go and you almost gag but before you do he pulls them out. 

“Good girl.” He says, you smile at the praise, it does something to you, it makes the burn come back in your core. He stands back up and without dressing goes over to the drinks tray. 

“Whats your drink?” He asks. 

“Gin.” You say, he nods and fills the glasses topping yours with tonic. You sit up on the bed not quite sure what happens next. “Come.” he says though going over to the sofa and sitting down. You get up to follow sitting next to him also naked, you pick up your drink as he turns to you and reaches over putting his arm over the back of the sofa. 

“Cheers.” He says, you nod and clink your glass with his before taking a sip. He looks down at you and you’re not sure what to say, you just lean against him resting your head against his shoulder, his free arm wraps around you.

“Thank you.” You say, he chuckles. 

“No problem. You were pretty amazing yourself.” You blush at his words and you look at your discarded dress on the floor. 

“What happens now?” You ask looking up at him, he looks down at you with his deep glossy sapphire eyes. 

“Now we drink, then I’ll teach you how to use that gorgeous mouth of yours.” 

“To do what?” He smiles and presses his thumb over your lips, you part them for him and he sighs. You feel his body relax. 

“Whatever you want. But for now let's start with the basics.” He smiles then presses his lips to yours.

since those early morning hours, as the night falls over the red keep, the information discussed during the day had merely came and went, but still lingering was the light in your eyes when they’d locked with his.

the final meeting of the day had ended, and baelor had set to return to his quarters, with the intent of sleeping off the desire, wishing to remain ever the honorable gentleman, though his thoughts raced of dishonoring you prior to the wedding.

his feet got the better of him, and before he knew it, he’d reach where your personal chambers resided. if he were anyone other than heir to the iron throne, he’s sure the guards would’ve hesitated before allowing him entrance. but surely, the prince wouldn’t do anything dishonorable, as this is his second marriage, after all.

they announced his visit, and you graciously accepted. as he entered, he saw you sitting back in a chair at the window, messing with some stray strings at the end of the embroidery you’d been working on. he knew much about you, and knew of your indifference of the craft, noting that you only did it, ‘because it is what is expected of me’.

you looked over your shoulder and greeted him, that sweet smile that held care and warmth. he’d returned the smile, walking over to your chair to place a hand on your shoulder.

“good evening, my prince. what’s brought you here so late?,” genuine curiosity laced your words, as baelor rarely ever came to see you late at night.

“is it so wrong of me to wish to see my wife?,” he questioned, though you both knew neither of you truly meant much more than a tease.

you laid the embroidery piece in your lap and raised a hand to lay over his, giving it a small squeeze and then immediately running the pad of your finger over the cool ring placed upon his own.

“you know it is never wrong, my betrothed. had it not been that the wedding is still weeks to come, i would want you here all the time. though, of course we’d share the same chambers, so you’d.. be there regardless.” the more you spoke, the more nervous you became as you lingered on that one word— wife. he said it so casually, like you’d already held the ceremony and been married for some time.

baelor noticed, a soft chuckle filling the otherwise silence of the room.

“do not be nervous, my love. everything will go accordingly, and before you know it we will be wed and the duties of each day will return to normal as they were before,” he said as he gave a small squeeze to your shoulder, then removing his hand out from under yours.

a small, almost inaudible grown of displeasure left you at the loss of touch. you felt the hear rise to your face, then stood up despite barely giving it thought.

“i am not nervous, my prince,” you started with a smile, then fading as you began speaking without care now. “well, perhaps a reasonable amount, but my thoughts have been racing as of recent. i cannot seem to keep them consistent or..”, you trailed off, quickly stopping yourself from telling him something you’d think he ought not know now. not until you are bound to one another.

“what is it? you know if you have any hardships you can always come to me, this much we have discussed before.” baelor was correct; you’d had concerns for what was to come for you as a future lady-wife of house targaryen, and how the world as you knew it would change for you. but he also knew you were not truthful in that being the only reason for your shaky voice.

and you knew too, but neither of you were allowed to act upon that until the next fortnight was over.

you looked away from the floor, then up to his eyes, which were already locked on you. subtlety, you bit your lip, and sighed slightly, turning to ask your ladies to leave as you ‘wished to discuss something with the prince.’

as the door closed, you walked over to baelor, the muscle memory to grab his hand returns and you twisted the cold ring round and round before speaking once again.

“i cannot take this anymore, my prince. it is too much, and too long from now.”

baelor felt his heart flutter with worry, as those words were not what he expected. you cannot take this anymore? the betrothal? perhaps he’d read you wrong, or you’d simply let your nerves get the best of you.

he looked at you with worry in his eyes, watching as you furrowed your eyebrows together in thought. he did not know what to say, thinking of how to comfort you, but you began to speak again.

“not like that, my love. i have had thoughts.. of you. and they have ran through my mind like rapids in a riverbed but i cannot take it anymore,” then you sighed, opening your mouth slightly then closing it, before huffing is annoyance at your own tone, “i need you, my prince. i yearn for your touch.”

your eyes slowly trailed up to his, which were dark with lust as they stared into your own. he yearned just the same for far too long now, and the moral decision now lay on him— to be an honorable man and wait for just a few weeks longer, or to take you on this night, and release the pent up desire that now is mutually announced.

“i.. i cannot take you on this night, my lady. you have honor about you, and i of myself, but when the night comes and i bed you, trust that i will love you right and take you properly.”

the fingers you had playing with his ring now gripped his hand. you pulled to place it upon your waist, letting your own hand stay above it.

“you’ve thought of it too, then. i.. i do not ask you to take my innocence on this night, my prince. but i do wish for your touch. nights have came and went that i could not sleep as i wished for your hands to caress me.”

and there it was, now in the open. you’d longed for his fingers, the touch of the gentle but battle-strengthened hand to please you. days you’d watched as he spared with matarys and valarr, watching as his hands fit perfectly on the weapons, then running his fingers alongside the blade as he taught his sons. days were you ran your fingertips along his hand, holding one of his fingers with several of your own. admiring in secret how long and beautiful they were.

he gave you a small smile and a slight nod, then with both his hands, he turned you around so your back was against his chest.

“tell me, my lady, you’ve not pleasured yourself during those lonesome nights, have you?” the tone of his voice now laced with sensualness, breath hot against your ear.

“n- no, my prince. i wished to wait for you but the days have grown to feel too far away.”

he hummed into your hair, vibrations faint against your ear.

his left hand gripped the fabric of your gown to pull it up, the cool air exposing your bare skin, as the right laid flat just above where you needed him most.

“a shame, that is— for you, of course. no one’s touched you here, not even yourself. your skin is so soft, more-so than i’d imagined, now that i’m finally feeling you.”

you closed your eyes, leaning your head back against him as you’re already growing drunk on the sultry rasp of his voice.

“baelor, please touch me,“ you cried, more pathetic then you’d intended but no care was given.

“hmm, touch you where, my dear? my hand is already placed upon you, i cannot touch you more than i am now.”

damn him, you thought, don’t make me say it.

“i tease you, sweet one. i know where you’d like me most. i saw it in those beautiful eyes of yours this morrow, and i feel it in every breath you take against me now.”

his hand slid down slowly, painfully slow, leaving a trail of cold tracks down as the pads of his fingers pushed gently between your folds, feeling the severity of how wet you were.

“all of this is for me? i was unaware that you would excite this quick.”

‘yes, all for you,’ you thought, though your throat betrayed you as the words tried to push through.

his middle finger teased the entrance of your cunt, rubbing just close enough to get you shaking. you hummed in content ridden with impatience.

finally he pushed his finger in, going deeper than you’d thought possible. you weren’t totally innocent, hearing of how men pleasured their wives through your ladies in waiting and from those gossiping in the garden, but to have it done to yourself was different than you’d always imagined. but truthfully in the best way you’d ever thought possible.

his palm now rested flat against your folds, now soaked with your wet slicked and that damn cold ring rested right against the entrance of your core as he settled there, sending cold chills all across your body.

baelor was a smart man, he caught on quick— the rings. that’s what began to drive you insane.

“my lady, pray tell, are the coldness of my rings enticing you? something so normal is so arousing to you?”

you could only muster up a nod and moan, core pulsing around as he rocked it gently in and out just barely.

pulling his middle finger out entirely, he rubbed your clit with the pads of it and his ring finger, then back into your entrance.

his speed was quicker now, each time he pushed them in they gained easier access inside your tight core. your breathing changing into airy moans, quiet and shy but embarrassingly sultry for simply having your future husband’s fingers inside you.

the pad of his thumb rubbed at your clit, aiding you none in holding back your pleasured sounds.

“that feels good, hmm? i believe this is about as exciting for you as it is myself, i must say. seeing you unravel so easily at the feeling of my fingers inside your beautiful body.”

the slick of your arousal and his quick fingers combined made a wet clicking sound, which grew closer together as he sped his actions up.

“baelor.. my love.. i feel something.. i’m not-“

“i know, sweet girl, i know. just let it go, release that pleasure for me. show me how good i’ve made you feel.”

a tear formed in your eye as the intensity heightened rapidly. now, with your knees shaking, you feared you’d collapse, but the hand holding your gown, with the fabrics still in the grip, slid across until his forearm rested on your stomach. with a tight hold, he pulled you somehow even closer to keep you upright as your release ran through your body.

your whimpered moans sounded faintly like praise of his name, somewhere between baelor and my love; it all ran together. you weren’t even sure of what you were saying, only that the sensation was something unmatched to anything you’d ever felt before in your life.

he held you as you calmed down, humming through the remaining waves of excitement. rubbing you a few more times, he removed his hand from your middle and brought it up to see the mess you made on his hand.

you opened your eyes and immediately felt your face turn hot from embarrassment, looking at how went his entire hand had became.

baelor laughed, letting go of your gown and walking towards the bucket of water and rags that were kept in the corner of your room.

“do not be ashamed, my dear. i find it endearing that you enjoy my hands so much. when we are wed, you will feel it every night, if you so desire.”

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.' Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

“ok.. i lied.”

“about what?”

“this is about a boy.. but uhm.. it’s also not..”

“okay?”

“i don’t know how to kiss.. i was wonderin’ if you could teach me?”

robby can’t believe his fucking luck. all those times he’s spent laying on his couch after you’ve gone back home, his hand fisting his cock as he mutters out your name. many, many times he’s pictured you bouncing on his cock, your hands on his stomach as you giggle on top of him. and now here you are, sat on his couch, asking him to teach you how to kiss—and he’d be a stupid ma to say no.

“oh, sweet girl.. of course i can..”

you squealed in delight, swinging your legs off the couch before settling down on his thigh, your hands grasping at his shoulders. his hands come up to cup your face, pulling you gently towards him, before he gently whispers close your eyes, honey and just follow my lead—which you nod in response, your eyes slowly fluttering closed. his lips were soon pressed against yours, his tongue parting your lips to slide in your mouth. you squeak out a gasp, opening your eyes wide before being lulled back into a daze as his hands move to settle on your hips, dragging you fully onto his lap. your eyes roll to the back of your head as your eyelids flutter closed, lazily kissing robby as he controls every movement. you absentmindedly grind your hips and feel the bulge in his pants twitch between your legs, so you pull off him for a second, saliva hanging between yours and his lips.

“a-are you hard, mister robby? from kissing me?”

“yeah, sweetheart.. i am, feels that good..” he breathes out, watching as you swallow thickly, eyes focused on the twitching in his pants as you grind over him. whining slightly, you look back into his eyes and speak quietly, nervousness overwhelming you for a second.

“can i.. can i touch it, mister robby?”

“of course, could never deny my sweet girl when she wants something, hmm?”

“am i your sweet girl?”

“mmhm, ‘course you are..”

it’s then and there that robby decides to confess everything to you.

“been thinkin’ about you a lot, angel.. been thinkin’ about how good of a kisser you’d be, how soft your little hands would be as you stroked my cock, how your mouth would feel with your lips wrapped ‘round my cock.. and especially how that tight little pussy would feel all stuffed up with my cock..”

“you.. y-you have?”

“mmhm..”

“am i.. uhm.. am i a good kisser?”

“the best.”

taglist !

It smells like damp soil and the pinot noir stained in your mouth, a hint of the pumpkin beer that David from Planning managed to splash on your dress in the middle of a very animated impression of your boss. You’re in your good coat too, the burgundy wool one with the deep pockets bought on that questionable Saturday back in September – you remember the one, where you seemingly burned through an entire paycheck on new clothes ‘for the office’.

Your heels are echoing through the street, your cashmere scarf still half unwound from the heat of the pub, and you’re just turning the corner when you smell him.

A scent so distinctive now that your body knows it before your brain does and your steps begin to slacken before you’ve made the choice to. Cigar smoke furls through the brisk air – dark chocolate and fig jam spread beneath a layer of woody tobacco.

You’d like to taste it, you think.

It’s been four days since John kissed you, touched you.

Four days of passing each other on the stairs with his morning coffee from the corner and your bags sliding off your shoulder. Brief corridor conversations about nothing, really, but sometimes he picks up your falling straps without being asked, and you go down the stairs and he goes up them and the days continue on around you like nothing is different.

Except everything feels very different.

He’s leaning against the front of the building off to the side of the steps, one shoulder against the brick, cigar pinched at his side. He’s got his black coat on tonight, the collar turned up against the breeze, a knitted black beanie pulled low to his brows. He’s staring off at something across the street in that way people do when they’re sort of just existing in a moment.

He notices you over the hedges before you’ve turned down the path, the ringing click of your heels giving you away.

As you fully come into view his eyes make a single leisurely pass, taking in your listing gait and your cold-bitten cheeks, the lopsided scarf hanging tenuously around your neck. The tip of his tongue drags along the inner edge of his bottom lip before he forces his bawdy gaze somewhere into the middleground.

“Evenin’,” he says before you reach the bottom step.

“Hi!” you chirp, voice so bright it surprises even you, the word comes out far more enthusiastic than intended, and you watch the corner of his mouth twitch in response.

“Good night?” he asks.

“A very good night,” you confirm, nodding ardently, smile pulling wider than you can help. Your eyes fall to his hand, his index finger hooked over the cigar, and you gesture before you can think better of it. “Think I could have some of that?” you ask, lashes fluttering.

He looks at you and then, without comment, holds it out to you. His eyes stay on your face while you take it and bring it to your mouth, watching while your lips wrap around its head, while you draw in carefully and let the smoke sit warm and rich and sweet on your tongue.

The leaf is damp and you think about the fact his mouth was here first, and that you’ve been thinking about his mouth for four days straight. Something low in your belly pulls tight and you exhale up into the air, the smoke dissipating in the dark.

You hold it back out and he takes it from you, watching you as he brings it back to his own lips. Your fingers find the soft fringe at the end of your scarf and twist.

“How many?” he asks, smoke seeping out around the shape of his words.

You grin knowingly as you turn toward the door. “How many what?”

He’s still just watching you, patient, a brow raising imperceptibly. The cigar sends up a ghost of a thread between you.

“Two and a half,” you reply finally, gripping the railing as you negotiate the first step. “Which is a perfectly respectable amount.”

“It is,” he agrees mildly, in the tone of a man who just did the math on two and a half glasses in relation to your body and arrived at a conclusion he’s keeping to himself.

He pushes off the wall and follows you up the steps, stubbing his cigar out on the railing as he goes.

The foyer is toasty after the cold of the street, not dramatically so, but enough to defrost your fingers. You exhale into it gratefully, finally unwinding your unruly scarf, feeling your cheeks tingle as the chill dissolves. Behind you, the door shuts heavily, and John’s footfalls are one leisurely pace behind yours.

“You walked back?” he asks as you reach the bottom of the staircase.

“It’s only twelve minutes,” you say, which is an answer to a slightly different question than the one he asked – you learn from the best.

“Alone,” he adds, grumbling.

You glance over your shoulder at him as you take the first step up. “John,” you giggle, warning.

“I was only going to say…” he begins, and you sigh ruefully, “that it’s late.”

“It’s half ten,” you counter, walking up.

“And dark.”

“Well, it’s nighttime, so…”

“And you’ve had–”

“Two and a half,” you cut in as you pause, hand on the banister as you look back and smile, “which is a perfectly–”

“–Respectable amount. Yeah,” he finishes, and the tone of it is so dry you could use it as kindling if it were a tangible thing.

You laugh at him, bright and loose, the sound bouncing off the stairwell and coming back to you both tenfold.

He’s just coming up behind you when you take another step and your heel snags a rogue rip in the carpet. His hand instinctually finds the small of your back before you’ve even registered losing balance, and you right yourself with a murmured ‘thank you’ before you keep climbing.

The pressure of his touch, however, lingers after it’s gone.

Gone – which is the operative word and precisely the problem.

You think about it for exactly three more steps before deciding that it should come back.

You come to a stop on the stairs and turn to face him. Being a step up puts you almost level with him for once, close enough that you don’t have to tip your chin for the first time since you’ve known him, close enough to see that damn freckle on his nose and the way the light settles into the lines beside his eyes in a way that opens them up.

You reach out for his wrist, but he pulls back just out of reach, brows furrowing, an amused smile working its way up despite himself.

“No,” he chuckles, suspicious and fond all at once.

“I just–”

“You just nothin’,” he chastises, still smirking as he steps up beside you. “Keep walkin’,” he nods.

And you do, but not before your eyes slide to the side and you suck your teeth.

You manage to behave for four whole dignified steps. But on that fifth one, you make the mistake of looking at him, and he just looks so good in that fucking beanie that your body chooses for you.

You find yourself shifting and leaning into him, pushing your body against his until he’s got the banister at his back and you’ve got his full attention. He looks down at you with widened eyes and you look up at him grinning, your fingers slithering like snakes into his coat, palm meeting the solid curve of his stomach and sliding, sliding, sliding.

“Duck,” he warns, voice tight with restraint, you pause.

“I’m cold,” you sulk.

“You’re not cold.”

“I am.”

“You were fine thirty seconds ago.”

“Well, I wasn’t thinkin’ about it thirty seconds ago,” you argue.

He sighs something akin to a laugh and detaches your hand from his body, depositing it firmly onto the banister on your side of the step. His fingers close over yours, squeezing them around the painted wood.

“You’re bein’ awful cheeky,” he grumbles under his breath. “Hold it,” he insists, giving your hand another press.

“You’re bein’ bossy,” you inform him, tipping your head back so that he can fully appreciate your practiced pout.

“I know,” he replies, completely unbothered.

You both make it all the way to the landing outside his door before you’re turning to face him again, hands finding the lapels of his coat, and he looks at you like he saw this coming three steps ago.

“I just wanna–”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“I have a reasonable idea,” he exhales evenly.

“It’s quite rude,” you huff, “saying no to someone before they’ve even asked their question.”

John says nothing in return, he only looks at you. Then one hand comes up to pry your fingers from his coat.

“You’re not even a little tempted?” you whine exasperatedly.

You tilt your head, and the lights catch him at an angle that does nothing to help the humming under your skin. He is very handsome and the wine is simply making it harder to be normal about it.

“Eyes forward,” he says, pointing down the hall with two fingers. “Walk.”

“John,” you mewl.

“What did I say?”

“You’ve said a lot of things,” you point out. “You’re very chatty.”

He huffs before turning you firmly by your shoulders, one hand at your back, urging you, guiding you the last few steps down the hall.

At your flat, you spin on your heel and lean back against the door, he’s close enough that you have to tip your chin again. The wine has flooded your senses making your venture seem all that more attainable and you’re very much aware of how near he is and how much nearer you would like him to be.

Your hands find his lapels again, reaching out, fingers smoothing down the fabric, tugging once at the ends and staying like weights, it makes him shuffle a half-step closer.

“You could… come in,” you purr.

His eyes drop to your hands and then come back to your face, and for a split second he looks like he’s at war with himself, one that he’s only winning by a thin margin.

“Not tonight,” he says firmly, without leaving much room for argument.

But still, the pout arrives before you can stop it, tugging at the corners of your mouth, and you look up at him through the fan of your lashes, foot scooting forward until the front of your shoe taps the toe of his boot.

“Why don’t you want me?” you murmur, but something more genuine sneaks into it at the last second – too honest, too revealing, too indicative of his rejections up the stairs.

He goes still, two lines pulling deep between his brows, then there’s the quietest click of his tongue, and the knuckle of his index comes up beneath your chin, tipping it. He searches your face, cerulean eyes taking in your tipsy gaze when something pained moves through them.

“I think you know that I do,” he says gently, cocking his head. “Hm?”

Your eyes fall to his chest, cheeks glowing.

The calloused pad of his thumb traces an invisible line below your bottom lip, dragging it crooked before his hand drops back to his side.

He steps into your space now and dips his head, and when he speaks his lips are close enough to your ear that you feel the warmth of his breath against its shell, his beard lightly scratching at your cheek. A short breath escapes you and your fingers twitch toward him at your side, but you don’t touch him again.

“Go to bed,” he murmurs, low.

He doesn’t pull back right away though, he stays where he is, the round tip of his cold nose pressing to the soft place just below your ear. You can hear him breathe you in there, like he just couldn’t help himself – taking in the scent of you, your perfume gone tender from the heat of your flesh, vanilla and ginger mingling with the wine seeping through your pores.

He’s close enough to taste you if he’d let himself.

You feel him freeze after, the stiff spine of a man who’s realized exactly how far he just let himself go and is deciding not to go any further. A single measured exhale leaves him before he steps back again. The cold air of the hall rushes in to fill the space where he was as if it was just waiting for the chance.

You hold his gaze a heartbeat longer, fingers wrapped around the doorknob at your back, your pulse pounding at the place his skin met yours.

“Okay,” you concede, barely above a whisper.

“Night, duck,” he says, and the tenderness of it follows you through your door and stays with you long after you lock it.

On the other side, you stand in your dark entryway, coat still on, scarf loose in your hand, the wine warm in your chest, the ghost of his breath still sitting somewhere on your neck, and his voice rattling between your eardrums.

You hear the creek of his door open and close, and you stand there a moment longer, smiling at nothing.

––––––

The knock comes around nine o’clock.

The firmness of the raps reach you with the thick woolen weight of a hangover settled into your temples. You lie there, on the sofa, with your cheek pressed to the cushion, blinking at the coffee table as your brain reassembles itself to being awake.

Your flat, you notice, looks like Friday happened to it. Heels where you stepped out of them just inside the door, your coat and scarf thrown over the back of a chair, sloppily pooling on the floor below. Your purse is tipped on its side across the entryway bench, lipgloss and credit cards and loose change making a slow escape across the upholstery.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you that Last Night You left for Morning You, and you reach forward to drain it in four long swallows before forcing yourself up, padding over to the door, and pulling it open.

John’s stood there in a soft grey hoodie beneath his leather jacket, light wash jeans, two takeaway coffees balanced atop each other in one hand. He takes up space the way he always does, like doorways weren’t quite built with men like him in mind.

He makes a quick pass over you, taking in your mid-thigh oversized band tee and the one sock rolled lower than the other. The corner of his mouth pulls up just slightly before he holds the top cup out.

“Thought you might need this,” he offers.

“Ugh, you’re an angel,” you murmur, taking it with both hands and stepping back from the door.

He follows you in without being asked, and when he crosses the threshold he stops short, and you watch him take in your flat the way you did his.

It’s the same bones of a completely different animal – colorful where his is less so, lived-in where his is bare, every one of your surfaces doing multiple jobs.

Your furniture runs in autumnal colors. A velvet sofa so deep a rust it goes almost copper in the morning light, an oak coffee table distressed at the corners from ware. Your bookshelves are painted the kind of green that takes some thought to name and is filled well past any reasonable capacity – books lined and stacked and shoved where they could fit. The rug beneath it all is an ochre and cream situation with an indescribable pattern, frankly.

Your walls are decorated with paintings you salvaged from secondhand shops – a large landscape canvas above the couch and beside it, a smaller old oil portrait of a young girl and a lamb in a tarnished gilt frame.

There are half-burned candles on every surface, their wax gone sculptural from use. The desk is a spectacular disaster – an old company mug bristling with pens and markers planted in the middle of a landslide of manila folders and loose papers, a laptop half-buried under it all.

The snake plant on the windowsill looks like it’s doing its best.

And after a single deep breath, John steps over your heels without uttering a word.

You drift back to the sofa and pull your feet up beneath you, wrapping both hands around your cup. John settles into the floral armchair across from you, ankle on his knee, entirely at ease in your space in a way that makes last night press a little closer to your beating temples – the stairwell, your hands on him, his breath on your neck, the wine-ache of wanting.

You take a sip of your coffee and look out the window.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

“Fine,” you lie. 

“Mm,” he offers, which you think means he believes you and also means he doesn’t.

You look at him over the rim of your cup. The side of his mouth is doing that little tugging thing again which suggests he might be thinking of last night a tad more fondly than you are. Your cheeks start to tingle and you take another sip and look back at the window.

“You didn’t have to get me coffee,” you say.

“I get coffee after my run every morning,” he replies. You look back.

“I didn’t know you ran.”

“I have a routine,” he shrugs.

“Every morning?” you press, which is less a question and more you doing the arithmetic of what that means about the hours he keeps while you’re still horizontal and useless across the hall.

“Every morning,” he confirms.

“And what does that look like?”

He wipes a hand down his beard and uncrosses his leg to bring his elbows to his knees, leaning forward with both hands around his coffee.

“Run eight, maybe ten clicks. Push-ups, pull-ups. Stuff I can do in the flat.” A pause. “More important work gets done elsewhere."

You sit with that, the image of him doing said routine, flushed and sheen. It does a hot, complicated thing in your chest that you choose not to examine on an empty stomach.

“Are you hungry?” you ask.

“I could eat.”

“There’s a place ‘round the corner,” you start. “I go every Saturday. Their eggs are life-changing and the coffee’ll sort you out even if you don’t need sorting.”

“Yeah, alright,” he replies simply, easier to convince than you thought. And you both put your half-drunk cups on the table and leave it at that.

It takes you twenty minutes to get ready, and when you emerge from your bedroom in jeans and a cream knitted jumper with your hair done and your face on, John is standing at your bookshelf doing what you did to his – head tilted slightly, reading spines, curious in a way he probably wouldn’t be if he knew you were watching.

You lean against the doorframe and let yourself look.

He pulls one out – slim, a little battered, Honored Guest by Joy Williams, a strange collection of short stories you’ve had since uni – and turns it over in his hands, eyes moving across the back cover. His thumb runs along the worn edge of the spine, just once.

You let yourself look for exactly as long as it takes him to finish.

“Ready,” you tell him.

He slots it back exactly where he found it.

––––––

You leave the building into a cold grey morning, the air sharp and clean after the comfort of your flat, and fall into step beside each other on the pavement, your shoulder occasionally finding his arm as you walk, neither of you adjusting.

Your breath fogs between you. John has his hands in his coat pockets, taking in the neighborhood observantly – the things that have been here forever, the things that haven’t – and saying nothing about any of it, which is very him.

“It’s just down here,” you say, turning the corner.

“I know,” he says, because he runs past it every morning, which for some reason makes you smile.

The café appears at the end of the next street, its windows glowing against the grey, and even from here you can smell the rich coffee and the butter, and something sickeningly sweet drifting from the pastry case.

It’s the kind of place that’s been here forever and won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Mismatched chairs, intimate tables, handwritten specials on a chalkboard that hasn’t changed anything but its prices in twenty years. The air steamy from the kitchen, the windows fogged at the edges where the cold outside meets the muggy air within.

You watch John take it in from the doorway – a passing sweep of his eyes across the room, assessing and then releasing, his shoulders dropping by a fraction. He looks like a man who has been in enough new rooms for two lifetimes.

The hostess, Diane, looks up when you push through the door, her face doing its usual fond crease of recognition.

Diane is short and brisk, somewhere north of sixty, with cropped grey hair and the same thick-framed plum colored glasses she’s worn every Saturday since you’ve been coming in. She has a way of looking at you like you’re one of hers – which, by the accumulation of Saturdays, you suppose you might be.

“There you are!” she beams, already reaching for menus. “Your usual table’s free, come on then.”

Her eyes slide to John briefly, just once. A quick cheerful assessment, the kind that misses nothing after years of working a room. Her gaze shifts back to you, and her smile seems a bit wider than usual.

“Two this mornin’,” she chirps to herself, but pointedly enough for you to hear, already weaving through the tables.

She leads you both to your table tucked in the corner beside the window.

John is already shrugging out of his coat, his hand catching the back of your chair and sliding it out in a gesture so natural to him he doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it, and you sit down and try to think about the last time someone had done that for you and come up empty.

He settles across from you and picks up the menu.

Diane returns with two mugs of coffee without having even asked. You wrap both hands around one and look at John across from you, properly, in decent light, outside the damp atmosphere of your building for the first time – and he looks almost the same out here. A little easier, maybe. His shoulders seem looser.

He’s looking at the chalkboard specials with a small frown of concentration.

“Full breakfast,” you tell him. “That’s all you need to know.”

He glances at you. “And if I want somethin’ else?”

“You don’t,” you say, grinning. “Trust me.”

He considers that, looks back at the chalkboard, then sets his menu down.

“Okay,” he agrees, and picks up his coffee instead. “I trust you.”

Diane comes back to take your order, addressing most of her questions to John with the deference of someone who has marked he is in charge, which he handles with a patience that suggests he has noticed and chosen not to correct it, and you hide your smile behind your coffee cup and say nothing.

The morning opens up around you, easy and undemanding. You find yourself telling him about last night in the way you do when you’re still a little lit up about something; Cerie from accounts, David from the planning team, the second bar, the questionable decision to order a round of shots. And he listens with that focused attention of his, asking the occasional question that somehow keeps you rambling longer than you mean to.

“David does this thing,” you start explaining, “where he’ll say something, just, bloody devastating about someone and then immediately follow it up with the most sincere compliment you’ve ever heard in your life. So we don’t ever know how to feel–”

Your phone goes off in your purse, a double ding and a buzz.

You reach into your bag, the reflex of it bypassing your brain entirely, and you’re already reading the email before you’ve consciously decided to, thumb moving across the screen to reply.

“–and I think that’s actually just his personality, like he’s not even doin’ it on purpose, he just– sorry, one second– he just has this way of– this’ll just take a–” your thumbs keep moving, “–yeah, no, I’m listening– he has this way of makin’ you feel like–”

The typing catches up with you somewhere in the middle of that sentence and your eyes flick up from your phone and land on John.

He’s got both hands loosely around his coffee cup, watching you with a patience that somehow, with a single word, communicates everything. Heat crawls up your cheeks and to your ears.

You put the phone face down on the table.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shamefaced.

“Mm,” he hums, which is not quite ‘it’s fine’ and not quite ‘it isn’t’.

You take your cup back into your hand, sufficiently chastened, and there is a beat between you that is just slightly sharp.

“What is it you do?” he asks, in the mild even tone of a man who has just watched you conduct half a conversation with your thumbs moving with another and would like to understand what he witnessed.

“Project management for a property development firm,” you say. “Which means I mostly live in spreadsheets and other people’s arguments about budgets until something actually gets built. And then I can go stand on site and feel like it was worth it.” You pause, coffee cup halfway to your mouth. “It’s exactly as relentless as it sounds.”

“Busy at the moment?” he asks.

“Honestly,” you shake your head. “New contract just landed. Big government client, so there’s a lot of paperwork before we even get on site.”

“Whereabouts?” he asks mildly.

“Can’t really say,” you reply, a little ruefully. “Which honestly feels a bit dramatic for a construction project but apparently that’s just how it is with this kind of client.”

He nods once and takes a sip of coffee, and that’s the end of it.

“You’re good at it,” he says like he already knows.

“I am,” you agree. “Which, most days, feels like enough.”

“Most days,” he echoes, just noting that he heard it. He turns his cup in his hands. “D’you like it?” he asks. “Or are you just good at it?”

The distinction lands somewhere you weren’t expecting it to and you go still, your finger tracing the handle of your mug.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think I’ve spent a lot of time being good at things other people needed me to be good at.” You shrug once and bite the inside of your cheek in thought. “I’ve no idea what I’d actually choose, if I was just, like, choosing for myself.” You laugh a little then, small and self-aware, cheeks heating. “That’s probably too honest for a Saturday morning.”

“No,” he shakes his head gently. “I asked.”

The way he says it makes the hair at the back of your neck prickle.

He looks at you, something considered moving through his face.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says plainly, a firm thing, like he’s assessed you down and arrived at a clear conclusion and sees no reason to dress it up to pretend otherwise.

You briefly look down at your hands and feel the words settle somewhere you’d like them to stay for a while.

“Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”

Diane comes back with your food and the moment dissolves into the ordinary business of breakfast – plates set down, cutlery unwrapped, the rhythm of two people eating together.

The eggs are, as promised, life-changing.

And at some point the conversation drifts to the neighborhood and the way it’s changed over the years, the things that have come and gone.

“There used to be a proper hardware shop on the corner, family owned,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the street outside. “Before they put that… whatever it is now. The place with the green juice.”

“The wellness place,” you say, smirking around a bite of toast. “‘Bloom.’”

“Bloom,” he echoes with a disapproval so honest that your smile widens until teeth show.

“When was the hardware shop there?” you ask, curious.

He thinks. “Closed… must’ve been 2006, 2007 maybe.”

You look at him, nose scrunching, doing some math.

“John,” you prompt.

“Mm.”

“I was, like, nine in 2007.”

His eyes find yours over his mug.

His expression moves through several phases in the span of a few seconds, landing somewhere that is not quite discomfort and not quite amusement and not quite anything he seems to know what to do with.

“I genuinely have no memory of a world with a hardware shop on that corner,” you continue, pleasantly. “That corner has always been ‘green juice’ to me.”

He sets his mug down and shifts in his chair more than once, like he’s trying to both lean closer and move further away.

“Nine?” he grumbles, low and incredulous. Less a question than it is something he’s simply repeating back to himself to see if it changes.

You look back at him over your fork, steady and trying to stop the twitch playing at the corner of your lips. “Nine,” you confirm.

He picks up his mug. Sets it back down. Picks it up again.

“Right,” he murmurs to himself, and takes a long sip that suggests he’s using the coffee as something to do with his face.

You say nothing in return, which is its own kind of answer, and hide your smile behind your hand and let him sit with it.

He has another round of coffee and admits it’s the best he’s had outside of this one place in Lisbon – which opens up a conversation about… places.

Places he can talk about and the ones he can’t, the ones he describes only in terms of the food or the sun or the quality of the light, which you understand is the closest he can get to talking about them. He tells you about a market in Marrakech where he bought a spice he still can’t identify but has been putting in everything since. You argue briefly and enjoyably about whether Florence or Rome is the superior city and reach no conclusion and don’t need to.

The café empties and refills around you while you stay at your table. The fogged window beside you clouds and clears with the cold outside and the heat inside. Diane refills your waters with no fuss.

At some point, with no announcement, the bill simply ceases to exist. You notice this in a vague, delayed sort of way that you notice things when you’re mid-conversation – the black folder gone from the corner of the table, John’s wallet already being tucked into his back pocket like he’s done nothing worth mentioning.

You open your mouth in protest.

He picks up his coffee without looking at you, and something in the nonchalance of it closes your mouth again. You watch him take a sip, with no rush, entirely unbothered, and feel something grow into a ball at the soft center of your throat that you swallow down with the last of your water and say nothing about.

On the way out Diane catches your eye near the door and mouths ‘he’s lovely’ with an enthusiasm that requires your full composure to receive gracefully. You smile and nod and absolutely do not look at John, who is holding the door open.

Outside, you fall into step beside each other naturally.

“Thank you,” you say, after a while, “for coming.”

He looks at you from the corner of his eyes. “I wanted to.”

He faces forward again, hands in his coat pockets, the silence that settles between you is comfortable – easy and undemanding, like a quiet that knows it’s welcome.

––––––

On the landing outside your doors you stop, turning to face him.

He looks back at you, hands still in his pockets, the familiar air of the corridor circling you both.

“Same time next Saturday?” you ask lightly.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Alright.”

You grin to yourself and let yourself into your flat.

John stands in the corridor a moment after your door closes, looking at the space where you were. Then he turns and goes back to his own.

––––––

The week after breakfast is a good one, though, unremarkable.

There is the Monday morning stairwell – you running late as usual, coat half on, and him coming up as you’re going down with his coffee from the corner, and the narrow turn of the stairwell meaning he has to flatten slightly against the wall to let you pass, and you squeeze by him with a breathless ‘thanks’ and he says nothing, just watches you go, and you’re already at the bottom before the smell of his shampoo catches up with you in the stairwell and sits in your chest like his hand pressed against it.

There is the night you fall asleep to the low murmur of his television through the wall, your book open on your chest and the lamp still on in the corner, the familiar sound of him simply existing on the other side of the plaster carrying you under.

There’s Wednesday; you come home wrung out, coat slung over your arm, laptop bag cutting into your shoulder, a tension headache sitting directly behind your left eye. You eat a bowl of cereal standing at your kitchen counter because anything else feels nauseating. You think distantly about knocking on his door and then don’t, because there’ll be time, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.

Except that in that same very night – Thursday morning, really – you surface blearily from sleep to the sound of boots thumping. Heavy and purposeful, a rhythm of them that you know now without knowing you know it. And beneath that, faintly, through the shared wall, the muted sounds of drawers, of movement, of a flat being left in a hurry.

Your eyes fully open to the dark ceiling.

You lie there a beat, gauzy with sleep, the sounds filtering through without quite landing. Just him, up late, the way he sometimes is, you think.

You turn over. Pull the duvet up and go back to sleep.

It’s only when you come home the next evening – phone in your hand, still half-reading an email that should have been sent an hour ago – that you see it: a single envelope resting against his door.

You stop. Look at it like it doesn’t quite make sense, your tired brain turning the thought over. You can feel an ache in your stomach begin to prod at your insides, but… it’s just one envelope. Could be anything. Could be nothing!

You go inside, open your laptop to distract yourself with work, order from the Italian spot across town. Later, you watch an hour of television without absorbing any of it.

Before bed, you open your front door and look down the hall.

The envelope is still there.

The corridor is still in the way it gets still when it’s missing something – the air gone thin, melancholy again. Your stomach drops slow and absolute, answering a question you haven’t finished asking yet. You stand there in your doorway in your socks, one hand on the frame, the building settling and creaking around you in the dark.

Then you cross the hall and pick it up.

The post comes every day, and every day you collect it – sliding it from his doorstep on your way in, adding it to the pile on your table with a horrible familiarity you recognize from before. From those first weeks when he was just a name on an address line.

Except it’s different now.

Now you know the weight of his hands. You know how he takes his tea and how he laughs and what it’s like to have his attention when he’s really listening. The way he calls you ‘duck’ when he’s being gentle with you, and the way the whole building feels different when he’s in it.

The stack grows.

You keep picking it up.

––––––

He comes back seventeen days later.

You’re on your couch with your legs over the armrest, a throw pillow under your neck, and your laptop balanced on your stomach. You’re halfway through correcting a report that should have been finished two days ago with a half eaten bowl of pasta going cold on the cushion beside you when you hear it.

Just a key in a lock. The specific sound of it, the teeth of it turning, coming through the shared wall with the clarity that only old buildings and thin plaster allow.

You go very still.

The laptop screen blurs in front of you, the report suddenly irrelevant, your brain doing a careful pivot toward the wall like a plant turning toward sunlight.

You listen to the footsteps crossing his floor. The low thud of something being set down. The familiar creak of his floorboards in a spot near the kitchen that you’ve learned without realizing.

He’s back.

Then you close the laptop, set it on the coffee table, and turn your cheek into the cushion, look at the pile of envelopes on your entryway table.

––––––

John’s door opens on the second knock.

He’s still in his coat, tired around the eyes, a little rough at the edges, a shadow of seventeen days under his jaw, but solid underneath it all anyway.

His eyes find yours and the blue warms immediately.

“Hey–” he starts but doesn’t quite finish before you’re holding his post out. Both arms extended, all of it stacked between you, and you push it into his chest until he has no choice but to catch it, both arms coming up to gather it against himself, and you watch the burden of it register in his face.

He looks down at the pile. Then at you.

You stand in his doorway, swallowing around the ache that’s risen in your throat, close enough to see the slight furrow forming between his brows as he takes in your face properly. Your eyes are stinging at the corners and you blink against it once, hard, and hope he doesn’t catch it.

“Thank you,” he says carefully, testing the temperature.

You nod once before you turn around and walk back down the hall toward your own door, your arms wrapping around your middle.

His voice is behind you only seconds later.

“Hey,” he calls.

You keep walking. The seventeen days are sitting heavy and tender somewhere behind your sternum and you don’t trust your face to do anything reasonable if you turn around.

“Hey.” Closer now, and when you reach your door and put your hand on the knob he’s right there behind your shoulder. You can feel the shift in the air that happens when he’s near and you stop even though everything inside of you wants to put the door between the two of you.

“Come on, duck,” he says gently. Not pushing or persuading, just patient. Like he always is with you. “Let me come in.”

You stand there a beat longer.

Then you push the door open and go inside without looking back, leaving it open behind you and he follows.

You go back to the sofa and tuck your feet up beneath you. John settles into the armchair across from you, still in his coat, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. His eyes find yours and stay there, you hold his gaze and feel the full sharp aggravation of his composure being more intact than yours.

“I heard you leave,” you say eventually, because one of you has to. “Wednesday night.”

“Yeah.”

“And then I got home Thursday and the post was there and I just–” you stop. Breathe through your nose. Keep your voice level. “I just thought, right. He’s gone again.”

He exhales through his nose, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “I had to leave on short notice. It was–”

“I know,” you cut him off, your eyes squeezing shut. “I know how it works, John. I knew how it worked before any of this.” You gesture between you, which encompasses rather a lot. “I’m not asking you to have filed the flight plan with me. I understand that’s not…” you pause, “that’s not what this is.”

He’s watching you carefully, his head tilted just slightly, listening.

“But,” you continue, and your voice does something small and involuntary on the word that you wish it wouldn’t have, “you could’ve knocked. Even just to say you were going. Two seconds in the hall. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re right,” he says simply.

Which is not what you were braced for, and it takes the momentum clean out of you in a way that is almost annoying because you had more to say and now the air has gone out of it.

He looks down at his hands, turns them over once, like he’s checking something, and then back to yours. “I’m not used to–” a pause, longer this time, his thumb pressing along the ridge of his knuckle in a back and forth. “There’s usually no one to tell,” he admits finally. He scratches at his beard, his eyes flicking around the room before finding yours again. “There hasn’t been. Not for a long time.”

“How long?” you ask, gently.

He exhales. “Five years, give or take.”

You wait.

“Her name was Alyce,” he says. “We were married eight years. She left while I was deployed. Which–” the corner of his mouth moves, something that is not quite a smile but more like amusement, “–in fairness to her, I gave her plenty of reason to.”

“John–”

“No, it’s–” he shakes his head, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before coming back to yours. “It is what it is. The job is the job. It takes what it takes and there’s not much left over at the end. She needed someone who could give her more than I could.” He says it evenly, like he’s made his peace with it. “I don’t blame her for it.”

“But it hurt,” you offer quietly.

He looks at you, something moving across his face that’s weary along the edges. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It hurt.”

The rawness of it sits in the room and you look around your flat and think of his and something clicks into place.

“So you stopped having someone to tell,” you say knowingly, understanding.

“It’s easier,” he admits. Not easier because it’s better, but easier because it’s safer. Because the things that can’t be taken from you are never offered in the first place.

“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you tell him, meaning every word of it. “I just–” you pause, finding it, “I just want to know when you’re gonna be gone. That’s all. A knock at three in the morning, a note under the door. Even a text.”

He sits back in the chair, hands dragging from his knees up his thighs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats, nodding.

“Give me your phone,” you say, flopping your palm out toward him.

He goes into his coat and reaches out to put it in your waiting hand. You take it, put your number in, give it back. He looks at the screen, his thumb resting against the edge of it, and then at you.

“I’ll text you,” he says. “Before I go next time.”

“I’d like that.”

He nods once, certain, and pockets the phone.

“I’m… I’m glad you’re back,” you admit a bit shyly.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Me too.”

And the armchair, you both seem to realize at the same moment, is very far away.

He unfolds himself from it slowly and crosses the room, and you tip your chin up as he reaches you, expecting something, you’re not sure what exactly. He dips down and presses his lips to the top of your head, your eyes shut. His hand comes up to rest against the side of your face, and you look up at him as his thumb grazes over your cheekbone.

“Night,” he says.

“Night,” you manage, which comes out considerably softer than you intended.

––––––

His flat is exactly as he left it.

He stands in the middle of it for a moment and the silence there feels different than it did before. Before he knew what your keys sounded like and what your laugh did to the air around him.

He makes tea that he doesn’t drink, even if he had, it wouldn’t have settled him. It’ll be a few days before he can sleep.

He sits on the sofa in the dark with his head hanging back. Thinking about the way you looked at him when he opened his door.

Five years of no one to tell, and then you.

He thinks about Alyce. Not with the old sharp pain – that’s long worn smooth – but with the clarity of knowing he’s made this mistake before and exactly what it looks like from the inside. He’s been through enough deployments to know what they do to the people waiting on the other side, and he has no business asking anyone to do that, least of all someone with her whole life still in front of her and no reason to spend any of it waiting around for him to come back from places he can’t even name. He’s being sensible.

He goes to bed. Lies on his back in the dark and stares at the ceiling.

He’s being sensible about this.

At some point the building settles into the stillness of the late hours, the city outside has found its lowest register, and he’s still awake, still staring at his ceiling fan, and the arithmetic he has been doing all evening has stopped producing the answer he needs it to and is producing the only answer it has been since the night you stood at his door with a bottle of whiskey.

He knows what he wants. He’s known longer than he’s willing to admit to himself.

He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes before he finally gets up.

He doesn’t think about it after that. Doesn’t give himself the opportunity to talk himself out of it. He pulls on a shirt and crosses his flat in the dark, opens the door, and takes those nine steps down the hallway, in his socks, to knock.

On your side of the wall, you surface from the beginnings of sleep, the knock finding you through the fog of it. You lie there in the dark with your heart already doing something that has nothing to do with being startled.

You know it’s him.

You get up without turning the light on, padding through your flat barefoot in your sleep shirt, your hair doing whatever it’s decided to do, and you don’t hesitate at the door, don’t stop to think about what time it is or what it means that he’s here – you just open it.

He’s standing there in the flickering light of the corridor, worn tee and dark joggers, hair slightly displaced, and your face does the thing it does before your brain has caught up – concern pulling at your brows, sleep lingering in the corners of your voice.

“Are you alright?” you ask, rubbing the cloudiness from your eye.

He looks at you. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I thought about you,” he admits. “When I left that night.” A pause, his jaw clenching. “Thought about you the whole time I was gone, actually.” His eyes hold yours, set and tired and very direct. “Still thinking about you now.”

You blink.

“Couldn’t stop,” he adds, a little quieter, like that’s the part that finally got him to this point.

You look at him standing there having apparently lost an argument with himself sometime in the last hour, and you can feel your heart kicking up.

You step back from the door and he follows, and before you’ve finished taking in the fact of him his hands are on your face, palms warm and sure against your jaw, tilting you up toward him.

He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it for, you don’t know, seventeen days, maybe.

He tastes like toothpaste and smells like cucumber.

It isn’t frantic or rushed. It’s deep and sure and heavy, and his thumbs trace along your cheek, and you feel the intention in every bit of him. 

You step backward again, and again he follows without breaking the kiss, kicking your door shut behind him, one hand leaves your face to find your waist and pull you in, and you go, your back bending to his will. You kiss your way out of the living room and down the short hall toward your bedroom with the certainty of two people who have been heading here for a long time and have finally stopped pretending otherwise.

The bedroom is dim, the sheer curtains doing little to keep the night out – moonlight pressing through in a pale wash, pooling across the dark wood floor, catching the edge of your wooden bed frame, the honey-dark shoulders of the vase on the nightstand where a bouquet has gone beautifully drowsy, petals loosening at the edges.

The duvet is a deep forest green, plush and slightly rumpled from where you threw it back, and the whole room has this energy, he’s learned, that could only belong to you.

He walks you back to the bed slowly, both hands at your waist, and when the backs of your knees find the mattress he stops. Pulls back from your mouth just enough to look at you properly, his chest rising and falling with a discipline that tells you his control is already working harder than usual, his hands finding the hem of your shirt, his fingers curling into the cotton.

“Can I?” he asks, low.

“Yes,” you answer immediately and breathless, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

He lifts it up over your head in one slow motion and sets it aside, and then he just… looks at you. Not hungrily, he’s just taking you in.

You stand there with your nipples already tight in the cool air of the room, his eyes dropping to them and lingering, and the flush that goes through you is half embarrassment and half something hotter underneath. The patience of him, the absence of urgency, makes you want to fold in on yourself.

His hands trace your shoulders, thumbs over your collar, down to the curve of your waist, his palms warm and slightly rough against your skin. You stand there, your fingers twirling into the fabric over his ribs, and let him do whatever he likes while you try to remember how breathing works.

He bends his head and his mouth follows where his hands had been – your shoulder first, then the place where your neck meets it, then lower, his tongue dragging hot and wet across one nipple before he draws it into the heat of his mouth. Your neck falls limp, chest pushing into him, and your knees go soft. One of his arms is around your back before you’ve registered that you needed it to be. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your skin.

Your fingers find the hem of his tee and he lets you pull it off, his arms lifting to help, and then he’s in front of you in the dark. You’ve had your hands on his chest before but this is different. This is him, bare skin and the solid weight of muscle and a scar just below his ribs on the left side that your fingers find without thinking and trace, following the full length of it. He goes very still while you do, watching your face, something in his expression coming loose in a way it doesn’t often let itself.

Your hands drop to the waist of his joggers.

His jaw shifts. His breathing has deepened, every exhale measured in a way that tells you the measuring is costing him. You ease the waistband of his joggers down past the heavy ridge of him – he is hard, has been, the length of him pushing up against the cotton of his boxers – and he steps out of the joggers and kicks them aside. Then he drops to one knee in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear and drawing them down, all the way to the floor. Then he straightens, hands skimming back up the outside of your legs as he rises, and when he looks at you something darkened with desire moves through his face that you feel from your jaw to the backs of your knees.

“Come here,” he says, low, and draws you down onto the bed with him.

He settles over you braced on his forearms, the solid bulk of him bracketing you, and kisses you for a long time before he does anything else. Like he has every minute of the night to use and intends to use them, his mouth moving from yours to your jaw to your throat to your collarbone, tracing you like each inch of you is worth whatever time it takes.

Your fingers curl into his hair as he kisses the center of your stomach. His hand moves over you slowly – your waist, your hips, the soft inside of your thigh – and the room is hushed except for the sounds the two of you are making, the soft scrape of your sheets and your breath that’s gotten heavier.

You pulse has long stopped behaving itself.

When he finally looks up at you, blue irises glinting in the moonlight, chin resting lightly against your sternum, eyes finding yours, hair displaced thanks to your hands.

“How d’you like it?” he asks, genuine and entirely unhurried, and your breath catches on its way in.

“I–” you start, and stop, blinking the tips of your ears going warm.

He waits, chin still resting against you, eyes on yours, thumb tracing an idle circle against your hip.

The exposure of being asked and actually having to answer makes you look at the ceiling for a moment before you come back to him.

“From behind,” you admit, like a small and private thing being handed over.

His face softens and opens without judgment – and he moves up over you, one hand coming to rest against the side of your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw up to your ear.

“We can do that,” he whispers. “But not at first, love.” His eyes hold yours, darker than they were a minute ago, his pupils crowding out the blue. “I wanna see you.”

You reach up and pull him back down to your mouth, and he comes willingly, and the talking is over.

His hand slides down over your stomach, fingertips dragging down the seam of you for the first time, and you are already so wet for him that the first slow pass of his fingers through your folds makes the both of you go still for half a second. He exhales something hot and rough against your throat at the wetness of you, his middle finger gathering it and sliding back up to circle your clit, and your hips jerk up off the mattress into it.

“All for me?” he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, low and ruined.

“All for you,” you breathe, because you can’t lie to him about this with his fingers between your legs.

He works you slow, keeping the heel of his hand pressed against you while his middle finger slides in tight circles around your clit, then over it, light and then firm and then light again, reading every catch in your breath, every twitch of your hips. His mouth is still at your throat, his beard scratching at your skin. The sound of you against his fingers, the slick wet drag of it in the hushed room, is loud enough that you would be embarrassed by it if you weren’t already past caring.

“Please,” you breathe.

“Tell me,” he says, mouth still at your neck. Not teasing, really – just wanting to hear it.

“Inside,” you manage. “Please, John.”

He gives you what you asked for; one finger first, slipping into you with how wet you are, pressing deep and curling until your back lifts off the mattress and a sound escapes you that you couldn’t have stopped if you tried. The second presses in beside the first and the stretch of them pulls another soft moan that he catches with his mouth.

He works you open carefully, reading every clench and shift of your hips, until you are completely lost and soaking his hand, your fingers curling into his shoulders, the others into the sheet beside your hip, his name a breathy continuous thing behind your teeth.

By the time he shifts and leans back between your legs to hook his thumbs into his boxers and pushes them down you are already halfway gone. You reach down between your bare bodies, wrapping your hand around him.

The sharp breath he pulls in through his nose makes you feel powerful in a way that travels all the way to your fingertips. He watches your hand for a beat before flicking up to your face, your gaze is nowhere near his.

His cock is thick in your hand, heavier than you were prepared for, and the way he twitches against your palm makes drool pool under your tongue. Dribbles of him have already gathered at the head where you spread it down with the pad of your thumb. Your breath goes short and your eyes flick up to his face before you can stop them.

“John,” you breathe.

“Mm,” he hums.

“That’s–” you pause, eyes dropping briefly and then back up, “–that’s a lot.”

Something moves in his expression that is considerably worse than one. “Yeah,” he says, like you’ve just commented on the weather. His thumb comes up to brush your glowing cheekbone. “Alright?”

You nod and guide him to you, the head of him dragging through the wet of you once, twice, before you settle him against your entrance and look up at him.

“Still okay?” he asks, his voice rougher now, the careful control of him working harder than it has all evening.

“Yes,” you tell him.

He comes forward, resting his mass against you, a forearm braced beside your head, the other at the base of your neck. He eases forward, watching your face the whole time, his thumb on the bone of your jaw like he’s trying to keep you present – and the feeling of him, the stretch of him, the slow and overwhelming fullness of him opening you up inch by inch, pulls a sound from you that starts quiet and builds into something much louder, your fingers digging into his back hard enough to leave marks, your head tips back into the pillow, eyelids fluttering closed.

“Look at me,” he coos, the pad of two fingers pressing down on your chin to tip your face back to his.

You bring your eyes back and he holds them there, easy-like. He breathes in slow through his nose, and you follow his lead naturally. He doesn’t move until he feels you adjust, until the tension in your hands ease around his biceps and your breathing finds something closer to his own rhythm, until the tight resistance of your body softens around him completely and your hips cant forward on their own, asking for the rest of him.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your temple, pressing his lips there as he fits the last inch of himself inside of you.

For a moment, he just stays there. Doesn’t move. Lets you feel every vein of him buried inside of you, the heat of his cock pulsing against your walls. His forehead moves to yours and he exhales something wrecked into the space between your mouths.

“Christ,” he huffs.

Then he moves – deep and measured, his eyes staying on your face, reading every flicker, every catch of breath, every involuntary sound you willingly give him, shifting the angle of his hips, adjusting, until he finds the place that makes your back arch clean off the bed and your nails scrabble at his shoulders and your mouth fall open around a moan that could wake anyone on the floors above and below you.

“There?” he asks, voice rough.

“There,” you confirm breathlessly, your whole body pulling toward it. “Th-there– right there, please–”

“Okay,” he says simply and gives you exactly that, again and again, deep and relentless and fucking precise. Again, until the room has narrowed to a dim square of your bedroom and the weight of him and the low quiet things he says against your skin make everything tighter and headier and more consuming.

The tension builds slow and inevitable from the ground up – and when it crests it takes you completely, your whole body drawing taut and then releasing all at once in a long shuddering wave, your cunt clenching, pulsing around him as you come, and you cling to his shoulders while he holds you through every second of it.

His lips find your ear, his voice barely above a murmur.

“You showin’ off, duck?” he breathes, nearly in awe, a grunt as he drags his cock lazily against the quiver of your walls. “Or does your pussy just do that?”

He sounds, insufferably, like he’s smiling.

“It did that for you,” you manage, breathless and completely shameless about it.

He stills, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw, his beard brush at your skin.

“Alright?” he asks gently.

“More than,” you breathe, bringing your knee up against his hip.

You push at his shoulder and he reads it without a word, rolling onto his back and drawing you with him in one fluid motion, his hands settling at your hips as you find your balance astride him, the shift in angle pulling a sharp sound from you both.

You look down at him – hair thoroughly displaced, jaw tight, throat flushed, his hands warm and heavy at your hips, his cock buried so deep in you from this angle that you can feel the shape of him against something you’re not sure has ever been touched before by any man.

You feel the heaviness of his eyes on you as you begin to move, rolling your hips in a slow testing circle that pulls a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest.

His jaw tightens. His hands grip harder. The sound reverberates through your palms where they’re pressed flat against him and you feel it in your sternum.

“Jesus,” he moans. “Wish you could see what I see.”

A flush crawls up your spine to your face and you have to look away from him. “Stop,” you whine.

“No,” he breathes through a smile. “You– you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”

“John,” you warn, unable to receive a compliment under any circumstance, but especially this one. His hands tighten on your hips and he digs his thumbs into the meat of them.

You look back at him and his eyes seem to be everywhere – your face, your throat, the bounce of your tits as you find your rhythm above him, the place where his cock disappears inside you, wet and shining in the low light. His thumb moves from your hip to your clit, and at the first slow circle of it you gasp, tempo stuttering, hips jerking forward.

His hands slide up your sides, calloused palms dragging warm over your ribs, his thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts before settling at your shoulderblades. He draws you down to him, your chest meeting his, and kisses you once, slow and deep, his cock still buried in you, his hand cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

Then his mouth moves to your ear.

“Hands and knees.”

The authority of it goes straight through you. He helps you up off him with one hand at your hip as you lift, the slow drag of his cock leaving you pulling a moan from both of you. You’re already turning before your knees have found the mattress, his promise being kept, your body moving for him without thought.

His hand smooths up your back and presses, easing your chest down to the pillow, his palm warm and broad.

His hand drags the length of your spine. His mouth follows it part of the way down, between your shoulders, and you feel him exhale hot and rough against your sensitive flesh at the sight of you laid out for him like this.

Then his cock is dragging through you again, the head of it notching into your dripping well, and even after everything you’ve already taken, the stretch of him from this angle has you gasping into the pillow before he’s even fully seated.

“Mmmmm,” you keen, high pitched, “John.”

“Still with me?” he asks, his lips at the back of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You take a deep breath and exhale slow.

“Very much with you,” you say into the pillow.

He sits back on his knees and his hands find your hips again, fingers pressing far past gentle in a way you will feel tomorrow and are already glad of.

He makes good on his promise.

He starts slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt, every inch of him dragging against your walls, letting you feel the full length of him with each stroke. His grip on your hips holds you exactly where he wants you, not letting you push back to chase it, just feeding you his cock at the pace he chooses. The first few thrusts are deliberate, almost careful, like he’s learning what this view does to him before he lets himself have it.

Then he finds it, hips canting just so, and the head of his cock drags against something that has you sobbing into the pillow, your whole body lighting up from your tailbone outward. You feel his answering exhale against your back and his pace begins to climb. The sound of him fucking into you slick and obscene in the hushed room, the quiet slap of his hips meeting the back of your thighs, the wet drag of him pulling out and pushing back in.

And the room goes away completely.

Not because it isn’t happening – it is very specifically and overwhelmingly and in vivid and consuming detail happening – but because the feeling of him like this, the depth of him, the full length of his cock from this angle, the low unrestrained sounds he’s making behind you, is simply too much to hold alongside conscious thought.

He keeps it precise, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke, and you are vaguely aware that your fingers have found the headboard, that your knuckles have gone white against the wood, that you have been making sounds for minutes now that you have no memory of deciding to make.

One hand is splayed warm at your hip. The other slides up the length of your spine, vertebra by vertebra, and into your hair, not pulling, just resting there, grounded, his fingers curling gently at the nape of your neck. He says your name once, low and wrecked, like it got out before he could think about it. Then you feel his chest pressed to your back.

“You feel...” he starts, low against your shoulder, and stops. Like the rest of it isn’t something he’s ready to hand over yet. But he does, regardless. “Made for me.”

You feel the truth of that in his hands and his mouth and the way he presses his forehead briefly to the back of your neck like he needs a second to collect himself.

His control gives way by inches – shorter strokes, harder, like he can’t bear to leave you for even a moment – and you can feel him losing himself in you, the discipline of him fraying with every thrust, until your thighs are shaking.

Your hands fist into the sheets as his hand slides around your hip and finds your clit, fingers working you in slow tight circles. That in combination with the bullying of his cock grows to be too much, too much, too much, too much…

“That’s it,” he whispers, broken, at the back of your ear. “I got you.”

And you let go.

It takes you completely – longer and deeper than before, cresting in a long consuming wave that pulls every muscle taut before releasing all at once, your whole body shuddering through it, your cunt clenching around him so hard he groans against your shoulder – and you press your face into the pillow and let the sound of it go muffled while he holds you through every second of it.

He follows not long after – his rhythm losing its precision, his breathing ragged against your shoulder, your name one last time in that low completely wrecked voice – and then he stills, his cock pulsing inside of you as he comes, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, both of you breathing like you’ve forgotten how and are relearning it together.

The room comes back slowly.

The distant hum of the city. The press of the pillow against your cheek. The solid weight of him, his heartbeat gradually quieting against your back, his hand moving after a moment to rest loose and warm at your waist like it belongs there.

Neither of you speak for a while.

He moves eventually – pressing his lips to your temple before rolling to his side and drawing you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, his arm settles around you naturally.

His hand moves in a slow idle path along your arm. Up and down, not asking anything.

“Hi,” you say softly, into the quiet.

He reaches up and tucks your hair back from your face.

“Hi,” he says back.

You lie there together in the quiet of it, his arm around you, your hand flat against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat slow beneath your palm, and the whole evening sits around you like something you’re both still figuring out the shape of until you both drift off.

––––––

He’s still there in the morning.

His arm is around you, heavy and warm, and you lie very still for a moment in the early hush of your bedroom and take stock of it – of him, of the dull ache reminding you of last night.

You try to move carefully, extracting yourself without waking him, which turns out to be optimistic as his arm tightens slightly before you’ve gone anywhere, a reflexive, unconscious thing, and you go still and wait and after a moment it loosens again and you ease out from under it and sit on the edge of the bed in the soft morning light.

You look back at him.

He’s on his back now, one arm where you were, his face slack with sleep in a way it never is when he’s awake – the lines of his face softer, younger somehow, the silver at his temples catching the pale light filtering from the curtains. He looks, you think, like a person who doesn’t sleep enough finally sleeping.

You get up, grabbing his tee shirt from the floor to pull over yourself, and head to the kitchen.

The kettle is just coming to a low boil when you hear him in the hall, you turn toward his footfalls and he appears in the kitchen doorway shirtless, last night’s joggers slung low on his hips. He leans against the frame, arms crossing loosely.

“Morning,” you say, reaching for two mugs from the shelf.

“Morning,” he replies, voice rougher than usual from sleep, and you feel it in the backs of your knees which is genuinely inconvenient at this hour. “Was lookin’ for that,” he says, tipping his chin at you.

“For what?”

“My shirt,” he smiles sleepily.

“Oh,” you say, leaning back against the counter.

“Oh,” he mocks.

“It’s very soft,” you explain, glancing down at it.

“Mm,” he hums. “S’why I wear it.”

“Would you like it back?”

He looks at you for a long beat, eyes moving down the length of you in his shirt and back up, and the corner of his mouth pulls.

“No,” he says simply. “Looks better on you.”

The kettle clicks off behind you. You turn to pour, conscious of him still watching. You slide his mug across the counter toward him, and he steps into the kitchen to take it, the warmth of him passing close behind you on his way to lean against the opposite counter.

“Hungry?” you ask, already opening the fridge.

He looks at you with an expression that suggests he’s already aware of your limitations in this area.

“I’ve got eggs,” you say, grabbing the carton. “I cannot promise anything about what state they’ll be in when I’m done with them, but…”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets his mug down and pushes off the counter. “Move over.”

“John, I can make eggs–”

“Move over,” he says again, the same way, and you move over.

He ends up making the eggs, showing off while you sit on your counter and drink your tea, just watching him occupy your kitchen on a Sunday.

He leaves mid morning.

Shirtless and in his socks.

“I’ll see you,” he says, which is not a specific plan and both of you know it, but it’s right for the moment.

“Yeah,” you say. “See you.”

He looks at you for a moment, kisses you once, and steps into the hall.