My Silverspring

It had started with a little girl named Lauren. Three years old and covered in a bright red rash that stretched from her wrist to her shoulder, she looked up at you with tear-filled eyes, her gaze fixed on the blue gloves covering your hands. You sat on the stool, scooting closer for a better look. 

“It’s okay,” you said gently. “These are just to keep everything clean.” 

Lauren blinked at you before glancing back at her parents. Her moms looked exhausted with worry, though one managed a reassuring smile as she kept a hand on Lauren’s back. 

“Here, honey,” you said, reaching into the glove box mounted on the wall. You pulled out a fresh glove and handed it to her. “You can feel it if you want. We can even blow it up like a balloon in a little bit.” 

She accepted it carefully with her rash-free arm. “Thank you.” 

You smiled. “You have wonderful manners, Lauren. Can I take a closer look at your arm?” 

Lauren nodded. “Hurts.” 

“It hurts?” You questioned. You directed your next questions to her parents. 

No recent travel. No new foods. The only thing was a day to the park. 

“Is it okay if my friend comes to look too?” You asked, mostly to Lauren before looking at her moms. All three of them nodded. 

You slid the curtain open just enough to slip through. In search of an attending, you found your husband hunched over a desktop computer, typing away at a chart.

"Can I borrow you for a second pair of eyes?" you asked, patting his arm. "I've got a three-year-old with what I think is poison ivy. Maybe poison oak."

"Fever?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Afebrile. Lungs are clear. She's itchy, says it burns, and she spent this afternoon crawling through bushes at the park looking for bugs."

With a tap, he logged out of the computer and looked up at you from his stool. "You should learn to trust your instincts," he teased.

You smiled, unable to resist glancing at the silicone wedding band on his finger. "C'mon," you said. "She's three years old, and she looks terrified. I just want to make sure she doesn't end up back here."

"Oh, alright," he murmured, following you back to the exam room.

By the time you returned, Lauren had managed to wiggle her hand into the glove. She waved enthusiastically when she saw you.

"Well, look at you," you said with a grin. "Get you another one, and I'll have to put you to work, Miss Lauren."

Lauren giggled, but her smile faded when her eyes landed on John. You gave his arm a reassuring pat.

"This is my friend, Dr. Shen," you said gently. "He's just going to take a quick look at your arm just like I did. Is that still okay?"

Lauren studied him for a moment before giving a small nod, raising it a little higher. A few minutes later, Lauren's arm was coated in a topical ointment, and she was proudly carrying her own copy of the discharge instructions. Her moms each had one too, but Lauren had insisted on taking one herself. Before she left, she wrapped her little arms around your leg in a quick hug, then disappeared through the doors with her parents.

The next few weeks weren't any easier.

Usually, it was the trauma cases that stayed with you. Standing beside people on the worst day of their lives had a way of draining every ounce of energy out of you. But this time, it was the kids.

The weight of a feverish six-month-old lingered in your arms long after he'd been discharged. The memory of Lauren's tiny hug clung to you for days. Even the laughter of a pair of identical twins, both sporting matching broken wrists and proudly choosing the same color casts, echoed in your mind long after they were gone.

You decided it was time for the conversation when you and John somehow managed to get the impossible: five days off in a row.

For weeks, the two of you had been ships passing in the night. You'd been buried in swing shifts and doubles while John had been trapped on nights. Conversations had been reduced to missed texts, half-finished cups of coffee, and leftovers tucked into the refrigerator with I love you scribbled across sticky notes.

After some creative schedule reshuffling, promises to pick up a shift if the department got slammed in your absences, and a tray of treats of their choosing strategically delivered to both Robby and Abbot, you'd somehow earned five uninterrupted days together.

The first day disappeared into sleep and the two of you didn't crawl out of bed until nearly six in the evening, exhausted enough to laugh at yourselves before ordering takeout and falling asleep on the couch halfway through a movie.

The second day was your chance.

You sent John on a wild goose chase for ingredients you didn't really need, casually mentioning two different grocery stores because "the first one probably won't have everything." He'd raised an eyebrow but kissed your forehead anyway before grabbing his keys.

The second the front door clicked shut, you sprang into motion.

You hurried through the house, straightening the living room, fluffing couch pillows that hadn't been touched in weeks, and tossing abandoned scrubs into the laundry basket. The bedroom was next, where you made the bed, cleared off both nightstands, and opened the curtains just enough to let the late afternoon light spill inside.

Then you got yourself ready.

You traded your usual sweats and oversized T-shirt for your best bra, a pair of well-fitting jeans, and a blouse that rested just off your shoulders. You spritzed on the perfume John had given you as a wedding present, the familiar scent instantly calming your nerves. A little concealer hid the evidence of too many overnight shifts, and a quick curl of your lashes made you look a little less like someone who lived under fluorescent hospital lights.

When you caught your reflection in the mirror, you smiled. Tonight, for the first time in weeks, you and your husband were finally going to have a real conversation.

By the time John got home, he'd somehow managed to juggle three grocery bags, a paper sack from the bakery, and the bouquet of flowers a fundraising kid from around the corner had convinced him to buy because, according to her, "your wife deserves flowers if she's making you dinner."

"I almost bought you a third one," he chuckled as he nudged the door shut with his hip. "She's going to make an excellent advertiser one day."

You laughed, hurrying over to relieve him of two bags before they could spill onto the floor.

He followed you into the kitchen, setting the remaining bags on the counter while you unpacked them, moaning at the scent from the loaf of bread that was still warm enough to fog the paper bag and the expensive pasta neither of you ever bought because someone always said the generic brand was fine.

You filled a pot with water while John unpacked the vegetables, quietly sliding things into your reach before you even asked. It was muscle memory after years together. You reached for the olive oil; he was already handing it to you. You searched for the pepper grinder only to find it waiting beside the cutting board. Neither of you had to think about it anymore.

Soft music drifted from the speaker in the living room, just loud enough to fill the comfortable silence that settled between the chopping of onions and the hiss of butter melting into a warm pan.

John leaned against the counter, watching you with the same expression he'd worn ever since he'd walked through the door.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled, moving from the counter to the stove and then back again. 

John wandered behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and settling his chin in the crook of your neck. He sighed dreamily, kissing your skin lightly.  “You’re wearing your wedding perfume,” he murmured. “And wearing the jeans I love on you.” 

You chuckled, reaching for the second half of the onion. “Yeah, so?” 

“What’s going on?” 

“What ever do you mean?” You teased, subtly shrugging him off of you as you turned towards the fridge for the heavy cream. 

"I mean..." He gestured vaguely around the kitchen, leaning against the opposite counter to give you space to cook. "You're making homemade pasta sauce from scratch. The house cleaner than it's been in six months. You look..." He hesitated, smiling to himself. "Ridiculously pretty." 

Heat crept into your cheeks, your shoulders shrugging. “And?”

"You trying to butter me up?" He accused. “Hiding something?” 

“No,” you smiled, stirring the sauce before it could stick to the bottom of the pan. "I just..." You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to stay loose. "We've barely seen each other lately." 

He didn't interrupt.

"I wanted one night that didn't involve microwaved leftovers or eating cereal at two in the morning before one of us passed out." You looked over your shoulder and smiled. "I'm excited to have my husband to myself for a change."

Something softened in his face. He crossed the kitchen in two easy strides, slipping his arms around your waist from behind while you stood over the stove. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder again.

"I've missed you too," he murmured.

You leaned back into him without thinking. “Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

The only thing that pulled you apart was the finished meal. You pulled two plates out of the cupboard as John went to slice the bread. You guffawed when you caught him sneaking a piece. 

“John,” you chided. 

"Quality control," he defended around the mouthful. He placed his bitten slice on his plate, plucking it from your hand. “Hey, you married me!” 

“I was young and naive,” you muttered, grabbing the second slice and placing it on your plate. 

“You were 27,” he laughed. “Your frontal lobe had already developed.” 

The candles you'd lit earlier flickered softly between you, throwing warm light across the table. Neither of you reached for your phones. They sat abandoned on the kitchen island, blissfully ignored. After all, emergencies would go through loudly regardless. 

The conversation wandered the way it always did when neither of you was exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. John told you about the guy who'd convinced himself appendicitis was "probably just bad vibes" and could cure it with herbs. You countered with the middle-aged man who'd come to the emergency department convinced he'd swallowed his dentures, only for them to be sitting in his shirt pocket the entire time. John laughed so hard he had to set down his fork. 

You exchanged war stories and gossip until silence settled over the two of you. You each ate with one hand, holding each other throughout the entire meal. He squeezed you gently every few bites, catching your attention only to smile like he hadn’t done anything. 

You could feel the words somewhere behind your teeth, hovering and desperate to come out. 

Do you want a baby? Do you think we’re ready? I think I’m ready for a baby. I want to start planning soon. What do you think of themed names?

Everything that had been on your mind for weeks threatened to spill if you took too long between bites. It was serious and life-changing in a way you never thought you’d be able to have.

You’d given up on love after your first college breakup. You'd been devasted and instead threw yourself into med school and bounced around the country. Then you ran into John thirty minutes before your shift and honestly, it was love at first sight. Neither one of you had noticed each other’s scrubs, somehow going on dates twice a week for three months before realizing you worked in the same place and same department, just separate shifts. It had been an HR nightmare at first, but seeing as the two of you could act professionally with each other, so much so that even the most eagle-eyed employees of the Pitt hadn’t caught on, things were alright. 

You knew you loved him when your mother had called you to let you know that the neighborhood stray cat who lived under your porch had passed. John had been there for you through the grieving process. Winnie had never technically been your pet, but you loved the creature so much that she might as well have been. He paid for your plane ticket home, surprising you with it by leaving it on your pillow. 

He’d be a wonderful father. He’s kind and patient. John could always make light of anything, defusing even the most tense situations. He traded coffees for stuffed animals from the pediatrics department to share with the kids in the ED. He could make a crying, confused, scared child laugh in under a minute and never treated the extra time taken as an inconvenience. 

He was the kind of man who became your favorite person before you knew it was happening. Hopefully someday soon, he could become someone else’s favorite person. 

“Listenin’, honey?” he asked gently, smile on his face. “I was thinking of changing the cabinets in the guest bathroom. It’s a little outdated.” 

Just say it, you thought. The man had seen every bit of you. He held you for hours when you lost your first patient. He’d seen you so drunk you mistook him for a stranger and instead of arguing, let you call Parker to take you home. He’d fished you out of Abbot’s pool when you refused to get out and laughed when you pulled him in fully clothed. 

The words rose in your chest with each pound of your heart. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Do you think we should paint it too? The green is a little dreary, don’t you think?” 

You immediately busied yourself with another bite of pasta as John thought about it. 

“Sure. We can go with a lighter green or maybe a blue,” he wondered aloud. 

You nodded a little too enthusiastically. The question still sat heavy in your chest, refusing to disappear. Forty-eight hours ago you’d talked down the most combative patient of your career then immediately held a woman’s hand as she gave birth in the ambulance bay, and still, this was the hardest thing you’d ever done. You should ask him now.

Instead, you found yourself asking if he wanted more parmesan.

He smiled and held out his plate. "Always."

Once dinner was finished, he stacked the dirty plates without being asked and carried them to the sink, humming quietly as he turned on the hot water. Months ago, he'd offered to install a dishwasher. You'd refused. The one in your college apartment had leaked so consistently that you'd ended up handwashing everything anyway, and even when it was fixed, it somehow managed to leave every plate feeling gritty. You'd declared dishwashers a waste of money and maintenance. John hadn't argued. Instead, he'd researched dish racks until he found one with a slanted drain tray that funneled the water directly back into the sink and installed it that weekend. He'd also trimmed the tree outside every spring so sunlight reached the drying rack through the kitchen window. According to him, the dishes dried faster that way. 

He never tried to convince you that your worries were irrational. He simply found another solution. 

When winter rolled around, he bought snow grips that slipped over your boots because he knew you'd refuse to stop walking to work just because the sidewalks iced over. There were always packets of HotHands tucked into the ceramic bowl by the front door before the first snowfall. Somehow, they never ran out. During the summer, he'd insist you showered first after work because he knew how much you hated the feeling of dried sweat clinging to your skin after a shift. 

There were hundreds of those little things he did. None of them were grand enough for anyone to notice or really comment, but every single one made you feel seen and loved. 

You wandered around the counter after blowing out the candles, your fingertips trailing across the cool granite until they came to rest beside the framed wedding photo that permanently occupied the corner of the kitchen. 

The wedding itself had been... disappointing. Your schedules had been impossible, so the two of you had only taken your wedding day off, promising a lavish vacation later on. Friends and extended family had politely declined because they couldn't rearrange work or book flights with so little notice. Some relatives had apologized that the travel simply wasn't possible. Even half the people you worked with couldn't make it because someone still had to cover the emergency department.

The tailor who'd been making your dress had lost her shop in a fire only weeks before the ceremony. You settled for another dress that didn’t feel like yours. John offered to postpone, but your lease was ending and your family would be extremely disappointed if you moved in with John before you had the ring. 

You'd spent years imagining an outdoor ceremony beneath late spring sunshine. Instead, a storm rolled in that morning without warning. Even the forecast had insisted the skies would stay clear. Instead, you married in a cramped room in the back of the venue you’d chosen, the rest of the venue was being set up for someone else’s wedding. By every measurable standard, the day hadn't gone according to plan. 

You smiled at the photograph anyway. The photographer had caught the exact moment John leaned over and kissed you without warning. Your eyes were barely open and your bouquet was a blur as it fell to the ground mid-photo and your arms barely visible as they were moving around his shoulders. You weren't thinking about the rain or the missing guests or the dress you hadn't wanted, you were simply looking at your husband the way you always did. 

“Everything alright over there?” He poked. “I’ve asked you like three questions and you’ve ignored them.” 

You shrugged, setting down the photo. “Just thinking.” 

“You’ve been doing an awful lot of thinking.” 

You laughed softly, hoping it sounded convincing enough to end the conversation. “I work in emergency medicine. Thinking is kind of in the job description.”

John folded the dish towel over the oven handle before turning to face you fully.

“No.” He shook his head once. “This is different.”

You busied yourself with straightening the corner of a placemat that didn't need straightening. “How so?”

He leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching you with the same careful expression he reserved for patients, leaving enough silence for you to jump in when you felt comfortable.

“You've started zoning out,” he continued quietly. “I'll say something, and you won't hear me. You'll stare at absolutely nothing for five minutes.” A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Yesterday I asked if you wanted Chinese or pizza, and you answered, with ‘yeah, mhm’.”

Your smile faded as a lump formed in your throat. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it did a few seconds ago, your skin warming under his gaze. 

“Did something happen?” He asked gently. 

You couldn’t speak. 

“Did I do something to upset you?” John asked again, voice straining like the thought of you being upset with him was enough to make him cry. 

John noticed the way you picked at your fingernails, shoulders curling in like you were trying to hide from the conversation. He'd spent years reading faces for a living. He searched for those tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, and the hesitation before an answer. Those skills didn't disappear when he walked out of the hospital. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t turn them off, especially when it came to you. 

He closed the distance between you until only a step separated you. “You’ve been tossing and turning for days,” he said softly. “And I heard you cried at work the other day.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his. His expression softened at the alarm in your eyes. 

After all these years, it took a lot to rattle you at work. Emergency medicine had taught you how to compartmentalize. You learned to focus on the next task, the next patient, the next decision. If something stayed with you, you carried it home quietly. Maybe it caught up to you during your walk back from the hospital. Maybe in the shower with the water hot enough to drown out your thoughts. Very rarely did you full-on cry before your shift was over. 

A little boy had come back looking for you, no older than seven. Earlier that week, you'd cared for his mother after she'd arrived in a panic. The trauma team worked around her, assessing her wild vitals until she crashed, losing consciousness and eventually wound up intubated. The boy and his sister had been lost in the shuffle until she was stable and the team filed out to get ready for the next case. He'd sat in the consultation room with his six-year-old sister asleep across his lap, one hand over her ear to drown out the noise and his jacket tucked over her eyes carefully. 

You offered to take them to another room to wait for the social worker to contact their dad. He'd simply told you, in a voice far too steady for someone his age, that his dad had asked him to be the man of the house until he came home from helping his mom settle into her new retirement home. You stepped away to start her chart and every few minutes he'd glance toward the hallway, waiting for someone to tell him whether his mom was still alive or if she’d be okay. Eventually, you sat on the little stool and explained every machine attached to his mother before she left for the operating room. What the breathing tube did. Why the monitors beeped. Why everyone had been moving so quickly. You answered every question he asked, no matter how small, never once pretending to know something you didn't. When you admitted you didn't know how long surgery would take, he'd simply nodded and thanked you for being honest. 

Two days later, he'd come back. His father stood beside him, exhausted but smiling when he recognized you. Lupe buzzed him in through the doors with your permission. The little boy had shyly held out a folded piece of construction paper.

"I made this for you."

Inside was a thank-you card. There was a drawing of his family holding hands beneath an enormous sun that took up nearly half the page. Tucked inside was a poem, written in careful, uneven handwriting. He wrote about being strong isn’t being the biggest person in the room, it’s someone who is brave and listens. He told you about how his mom was at home now, safe and sound in bed. By the time you'd looked back up, his father was crying. You hadn't lasted much longer. 

"...Yeah," you murmured now, your voice barely above a whisper.

John reached for your hand again. “You can tell me what’s bugging you, sweetheart.” 

The words burst out before you could lose your nerve. 

"I want a baby, John!"

The sentence came out louder than you'd intended, echoing slightly through the quiet kitchen. John’s eyebrows lifted instantly. 

“You what?” 

"I want a baby," you repeated, your voice cracking this time. Tears blurred your vision almost immediately. "I want a little you or me running around this house."  You laughed through a sniffle, wiping impatiently at your cheeks.  “I want to wake up and make pancakes every morning that just get thrown on the floor. I want to hear a little voice in the backseat begging for a bucket of Munchkins when you get your coffees.” 

“Baby, slow down,” he said, shaking his head like he was trying to catch up.

"I want to be woken up at some ungodly hour because somebody needs a glass of water or had a nightmare, and one of us has to go check the closet for monsters." More tears escaped despite your best efforts. "I-I want my feelings hurt because they decide they like you better than me for a week." 

A watery laugh slipped out. "I want to argue over bedtime and soccer practice and who's picking them up from school. Imagine the fridge covered in drawings and our phones filled with pictures of all of us together." 

Your shoulders sagged. "I just..." You looked at him helplessly. "I want a family with you."

The clock in the living room ticked impossibly loud, practically thundering in your ears for exactly three seconds. John shook his head, a smile forming on his lips. 

“Okay,” he shrugged. 

“Okay?” You blubbered, wiping your cheeks again. 

“If that’s what you want.” He placed his hands on his hips. “You want to start now?” 

"Sometimes," you said, shaking your head through your tears, "I hate how calm you can be." 

John let out a surprised laugh. "What?"

"I've been carrying this around for weeks! I thought you were going to need time to think about it."

His expression softened into something almost disbelieving. "Sweetheart..." He stepped closer, gently cupping your face in both hands. "This is, like, the best thing you could've asked me for."

"It is?" You whimpered as he dragged you into his arms. 

"I thought you were about to tell me you were dying." He gave a breathless laugh. "Or that you hated living here. Or that you wanted a divorce."

"A divorce?" You blubbered. 

"You've been acting like you were carrying around the end of the world."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

"I've been sitting here trying to prepare myself for the worst, and instead..." His grin spread wider. "Instead my wife tells me she wants to have my babies."

Your face immediately flushed. "When you say it like that, it sounds... dirty."

"It sounds fantastic." He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. "I've wanted that too."

You smiled up at him, relishing in the way your bodies fit together. If you played your cards right, tossed out the condoms in the nightstand, and let yourself dream just a little, a year from now, you could be separated only by the curve of a baby bump. 

“So,” he started. “A few minutes ago, I asked what you wanted for dessert and now we have three options. Ice cream from the freezer, and we have bananas so we can split a banana split.” 

You grinned. “Funny.” 

“We could go get cookies from that place around the corner.” A cocky grin formed on his lips. “Or we could have each other for dessert.” 

You stared at him for a beat before dissolving into laughter, slipping out of his arms. "Oh, that was terrible." You pointed toward the refrigerator. "Bring the whipped cream you just bought." 

John followed after you as you disappeared down the hallway. "But you're picking option three, right?" he called, stopping in the kitchen doorway.

You'd already vanished around the corner. A second later, your blouse landed in the hallway, followed by your jeans, tossed just far enough for him to see. “Just bring the whipped cream!” you called. 

A grin split across his face. "Yes, ma'am."

He made a beeline for the refrigerator, yanking the can of whipped cream from the top shelf. In his enthusiasm, he clipped a stack of plastic containers, sending them wobbling before they crashed onto the floor with a clatter. John glanced down at the mess before picking them up and throwing them back into the fridge and closing the doors before they could come tumbling back out. 

"...Tomorrow's problem,” he murmured to himself, grabbing both of your phones. 

He gave the can a quick shake, sprayed a generous swirl into his mouth, and hurried after the trail of discarded clothes. 

The bedroom door stood open. Still swallowing the whipped cream, he froze at the sight of your bare legs stretched across the mattress. Your bra had been tossed to the floor already and your underwear was looped around an ankle. He stepped in, his cheeks flushing at the sight of you entirely bare, drawing circles over your chest. 

“Thought we could eat it off each other,” you whispered seductively. “Then rinse off in the shower together?” 

After a fit of coughing over another dollop of whipped cream, he walked around the bed and looked at you with a crooked grin. He giggled as he drew a line across your chest, making you squirm at the coldness. 

At eight years old, she has lots of opinions. It had started that morning when she woke up and decided she did not want to brush her teeth (which you of course had to convince her to do), she’d been upset to find that Jack was working and could not ride bikes with her (as they liked to do on Saturday mornings he had off work), and then suddenly decided that she absolutely would not be getting her Flu vaccine you had already scheduled her for at your local pharmacy today.

It isn’t often you give in to your daughter's outlandish whims, but you also know that aversions to needles is something that can become worse the older a person gets. You dealt with parents fainting over their child getting a small shot in the arm enough to know that you did not want your daughter to one day fear needles that much. So that’s why you made her a deal.

Get your vaccine from mom at work and maybe you can see Jack.

She’d been all for it, of course. From the day you’d introduced her and Jack seven years ago, she and him had been attached at the hip. It’s why you know that bribing her with the thought of his attention is a sure fire way to get her on board. 

“Can we go see Jack now?” she asks the minute you step on the chaotic emergency floor. Even though she didn’t see her biological father often, and had known Jack since she was a baby, she still liked calling him Jack. You and Jack never correct her because you know that kids can have a hard time relinquishing titles like that.

“Have to get your shot first,” you tell her, weaving through doctors and nurses striding by in a frenzied hurry. You’re mostly trying to get off this floor before she sees something traumatizing.

You pass a young woman screaming at the top of her lungs in the psych hold area and you cringe, angling your daughter’s curious gaze away.

Entering through this floor had not been your first idea. Pedes was a few floors up, and not nearly as chaotic as the emergency floor. It also tended to not have nearly as much blood or gore. It had just about the same level of loudness, though—especially when babies are concerned.

“Is that my favorite pedes doctor coming in on her day off again?” 

You flinch and turn your head just as you and your daughter have just about made it to the elevators. Since Jack’s been working more day shifts recently (to get better aligned with you and your daughter’s schedules, bless him), a whole new cast of characters has been taking up residence in his stories.

This one you recognize immediately, though. 

“Dana,” you say with a short laugh, reaching out to give her a quick sidearm hug, the other still holding your daughter’s hand captive in your own.

She returns it softly, grinning at you with that warm, toothy smile.

“Hey hon.” She releases you after a quick pat on the back, eyes glittering. She looks down at your daughter and bends on her knees. “And here’s the one we’ve all heard so much about from Jack.”

You adjust your hand to rest between your daughter’s shoulder blades, gently nudging her forward. She’s dressed in a bedazzled rainbow dash t-shirt (the best My Little Pony, in her opinion) and a tulle skirt, and several butterfly clips in her hair. She’s been picking out her own outfits recently, but luckily they were still pretty cute.

She looks back at you nervously, but offers Dana a smile when she turns her head back. She gives the older woman a small wave.

“We didn’t want to have to spend the day at work,” you say to her, “but someone is a little hesitant to get her flu shot, so I thought I’d just bring her in and do it here.”

Dana shoots you a knowing look. “Well, let me know if I can help you guys at all.”—she turns to your daughter then, a smile on her painted lips—“Maybe if it all goes well, you can come see me for some stickers afterward?”

Your daughter grins, looking back at you. “Can we go do it now?”

You laugh at her sudden enthusiasm, turning to Dana. “You should come join us on the pediatric floor.”

“No thank you,” she says, shaking her head, “if I had to hear babies crying all day I’d lose my mind. Those days are over for me.”

“You have the touch!” you tell her over your shoulder as you weave into the elevator with your daughter in tow. 

“I have bribes.” Dana’s laugh follows you as the doors begin to slide shut. “Not the same thing.”

You continue to smile even as the doors slide shut and the familiar weightless feeling takes hold as the elevator moves. Your daughter slides her hand from yours and you quickly check your phone for any notifications. The last text you received was at 7am this morning—Jack sneaking out but not without telling you he loves you over text and that he’d made breakfast.

You bite your lip as you relive the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the simple phrase. 

That is what is so rare, so special about Jack. He loves you unconditionally. Your last boyfriend, your daughter’s father, had practically skipped town when he found out you were pregnant. As far as you were concerned, he was just a sperm donor.

Luckily, you had met Jack about six months into your pregnancy. Somehow in that brief period when you spoke infrequently in between night shift consultations, you being single had come up in conversation and he made his move. 

Two years later, he was the one doing puzzles with your daughter and drawing with crayons at the kitchen table. Later, he was the one teaching her how to ride a bicycle and tie her shoes. When you and Jack got married four years ago, your daughter had beamed ear-to-ear during the entire reception—and had run up to give her new step-dad a huge hug that resulted in many resounding “awws” in the audience.

Your daughter knew no other male parental figure except Jack, not really. Your ex visited on holidays, often with some kind of lazy $20 Target gift card and a Hallmark card. There’s some kind of the mysticism that comes when you’re a kid that’s visited by an absent parent once in a blue moon that keeps them haunting the back of your mind like an apparition, always.

She doesn’t know him like you do, and she only sees him twice a year, so she doesn’t have a fully-realized image of what he is or what kind of person he could be. She gives him graces that she wouldn’t afford anyone else in her life that are constants because of that mysticism and childhood naïveté. You don’t blame her—can’t. You do blame your ex, but there’s really not anything you can do about that either—except demand child support and remind him with texts of her birthday coming up every year.

You reach over to squeeze her shoulder affectionately and she looks up at you, giving a small smile.

“It will be over in no time, I promise.” You let go of her shoulder just as the elevator dings and the doors slide open to the, thankfully, much quieter pediatrics floor.

In the distance, you hear a baby crying that is quickly soothed by their mother’s voice. You glance down at your daughter as she steps into the floor behind you and your heart pangs.

Her eyes are wide, taking in every person that walks by with scrutiny, and she tries to hide the slight tremble to her hands. 

You bend your knee, putting on your trained pediatrics smile. Her eyes dart to yours, a plea on her lips. “It will be over so quickly. I promise. And then we will see Mrs. Dana and she will give us stickers and we can go see Jack and give him a hug.”

She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable, still, but she nods and follows you as you lead her to the circle of desks near the center of the room. It’s a very similar setup to the emergency floor, except the rooms are less windowed for privacy and the walls are painted in a soothing nature scene for the kids to enjoy.

You find one of the pediatrics nurses, a friend of yours, and you ask him for some assistance. You set your daughter down in one of the stools at the front.

“Okay, this is mom’s friend Henry, and he’s going to help us with your flu shot. Is that okay?”

Your daughter looks over at the mid-twenty year old man standing across from her, hands clenched into little fists in her lap. She nods, then starts pulling at one of the strings in her rainbow skirt.

You look over at Henry, who begins prepping the shot. Your daughter stares at you with a tremulous chin, eyes beading with tears.

As Henry begins to wipe her upper arm with a sterile pad, she flinches and turns away, hiding her upper body from sight.

“I want Jack,” she says softly, “can Jack do it? I promise I will if he comes.”

You sigh and turn to Henry, who shrugs. You look down at your phone and raise a brow when it vibrates in your hand, as if beckoned.

Jack<3: how did little one’s shot go today? i’m on lunch

“Stay here with Henry for a minute, okay, honey? I'm going to go make a phone call.” Your daughter nods, but gives Henry a skeptical side eye as he continues to stand in front of her.

You back far enough away that your daughter can’t hear and press on Jack’s contact info to call him.

It only has to ring once before you hear his voice on the other side.

“You okay? Need me to head out?” 

Your stomach flutters at the concern in his voice, even though you think it might be a little sadistic to feel that. Maybe it’s just that every day, in little moments, you’re reminded how much you and your daughter mean to him.

“If I were to tell you I’m in pediatrics right now, with little Miss-Afraid-of-Needles near-hyperventilating at just the thought of getting her flu shot, what would you do?”

“I thought you guys had an appointment for that?” You can hear shuffling on the other end and the sound of someone asking him a question, which he replies in a muffled voice you can’t make out. 

“Well, I made a mistake,” you tell him, “I let her decide where we go to get the shot. I also promised she would see you after and that Dana would give her stickers. And she’s still upset about it all.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, you know that?” 

You snort a laugh through your nose. “Like you’re any better? Don’t think I didn’t see the smiley face you made her out of chocolate chips on her pancakes this morning.”

“It’s our Saturday tradition, honey. You know that.”

“I know, I know,” you laugh again, “just don’t try to lecture me about being too soft on her when I can literally hear you running to catch the elevator right now.”

He chuckles, then quietens.

“—I think the elevator’s about to arrive. I’ll see you in a minute?”

You nod, then you realize he can’t see you. “I love you. Thank you for making the time.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies. “For you? Always.”

The call cuts just as you hear the elevator doors ding on the other side of the call. You turn around to look at your daughter, only to find her putting stickers all over poor Nurse Henry’s arm. You grin at her enthusiasm, striding over.

“You getting Nurse Henry looking pretty over here?”

Your daughter clams up as if she’s expecting you to be angry at her sudden 180 in emotion. You know kids, though, and you know that her fear was real and that just because she’s been distracted doesn’t mean she was faking it before. You squat down to her level, gently stroking her hair.

“Jack’s coming up now to give you your shot.”

Your daughter beams, but after a moment shrivels in on herself, her lip trembling. 

You give her a kiss on the cheek. You pull back, forcing her to look at your eyes with a hand on her chin. “It will be okay. I promise.”

As if on cue, the elevator doors open and Jack comes striding in. He looks around for just a few seconds before his eyes land on where you stand across the room. He beams and quickly strides over.

Henry steps back as Jack takes his spot.

“Hey, bug,” he says to her. He pokes her arm and she lets out a soft laugh, turning away. “I hear you’re a little scared of your shot?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It hurts. And I can’t sleep on my arm at night when I get them.”

“Well,” Jack says, snapping on a pair of gloves from nearby, “sometimes life is about doing things that might make us hurt for a day or two so we don’t get really hurt later.”

“But I’ve never had the flu before,” she says, furrowing her brows.

“Do you remember what I told you about our bodies? That we have fighters inside of us that are usually really good at keeping viruses like the flu from making us sick?” She nods, so he continues. “Well, this shot”—he picks up the needle to show her—“has a code in it that those little fighters can learn, so that when you do get the flu, you might not get sick at all, because now they know what they’re fighting.”

Your daughter nods very seriously. “So my fighters are like Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash learning more about Nightmare Moon so they can stop her from taking over the world next time she shows up?”

You notice from the corner of your eye Henry biting his lip to smother his laughter. Meanwhile, you’re actually pretty impressed by her comparison to her favorite show. You also think in the same train of thought that maybe she needed less screen time.

“Yep, exactly,” Jack agrees enthusiastically. “And this shot is like the Elements of Harmony coming to change Nightmare Moon back into Princess Luna.”

Now you’re the one holding back your laughter. You look over at Jack, impressed by his knowledge. He shoots you a sly wink as if to say ‘I know more than I’m letting on.’

Your daughter squares her shoulders and nods. “Okay,” she says, “do it. I’m ready.”

Jack smiles and grabs the sterile swab to rewipe her upper arm. She flinches at the cold liquid and you walk over to stand in front of her.

“Just look at me,” you tell her softly, “it will be over before you know it.”

She follows your direction obediently as Jack lines up the shot with her arm. As the needle enters, your daughter winces and tenses, but keeps her eyes on you all the while. Jack pushes the liquid in then removes the needle. He puts on a colorful bandaid to the wound.

“All done,” you say with a grin, “you did so good.”

She bashfully drops her eyes. “It barely even hurt.”

Jack stands, removing the gloves with a small, affectionate smile pulling at his lips.

She stands up from her stool. You think she’s going to move toward you when she surprises you by turning to hug Jack around his waist. Jack tilts his head toward her, surprised.

“Thanks, dad,” she says into his back. “You’re the best.”

She continues to bury her head into his scrubs, and Jack pats her head as he meets your shocked gaze. You think your mouth must be hanging open, but you can’t help it.

She pulls away and looks up at him. She frowns. “Why are you crying, dad?”

Jack wraps her in a gentle side hug, wiping away the small tears that had leaked out. “Nothing, bug. Just happy.”

Your daughter lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She begins to move away from the two of you quickly. “Okay, well stop crying and come pick out stickers with me.”

You snort at her drill-sergeant order and look over at Jack, who continues to grin and shake his head. You reach over to loop an arm around his waist, planting a kiss to his cheek.

“You earned it,” you whisper, “only a dad knows that many My Little Pony references.”

Jack lets out a laugh, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a full kiss.

The moment is broken when your daughter lets out a loud groan from across the room. “Come onnnn, gosh you guys are so gross!”

You laugh and pull away. You sweep your hand toward your daughter with a sarcastic grin. “C'mon, Jack. Fatherhood awaits.”

The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction. 

“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.

The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth. 

“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed. 

“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”

“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else. 

“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming. 

“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit. 

Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out. 

“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason. 

Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right. 

“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”

“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am.  “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s. 

Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.

Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly. 

“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”

“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”

He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”

“You’re evil.” He commented dryly. 

“It’s why you married me.” You grinned. 

He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him. 

But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide. 

“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later. 

“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you. 

Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed). 

As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie. 

“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later. 

“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”

“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”

“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“I love you, honey.”

You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car. 

“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that. 

He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.” 

He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them. 

“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years. 

“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.

“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look. 

He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact. 

Robby is a man inlove. 

“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long. 

Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.

1995.

Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients. 

The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology. 

He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs. 

You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes. 

The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job. 

“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”

“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.

“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”

“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”

“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated. 

You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to. 

You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.

“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe. 

“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.

Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar. 

Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”

The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost. 

Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this. 

“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy. 

“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge. 

“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”

“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines. 

“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to. 

“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused. 

“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention. 

The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with. 

“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”

“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile. 

That smile? That nearly stopped his heart. 

“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune. 

“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.

“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain. 

“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that. 

“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck. 

Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.

As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever. 

“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”

“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”

“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert. 

“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling. 

“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return. 

He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all. 

The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered. 

You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of. 

You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless. 

“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”

He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone. 

“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you. 

“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”

“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before. 

Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes. 

You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you. 

With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him. 

Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends. 

“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”

His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said. 

“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest. 

“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart. 

“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”

“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly  “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”

“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways. 

“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”

“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them. 

“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest. 

You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly. 

“Still want my number?”

Present. 

“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words. 

Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents. 

“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship. 

“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too. 

“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.

Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.  

Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out Husband <3: deal

“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!” 

He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.

You stood with your arms crossed tight over your chest, suitcase already zipped and waiting by the front door like a silent accusation. Your husband sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he could will the conversation away.

“I’m asking you to come with me,” you said, voice low but shaking at the edges. “It’s my ten year reunion. I haven’t been back to Hawkins since before we got married. My parents are gone, the house is sold… this is the closest thing I have to going home. And you won’t even consider it.”

He let out a short, tired breath and finally looked up at you. “We’ve been over this. Someone has to stay with Lily. She’s two. She’s not getting on a plane for some nostalgia trip, and I’m not leaving her with your rando friends just so you can drink cheap beer with people you haven’t seen since high school while I just stand there with my dick in my hand.”

“That’s not fair,” you shot back. The words came out sharper than you meant. “I know the perfect baby sitters in Hawkins. And it’s not ‘some nostalgia trip.’ It’s… it’s important to me. I thought maybe we could use the time away. Together. Without work and diapers and everything else that’s been-” You stopped yourself before the rest of it spilled out. The distance. The way he barely touched you anymore. The way he looked at you sometimes like you were already halfway gone.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m watching our daughter. That’s me being a father. You get to fly back to Indiana and play ‘remember when’ with your old friends while I handle everything here. That’s the deal.”

You felt the sting behind your eyes but refused to let it show. “I’m not asking you to handle everything. I’m asking you to show up for me. For once. Just… be there. In the place where I grew up. See the town. Meet the people I used to know before everything got so- ” You gestured helplessly between the two of you. “So heavy.”

He stood up then, and the movement made the space between you feel even wider. “I don’t want to go back there with you. I don’t want to stand around while you catch up with people who knew you before me. Before us. Before Lily. I’m staying here. With our kid. You want to go relive your glory days in Hawkins? Fine. Go. But don’t act like I’m the asshole for not dropping everything to watch you do it.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You could hear the faint static of the baby monitor, the soft sound of your daughter shifting in her crib upstairs. Your throat felt tight.

“I’m not trying to relive anything,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t want to go back there alone.”

Your husband looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face- guilt, maybe, or resentment, or just exhaustion. Then he shook his head.

“You won’t be alone. You’ll be with all your old classmates. I’m sure someone there will be happy to see you.”

He turned and headed for the stairs without another word, leaving you standing in the living room with your packed suitcase and the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on your chest.

You didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning, you kissed your daughter’s soft hair while she was still half asleep in her bed, murmured a quiet goodbye, and drove yourself to the airport. Your husband didn’t offer to take you. You didn’t ask.

By the time your plane touched down in Indianapolis and you rented the car for the drive into Hawkins, the argument was still sitting heavy in your stomach like something you couldn’t digest. The town looked smaller than you remembered. Quieter. The same water tower still loomed over everything, the same roads winding through neighborhoods that hadn’t changed much in a decade.

You checked into the hotel near the old high school- the one they’d booked for reunion weekend- and stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long time before you even unpacked.

You were home.

The flood of texts had started the second your plane landed.

Robin: are you alive? you here yet?

Nancy: ignore her. are you okay? how was the flight?

You: i’m here. hotel is weirdly the same. i can't wait to see both of you. <3

It went on like that for hours- little bursts of catching up between your drive into town and checking into your room and finally unpacking. They knew about the fight with your husband. You hadn’t given them every ugly detail, but they knew enough. Robin had sent a string of increasingly unhinged voice notes calling him a “spineless domestic terrorist” while Nancy’s replies were quieter, more careful- you don’t have to pretend you’re fine. we’ve got you.

So when they suggested meeting for drinks the night before the reunion, you didn’t hesitate.

The bar was one of the few places in Hawkins that had actually changed in ten years- new owners, string lights strung across the ceiling, a decent whiskey list, and a jukebox that still played too much Journey. You got there first, claimed a high-top table near the back, and ordered a round before they even walked in.

Robin spotted you first.

She let out a sound that was half-scream, half-laugh and launched herself across the bar, nearly knocking over a chair in the process. Her arms wrapped around you so tight you could smell her familiar vanilla and lavender shampoo. Nancy followed a second later, more reserved but no less warm, pulling you into a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and the same laundry detergent she’d used since high school.

“Look at you,” Robin said, pulling back to hold you at arm’s length, eyes bright. “Still stupidly pretty. Unfair.”

Nancy smiled, softer. “It’s really good to see you.”

You laughed, the sound surprising you. It had been too long since you’d made that sound without forcing it.

The three of you fell into it immediately- easy, loud, overlapping. Robin ordered shots “for old times’ sake” even though none of you were twenty anymore. Nancy rolled her eyes but didn’t stop her. You talked about everything and nothing- Robin’s job at the record store in Chicago and how Steve still couldn’t cook to save his life even though they shared a whole house “platonically, obviously, but like… we’re basically married without the benefits.” Nancy told you about Boston, the tiny apartment she loved, the way the winters still tried to kill her every year. You listened more than you spoke at first, soaking it in, the warmth of their voices wrapping around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

But the argument still sat there, low in your chest. Every time your phone lit up on the table you felt your stomach tighten, hoping it was him… and then feeling something heavier when it wasn’t. You didn’t tell them everything. Just enough. That things had been bad for a while. That he’d refused to come. That you’d left with barely a kiss on your daughter’s head and a cold “have fun” from the doorway.

Robin reached across the table and squeezed your hand when you got quiet.

“Hey. You’re allowed to be here and have fun and still be pissed at him. Both things can be true.”

Nancy nodded, eyes steady. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself with us. Just…let it fall off your shoulders for a little while.”

You were mid laugh at something Robin said about Steve’s latest dating disaster when it happened.

The door opened. Cold air rushed in for a second, carrying the faint smell of rain that had started outside. And then you saw him.

Eddie Munson.

He was older, of course- shoulders broader under a worn leather jacket, hair still long but pulled back in a messy half bun at the nape of his neck, a few silver threads catching the low light. The same tattoos you remembered crept up from the collar of his black henley, and new ones peeked from under rolled sleeves. He had a faint scar through one eyebrow now. He looked like someone who had lived hard and come out the other side still standing, still him.

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was talking to the bartender, that same crooked half-smile on his face as he ordered, one hand tapping restlessly against the wood like he still couldn’t quite stand still.

Your breath caught.

Robin followed your gaze and went very still for half a second before a slow, knowing grin spread across her face.

“Well, well,” she murmured, low enough that only you and Nancy could hear. “Look who’s still got the same effect after all these years.”

Nancy’s eyes flicked between you and Eddie, something gentle and a little sad in her expression. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

You couldn’t move.

Your fingers stayed locked around the glass in front of you, heart suddenly hammering so hard you were sure Robin and Nancy could hear it over the low music. The argument with your husband was still sitting like a stone in your chest, but right now it felt distant, muffled, like someone had turned the volume down on everything except the man at the bar. Eddie Munson standing twenty feet away like a ghost from the life you left behind…

Robin didn’t even hesitate.

“Munson!” she shouted across the bar, loud and bright and completely unselfconscious. “Get your dramatic ass over here before I come drag you by that stupid jacket!”

Eddie’s head turned at the sound of her voice.

His eyes swept the table- lazy at first, like he was just clocking old friends- then they landed on you.

Everything in him went still for half a second.

You watched it happen in real time- the way his mouth parted just slightly, the way his dark eyes widened before he caught himself and that familiar crooked smirk slid back into place like armor. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not all the way.

He said something quick to the bartender, grabbed his drink, and started toward your table.

Robin was already grinning like she’d won the lottery. Nancy just watched quietly, one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth soft.

“Well, shit,” Eddie said as he reached the table, voice low and rough around the edges in that way you remembered too well. “If it isn’t the entire Hawkins class of ‘lost causes.’ Except you Wheeler.”

Robin stood up and threw her arms around him without warning. He hugged her back one armed, still holding his beer, but his gaze kept flicking past her shoulder to you.

“Look who finally decided to show up to the reunion,” Robin said, pulling back and smacking his chest. “We were starting to think you’d gone full hermit in the woods again.”

“Some of us have jobs, Buckley,” he shot back, but there was no heat in it. His eyes were already on you again. “And some of us apparently decided to grace the old hellhole with their presence after… what, ten years?”

You still couldn’t find your voice at first. Your throat felt tight.

Nancy saved you, standing to give him a quick, genuine hug. “It’s good to see you, Eddie.”

“You too, Wheeler. Boston treating you alright?”

“Better than Hawkins ever did.”

He laughed once, short and warm, then turned back to you.

The air between you felt different. Thicker.

He didn’t hug you right away. Just stood there for a beat too long, looking at you like he was trying to make sure you were real.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. Just for you. “Been a minute.”

You swallowed. “Hey, Eddie.”

Robin dropped back into her seat with a dramatic sigh, already reaching for her drink. “Oh my god, the tension in this bar just went up like six notches. Sit down before you two combust and ruin everyone’s night.”

Eddie huffed a laugh but didn’t look away from you. “Still got no filter, I see.”

“Never did,” Robin said cheerfully. “And you two still do that thing where you stare at each other like the rest of us don’t exist. Some things never change.”

Nancy shot Robin a look- half warning, half amused- but didn’t disagree.

Eddie finally pulled out the empty chair beside you and sat, close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table for half a second before he shifted. The leather of his jacket creaked. He smelled like rain and smoke and something warm you couldn’t name.

“So,” he said, taking a slow sip of his beer, eyes still on you even as he addressed the table. “You’re back for the big reunion, huh? Didn’t think you’d ever come crawling back to this place after you ditched us all for New York.”

The words were teasing, but there was something underneath them. Something that had lived in the space between you for a decade.

Robin leaned forward on her elbows, chin in her hands, grinning. “She didn’t ditch us. She escaped. There’s a difference. And now she’s here, and you’re here, and I’m just saying… the universe is being very obvious right now.”

“Robin,” Nancy said, but she was smiling into her glass.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. Your phone was still in your pocket, silent. No texts from your husband. The anger of the fight was still there, but it was getting harder to even care about it with Eddie sitting this close, looking at you like that.

Eddie’s gaze dropped to your mouth for just a second before he caught himself and looked back up.

“So,” he said again, voice a little rougher. “You gonna tell me what the hell you’ve been up to for ten years, or are we gonna keep pretending this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened in Hawkins since the last time the power went out?”

Robin snorted into her drink.

Nancy just watched the two of you, quiet and knowing.

You finally found your voice.

It came out softer than you meant.

“I… don’t even know where to start.”

Eddie’s smile turned smaller. Realer.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Just… sit here for a minute. Let me look at you.”

Robin made a dramatic gagging noise. Nancy kicked her under the table.

The jukebox switched songs.

And Eddie Munson kept looking at you like no time had passed at all.

You took a sip of your drink to buy yourself a second, then set the glass down and tried to keep your voice light. Casual. Like it was no big deal.

“I moved out to Long Island after college,” you said, glancing at Eddie but not quite meeting his eyes for long. “Got a job, met someone, got married a few years ago. We have a daughter now. She’s two. She’s… she’s really great. Smart. Funny. Keeps us on our toes.”

Eddie didn’t say anything right away. He just watched you, thumb slowly tracing the condensation on his bottle. His face was unreadable, but something in his shoulders had gone still.

Robin made a loud, dramatic noise in the back of her throat.

“Oh my god, stop,” she said, waving a hand at you. “You’re doing that thing where you make it sound all shiny and normal. Tell him the actual truth.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Robin- ”

“No, seriously,” she pushed, turning to Eddie. “Her husband’s a piece of work. She’s been texting me and Nancy for months about how checked out he is. How every time she tries to talk about anything real he either shuts down or makes her feel crazy for wanting more. She flew here alone because he refused to come with her. Said he’d rather stay home with the kid than deal with her ‘high school nostalgia trip.’”

The words landed like a slap.

You felt your face go hot. “Robin, come on. That’s not- he’s not- ” You stumbled over it, trying to reel it back in. “It’s not like that. He’s… he’s a good dad. He stayed with her so I could come here. That’s him being responsible. We’ve just been… stressed. New parents, work, all of it. It’s normal. Every couple goes through rough patches.”

Eddie still hadn’t spoken. He was looking at you now, really looking, and the longer the silence stretched the more it felt like something was cracking open in the middle of your chest.

Nancy spoke gently from across the table. “You don’t have to defend him to us. We’re not judging you.”

“I’m not defending him,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I’m just saying it’s not all bad. My daughter’s happy. She’s loved. And he… he's there for her. That matters.”

Robin scoffed, but softer this time. “Yeah, well, showing up for his kid doesn’t mean he gets to treat you like an afterthought. You deserve more than that and you know it.”

Eddie finally moved.

He lifted his beer, took a slow drink, and set it back down. His jaw was tight. When he spoke, his voice was low, careful, like he was choosing every word.

“Sounds like he’s real supportive,” he said quietly.

There was no sarcasm in it. Just something flat and heavy that sat between you like a third person at the table.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And whatever you saw in his face made your throat go tight.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even teasing. He was just… listening. And every word you’d said about your husband seemed to land somewhere deep in him and stay there, gnawing.

Robin glanced between the two of you and, for once, didn’t fill the silence.

Nancy reached over and rested her hand lightly on your wrist, grounding you.

Eddie’s eyes dropped to where Nancy was touching you, then came back up to your face. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. Just watched you with that same quiet intensity you remembered from years ago, only heavier now. Older.

The jukebox kept playing. Someone laughed too loud at the bar. But at your table, the air had gone thick.

Eddie’s fingers tapped once against the glass. Slow. Deliberate.

Then he spoke again, voice rough around the edges.

“You happy, though?” he asked, direct. No bullshit. “With all of it. The life you got out there.”

The question hung there, waiting.

Robin and Nancy both looked at you.

And Eddie kept his eyes on yours like the answer mattered more than he was willing to say out loud.

You didn’t look away from him when you answered.

“I don’t know anymore,” you said quietly. Honest. The words felt heavier once they were out in the open. “I used to think I was. Or at least… that I would be. But right now?” You shook your head once, small. “I really don’t know.”

Eddie nodded.

Slow. Just once. Like he was taking the words and tucking them somewhere deep, letting them settle. His eyes stayed on yours for another beat before he dropped them to his beer. He didn’t push. Didn’t offer some half-assed “it’ll get better” line. He just absorbed it, jaw tight, thumb still moving in that slow circle against the glass.

Robin, bless her, felt the shift and immediately tried to steer the ship back into safer waters.

“Anyway,” she said, way too brightly, “Steve’s latest disaster is actually impressive, even for him. He tried to make risotto for this girl he’s been seeing and somehow set off the smoke alarm and the sprinklers he insisted we get at the same time. The girl still texted him the next day. I don’t know if that’s romance or brain damage.”

Nancy let out a soft laugh, playing along. “He sent Robin a video of him trying to mop the ceiling. It was… something.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You picked up your drink and took a long pull. Then another. The whiskey burned going down, but it was better than sitting in the quiet that had opened up between you and Eddie. You finished the glass faster than you meant to and flagged the bartender for another without thinking.

Eddie didn’t say anything.

He just watched you.

Quiet. Steady. Every time you lifted the new glass to your lips, his eyes followed the motion. He wasn’t judging. He wasn’t teasing. He was just… there. Taking it in. The same way he’d taken in your answer about not knowing if you were happy. Like every piece of information was landing somewhere it hurt.

Robin kept talking- something about Steve trying to flirt with the lady firefighter when they came to check out the smoke alarm but her voice felt far away. You kept drinking. The edges of the bar started to soften. The knot in your chest didn’t loosen, but it got quieter.

Eventually you set the empty glass down and turned to Eddie.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

The question came out low, a little rough from the whiskey.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded once, pushed his chair back, and stood.

“Yeah,” he said. “C’mon.”

Robin glanced between you but didn’t comment. Nancy gave you a small, knowing look but stayed quiet too.

You followed Eddie through the bar and out the side door into the cool night air. The rain from earlier had stopped, but the pavement was still damp, reflecting the weak glow of the streetlight at the end of the alley. It smelled like wet asphalt and old cigarette butts and nostalgia from the days you would sneak into this very same bar with Eddie.

Eddie pulled a pack from inside his jacket, shook one out, and offered it to you between two fingers. When you took it, his fingertips brushed yours. Neither of you moved away right away.

He lit his own first, then held the flame out for you. The lighter clicked. The small orange glow lit up the sharp line of his jaw and the tired, thoughtful look in his eyes as he watched you lean in to catch the flame.

You both exhaled into the quiet.

For a minute, neither of you spoke.

Eddie leaned back against the brick wall, one boot propped up, smoke curling lazy from between his lips. He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking out at the empty street like he was giving you space. But every few seconds his gaze would flick back to you anyway- quick, like he couldn’t help it.

The old tension was still there. Thicker now. Weighted down by everything you’d just admitted inside.

He took another drag, exhaled slow.

Then, voice low and rough in the dark-

“You really don’t know if you’re happy?”

It wasn’t pushy. Just… there. Honest. The same way you’d been honest with him.

The cigarette burned between your fingers. The night air was cool against your flushed skin. And Eddie Munson stood two feet away, watching you like he’d been waiting ten years to hear what you were going to say next.

You took another drag off the cigarette, the smoke burning your throat on the way down. The whiskey was still warm in your veins, loosening things that had been locked up tight for years. Eddie’s question hung between you in the damp night air.

You thought you could keep it surface level. You really did.

“I thought I was happy when I first met him,” you said, voice low. “After everything with… the guy before him. Guy was a piece of work.  A controlling, angry child in a grown man's body. Liked video games more than me. Never gave a shit about my anxiety. Just fucking awful. I just wanted to feel safe. Wanted someone to actually want me, you know? And he did. At first. He made me feel like I was enough.”

Eddie stayed quiet, listening. The cherry of his cigarette glowed as he took a slow pull, eyes never leaving your face.

You kept going, the words tumbling out faster now, like once you started you couldn’t stop.

“Then he cheated. Barely even a month in. I found the texts. Got the “hey girl” text from another girl a month or so later. And I stayed. Because I thought I loved him. Because I was scared of being alone again after everything I’d just run from.” You laughed once, bitter and small. “He asked me to marry him seven months after we started dating. I said yes. We got married during COVID. Courthouse. Masked up. He told me straight to my face that he was only doing it for me. That he didn’t believe in marriage. Didn’t want it. But he’d do it because it mattered to me.”

Your voice cracked a little on the last part. You took another quick drag, trying to steady yourself.

Eddie still didn’t interrupt. Just nodded once, slow, the way he had inside. His jaw was tight. The concern in his eyes was quiet but heavy.

You kept talking. The alcohol and the old ache and the way he was looking at you made the filter disappear.

“And then I got pregnant. And the hormones… I went a little crazy. Cried all the time. Couldn’t sleep. Panic attacks at all hours. Picked fights over nothing because I was terrified and my body didn’t feel like mine anymore. One night I was spiraling and I didn't feel like anything was real anymore, that my daughter wasn't real, and he- ” Your voice caught. You hadn’t meant to say it. The words slipped out anyway, raw and ugly. “He told me if I didn’t calm the fuck down he was going to kill me. Said it like he meant it. Like he was tired of dealing with me.”

The silence after that was deafening.

You immediately regretted it. Your stomach twisted. You stared down at the wet pavement, cigarette trembling between your fingers.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Eddie exhaled slowly through his nose. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, and careful in a way that made your chest ache.

“That’s not ‘going a little crazy,’” he said. “That’s him using your vulnerability against you. Hormones or not, nobody gets to threaten to kill their pregnant partner and call it frustration. That’s not love. That’s control.”

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, eyes dark and focused on you.

“You stayed after he cheated. You said yes to a marriage he admitted he didn’t even want. You carried his kid while he made you feel like you were the problem for having normal fears.” He shook his head once, slow. “That’s a pattern, sweetheart. And it started long before the pregnancy.”

The old nickname slipped out without him thinking. It hit you square in the chest.

Eddie stepped a little closer, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him in the cool night. His voice dropped even lower, concerned in a way that felt too intimate after ten years.

“Are you safe now?” he asked. Direct. No bullshit. “With him. With the kid. When you go back home… is that something you’re actually worried about?”

He searched your face like he was trying to read every answer you weren’t saying out loud. The charged silence stretched between you again, thick with everything unsaid- old feelings, new fear, the version of your life you’d built and the one you’d left behind in this town.

Eddie took one last drag, then crushed the cigarette under his boot. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but was forcing himself not to.

“You don’t have to answer that right now,” he said quietly. “But I need you to know I heard you. All of it. And none of that shit was your fault.”

The night air felt heavier. The bar door was only twenty feet away, but it might as well have been another world.

Eddie stayed right there with you, watching, waiting, the concern in his eyes so raw it almost hurt to look at.

The cigarette between your fingers had burned down to the filter, but you didn’t drop it. You just stood there in the damp alley, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your arms, and kept talking. The whiskey had stripped away whatever walls you usually kept up. Eddie’s quiet, steady presence made it impossible to stop.

“I haven’t felt loved by him in a long time,” you said, voice low and rough. “Like… actually loved. Not just tolerated or needed for the kid or the house. I can’t remember the last time he looked at me like he actually wanted me there. It’s just… routine. Or anger. He’s so angry all the time now. I never know which version of him I’m going to get when I walk through the door. Some days he’s fine. Other days he’s snapping at everything I do. I walk on eggshells in my own house.”

Eddie stayed silent, but you saw the way his jaw tightened. His eyes never left your face.

You kept going, the words spilling out faster, messier.

“I know he still messages other girls on Snapchat. I’ve seen the notifications. Sometimes they don’t even message him back and he still tries. I don’t even know if he’s physically cheating again or if it’s just… the attention. But it doesn’t matter. It still feels like betrayal every single time.” Your voice cracked. “And I’m so resentful. God, I’m so fucking resentful. But I stay. Because I keep telling myself we need to be a family. For her. She’s only two. I don’t want her to grow up in a broken home. I’ve known him almost ten years now. Ten years. My parents are dead. My new friends feel fake. The idea of starting over… of not knowing what comes next… it terrifies me.”

You finally dropped the dead cigarette and rubbed your hands over your face, laughing once without any humor.

“But I still want it,” you admitted, quieter now. “The love. The kind I know I deserve. Deep down I know I do. I just… I don’t know how to get there without blowing up everything I’ve built. Even if it’s already falling apart.”

The silence that followed felt electric.

Eddie exhaled slowly, the sound shaky at the edges. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough with concern, every word careful but honest.

“That’s not a family you’re protecting,” he said. “That’s a cage you’re staying in because you’re scared of what’s on the other side of the door. And I get it. Ten years is a long time to invest in someone. Walking away from that feels like losing everything. But what you just described?” He shook his head once, eyes dark and serious. “That’s not love. That’s survival. And you’ve been doing it alone for a long time.”

He took a small step closer. Not touching. Just closer. The space between you felt charged, heavy with everything that had been left unsaid for a decade.

“You stayed after he cheated the first time because you wanted to feel loved,” he continued, voice softer but no less intense. “You said yes to a marriage he didn’t even want. You carried his kid while he threatened you. And now you’re still there, knowing he’s reaching out to other women, knowing he’s angry and unpredictable, and you’re telling yourself it’s for her.” He looked at you steadily. “That resentment you feel? That’s your gut trying to tell you something. And the fact that you’re scared of the unknown? That makes sense. But staying in something that’s already hurting you… that’s not protecting your daughter. That’s teaching her what love is not supposed to look like.”

Eddie’s hands flexed at his sides again, like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

“You deserve more than ‘I don’t know who I’m going to get today,’” he said quietly. “You deserve someone who makes you feel safe. Wanted. Loved without conditions. And I know that’s scary as hell to reach for after everything you’ve been through. But pretending you don’t want it? That’s not going to make the ache go away.”

He searched your face in the low light from the streetlamp, his expression open in a way that made your chest hurt.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” he added, voice rough. “But I need you to know I heard every word. And none of this is on you. You didn’t make him cheat. You didn’t make him angry. You didn’t make him threaten you. That’s all him.”

The night air felt thicker now. The bar door was still right there, but neither of you moved toward it.

Eddie’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before he caught himself and looked back up, the old tension between you crackling underneath all the heavy truth you’d just laid at his feet.

He waited, giving you space, but the concern in his face was so raw it almost hurt to look at.

You were still standing in the damp alley, the weight of everything you’d just said hanging between you and Eddie like smoke that wouldn’t clear, when the side door cracked open.

Nancy’s face appeared, soft with concern.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You okay out here? Robin’s about to order another round and I told her to wait but she’s getting restless.”

You felt Eddie’s eyes on you- steady, heavy, still carrying every raw thing you’d told him. For a split second you wanted to stay out here with him. To keep talking. To let the mask stay off.

Instead you plastered on the brightest, fakest smile you could manage and waved her off like nothing was wrong.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just needed some air. I’ll be right in.”

Nancy studied you for a beat longer than you liked, but she nodded and let the door close again.

The second it clicked shut, the smile dropped from your face like it had never been there.

Eddie was still watching you. His expression hadn’t changed-  that same quiet, concerned intensity from earlier- but there was something else underneath it now. Something tighter. Like he hated watching you put the mask back on.

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket without thinking.

“Give me your number,” you said quietly. “In case… I don’t know. In case I need to talk or something.”

He didn’t hesitate. He took your phone, typed his number in, and sent himself a text so he had yours too. When he handed it back, his fingers brushed yours and stayed there a second longer than necessary.

“Use it,” he said, voice low. “Anytime. I mean that.”

You nodded, throat tight, and slipped the phone back into your pocket.

Neither of you said anything else as you walked back inside.

The bar felt too bright after the dark alley. Too loud. Robin was already waving you over with a fresh drink in her hand, grinning like she hadn’t noticed anything was off. You slipped right back into fake-cheery-you without missing a beat- laughing at her stories about Steve, teasing Nancy about her latest dating app disasters, ordering another round like your hands weren’t still shaking from everything you’d admitted outside.

But you could feel Eddie watching you the entire time.

He didn’t say much once you were all back at the table. Just sat there nursing his beer, eyes tracking you every time you laughed too loud or smiled too wide. Every time your phone lit up and you glanced at it (it was never your husband). Every time your voice got a little too bright to be real. He didn’t call you on it. He just watched. Quiet. Concerned. Charged.

Robin and Nancy eventually called it a night around one. You hugged them both tight in the parking lot, promised to see them at the reunion tomorrow, and watched them drive off. Eddie walked you to your rental car without being asked.

“Text me when you get to the hotel,” he said simply. Not a request. A quiet demand wrapped in concern.

You nodded.

The drive back was a blur. The fake cheer drained out of you the second you were alone, leaving nothing but exhaustion and the heavy ache of everything you’d told him. By the time you pulled into the hotel parking lot and dragged your suitcase up to the second floor, you just wanted to collapse.

You found your room, swiped the key card, and pushed the door open.

That’s when you saw him.

Eddie was across the hall.

His door was open. He was leaning against the frame like he’d been waiting, leather jacket still on, hair a little messy from the night. When he saw you, something flickered across his face- relief, maybe, or that same concerned intensity from the alley.

Your room was directly across from his.

The hallway suddenly felt too small.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you from his doorway, eyes dark and unreadable in the low hotel lighting. The air between the two rooms felt thick with everything that had happened tonight- every secret you’d spilled, every way he’d looked at you since the second he walked into that bar.

You stood there with your suitcase in one hand and your key card in the other, the fake smile long gone.

Eddie’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“Night’s not over yet if you don’t want it to be.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just waited, giving you the choice, the same way he had outside.

You stood in the hallway for a long moment, suitcase handle still in your hand, key card biting into your palm.

Part of you wanted to say yes. To let him come into your room. To keep talking- or not talking- just so you didn’t have to sit alone with everything you’d spilled tonight. The weight of it was still sitting heavy in your chest, and Eddie’s quiet, steady presence had been the only thing keeping it from crushing you completely.

But the rational part of you- the part that had been surviving on autopilot for years- won.

“I should sleep,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Big day tomorrow. Reunion and all.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He just nodded once, slow, like he understood exactly why you were pulling back even if he didn’t like it. His eyes lingered on you for another beat.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Get some rest.”

You both turned at the same time. You swiped into your room. He stepped into his. The doors clicked shut almost in unison.

The second you were alone, your mind started spiraling.

You dropped your suitcase by the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, the only light coming from the cracked bathroom door. Every word you’d said outside replayed on a loop- the cheating, the quick marriage, the threat during your pregnancy, the Snapchat messages, the resentment, the fear of the unknown. You could still see the way Eddie’s face had changed with each new piece of information. The concern. The anger on your behalf that he hadn’t voiced out loud but you’d felt anyway.

Your husband hadn’t texted once all night.

You were still sitting there, staring at the carpet, when your phone vibrated on the nightstand.

Eddie: can’t sleep

You stared at the message for a long time before typing back.

You: me either

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Eddie: figured as much. after everything you told me tonight, I’d be shocked if you could.

You swallowed hard. Your thumbs hovered over the screen.

You: yeah. brain won’t shut up.

Eddie: want to talk about it? or want me to distract you with stupid shit?

You let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. The offer to distract you felt like a lifeline.

You: distract me. please.

Eddie: done. soooo what have you been up to besides the obvious? you said you moved to Long Island after college. what do you do out there?

You hesitated, then typed.

You: marketing. for a small firm. it’s fine. pays the bills. what about you? last I heard you were still in Hawkins doing… music stuff?

Eddie: still am. i run a little recording studio now. mostly local bands, some podcasts, the occasional audiobook narrator who doesn’t know how to use a mic. it’s not glamorous but it’s mine. i like it.

You: that actually sounds really cool. you always did have a way with sound.

Eddie: and you always had a way with words. guess some things don’t change.

The conversation stayed light on the surface for a while. He told you about how Wayne was doing, about how Robin and Steve still came to visit a couple times a year and drove him insane in the best way. You told him about the  beaches you sometimes walked when you needed to clear your head, about how your daughter loved the water even though she was only two.

But underneath every text was the weight of what he now knew.

Every time there was a longer pause between replies, you could feel it- both of you thinking about the alley, about the things you couldn’t unsay now that they were out in the open.

Your phone buzzed again.

Eddie: you still there?

You: yeah. just thinking.

Eddie: About tonight?

You didn’t answer right away.

Eddie: It’s okay if you are. I am too.

You stared at the screen, heart beating too hard in the quiet hotel room. Across the hall, Eddie was lying in his own bed, unable to sleep for the same reasons you couldn’t.

The reunion was tomorrow.

And neither of you were anywhere close to resting.

You must have fallen asleep with your phone still in your hand.

The last thing you remembered was typing out a half formed reply to Eddie about some ridiculous band he’d worked with last year. The texts had slowed down, both of you clearly exhausted but neither wanting to be the one to say goodnight. At some point your eyes had slipped shut mid-sentence.

When you woke up, the morning light was already cutting through the thin hotel curtains. Your phone was face-down on the pillow beside you.

Two notifications.

The first one made your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready for.

Eddie: fell asleep on me, huh? that’s okay. get some rest. im right across the hall if you need anything today. you’ve got this. text me when you’re up.

The second one made your stomach twist.

Hubby: You didn’t check in last night. Everything fine?

You stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then you locked the screen without replying and opened Eddie’s message instead.

You: sorry… crashed hard. thank you for last night. for listening. and for the text this morning. it helped more than you know.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then set the phone down and let yourself just… exist for a little while. No husband. No berating texts. No pressure to perform. Just the quiet hotel room and the low hum of the air conditioner.

Eventually you dragged yourself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water helped loosen some of the anxiety in your chest. By the time you were towel-drying your hair and standing in front of the open suitcase, the reunion clock was already ticking in the back of your mind.

It started at four. Ended at eight. Then there was the after-party at some big house in the nicer part of town- the kind of place that had been new money even when you were in high school. You hadn’t decided yet if you were going to that part.

You pulled out the dress you’d packed. It was nicer than anything you usually wore these days- a deep green wrap dress that hugged in the right places and showed a little leg when you moved. You told yourself it was just because you wanted to feel good for the reunion. Not because of anything else.

You were just finishing your makeup when your phone rang.

FaceTime.

Your husband’s name lit up the screen.

You answered.

The call connected to chaos- your daughter’s happy little face suddenly filling most of the frame as your husband handed her the phone. She was in her favorite purple pajamas, curls messy, grinning wide when she saw you.

“Mama!”

Your chest cracked open in the best and worst way.

“Hi, baby,” you said softly, smiling for real this time. “I miss you so much. Are you being good for Daddy?”

She babbled something about cartoons and cereal while you listened like it was the most important news in the world. Your husband’s face appeared behind her for a second, neutral, before he took the phone back.

The second your daughter was off-screen, his expression shifted.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

You blinked.

He was looking at you through the phone like you’d personally offended him.

“That dress is way too short. And tight. You’re going to a high school reunion, not a club. Who exactly are you trying to impress?”

You felt the familiar knot form in your stomach. The same one that had been there for years.

“It’s a nice dress,” you said quietly. “I wanted to look put together.”

“Put together?” He scoffed. “You look like you’re trying to get attention. From who? Your old friends? Or someone specific?”

You didn’t answer. Your throat felt too tight.

He kept going.

“You’re a mother now. You don’t need to be dressing like that. Especially not when you’re out there alone while I’m home with our kid. It’s embarrassing.”

You could hear your daughter in the background, still happily talking to herself. The contrast made your eyes sting.

He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t ask about the reunion. Didn’t say he missed you.

Just the berating. Same as always.

You forced a tight smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“I have to finish getting ready,” you said. “I’ll call you later.”

You ended the call before he could say anything else.

The hotel room suddenly felt too quiet.

Your phone was still in your hand.

Across the hall, Eddie was in his room.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure which version of yourself you were going to be when you walked into that reunion tonight.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You walked into the ballroom with your head held high.

The dress- the one your husband had sneered at on FaceTime- hugged you in all the places he’d called “too much.” You’d put on a little extra makeup, fixed your hair the way you liked it, and told yourself you weren’t going to shrink for anyone tonight. Not after everything.

Chrissy had clearly gone all out.

The hotel ballroom had been completely transformed. Soft golden lighting glowed from chandeliers wrapped in gauzy white fabric. Tables were dressed in deep green linens with gold accents, white roses and eucalyptus centerpieces catching the light. Hawkins High’s colors had never looked this elegant. String lights were strung along the walls like something out of a dream, and a live band was already playing low, nostalgic covers near the dance floor. It felt magical in a way your high school years never quite had.

You spotted Chrissy near the entrance, clipboard in hand, laughing with a few people you vaguely recognized. She’d always been good at this sort of thing- making things look perfect even when they weren’t.

You didn’t stop to talk. Not yet. Not that the head cheerleader would even remember you. 

Instead you found an empty round table near the edge of the room, claimed it with your small clutch, and sat down. The chair felt too big with just you in it. You crossed your legs, smoothed the green fabric over your thighs, and tried to look like you belonged here instead of like your mind was still spiraling.

It was.

Every time you shifted in the dress you could hear your husband’s voice in your head.

You look like you’re trying to get attention.

You’re a mother now.

The words sat heavy in your chest even as you kept your expression calm. You scanned the growing crowd for Robin and Nancy, checking your phone every few minutes even though you knew they’d text the second they parked. Part of you hoped they’d get here soon so you wouldn’t have to sit with your own thoughts for too long.

Another part of you kept glancing toward the entrance.

You told yourself it was just to see if your friends had arrived.

You knew it wasn’t only that.

Eddie hadn’t texted again since this morning. You hadn’t either. But you could still feel the weight of last night. He was somewhere in this hotel. Maybe even in this room already. The thought made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with nerves about the reunion.

You took a slow breath and reached for the glass of water already on the table, trying to quiet the spiral.

Your mind kept drifting anyway.

To the FaceTime call. To the way your daughter’s face had lit up when she saw you and how quickly that warmth had been replaced by your husband’s criticism. To the alley behind the bar. To Eddie’s voice saying you deserved more. To the fact that his room was literally across the hall from yours and neither of you had knocked yet.

You sat up straighter, forcing the thoughts down as best you could.

Head high. Shoulders back. Smile ready for when Robin and Nancy finally walked through those doors.

You could do this.

Even if every part of you felt like it was quietly coming undone.

You were still nursing the same glass of water when Robin and Nancy finally walked in.

They spotted you immediately and made a beeline for your table, Robin already grinning like she’d been waiting all day for this and Nancy looking effortlessly put-together in a soft blue dress that made her look like an angel. The second they reached you, Robin pulled you into a tight hug that smelled like her usual vanilla perfume and whatever fancy hand soap was in the hotel bathroom.

“There she is,” Robin said, pulling back to look at you. “Damn. That dress is doing numbers. Your husband’s loss he's not here to see you in it.”

Nancy gave you a softer smile and squeezed your arm. “You look beautiful. Really.”

You managed a real smile for them, even if it felt a little fragile around the edges. The three of you headed to the bar together, ordering drinks- Robin got something bright and pink, Nancy went for red wine, and you ordered a whiskey neat without thinking too hard about it. You needed something that burned a little.

You were halfway through your first sip when the energy in the room shifted.

Eddie walked in.

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

He looked… devastating.

Black dress pants that fit him too well, a crisp white button-down with the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms so the ink on his skin peeked through. His hair was tied back in that same half messy bun from last night, a few loose strands framing his face. He looked delicious. The low golden lighting of the ballroom caught on the silver wisps in his hair and the edge of a tattoo just above his collarbone.

For a second, everything else in the room disappeared.

Mixed emotions slammed into you so fast you almost swayed on your heels.

The pull was still there- that old, magnetic thing that had always existed between you two, stronger now after last night. The fact that you two fell right into step with each other even if it's been ten years. That he listened to you as you poured out only part of your soul and he didn't run away. That he was the first person to tell you how it really was instead of just hopping on the hate bandwagon. That his room was right across from yours and you’d both gone to bed thinking about each other.

But right behind it came the guilt. Thick and heavy. Your husband’s voice from the FaceTime call still echoed in your head.

You trying to get attention from your friends? Or someone specific? 

And underneath all of it was the ache of everything you’d confessed last night- everything you were too scared to even tell Robin and Nancy. Eddie knew all of it now. And he was standing twenty feet away looking at you like he still saw the girl you used to be… and the woman you were now.

Robin followed your gaze and let out a low whistle under her breath.

“Well, shit,” she murmured, bumping your shoulder lightly. “He cleans up nice. You okay?”

Nancy didn’t say anything, but her eyes flicked between you and Eddie with quiet understanding.

Eddie hadn’t spotted you yet. He was shaking hands with someone near the entrance, that familiar crooked half-smile on his face, but you could already feel the moment he would turn and see you sitting there in the green dress you were fighting to not feel guilty about wearing. 

Your heart was hammering so hard you were surprised no one else could hear it.

Robin took a sip of her drink, watching you carefully.

“You want us to run interference?” she asked quietly. “Or do you want to go say hi?”

Nancy’s voice was softer. “Or we can just stand here and let you breathe for a second.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because Eddie had just turned his head.

And the second his eyes found yours across the ballroom, everything else in the room went quiet again.

Eddie made his way over like the room had cleared a path just for him.

Robin and Nancy both noticed him coming at the same time. Robin raised an eyebrow and took a deliberate step back to give you space. Nancy’s hand brushed your arm once, a quiet “we’re here” before she and Robin drifted a few feet away toward the bar, close enough to keep an eye on you but far enough to let whatever this was happen.

Eddie stopped in front of you.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then his eyes dragged slowly down the green dress and back up to your face, and something in his expression softened and darkened at the same time.

“Jesus,” he said quietly, voice low enough that only you could hear it clearly. “You look… fuck. You look incredible. That color on you- ” He shook his head once, like he was trying to find the right words and failing. “It’s not fair. You’ve always been beautiful, but right now you’re actually making it hard to think straight.”

The compliment landed somewhere deep in your chest. It wasn’t just surface-level. It felt like he was seeing all of it- the dress your husband had hated, the version of you that had spilled every ugly truth, the woman who was still standing here anyway.

And just like that, the rest of the ballroom faded.

The music, the laughter, the old classmates catching up around you- it all went muffled and distant. There was only Eddie. The way his white shirt stretched across his shoulders. The loose strands of hair that had fallen out of the tie at the back of his neck. The way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth like he couldn’t help it. The quiet, charged knowledge that he knew everything now and he was still standing here looking at you like you were the only person in the room who mattered.

Your pulse was hammering in your throat.

He tilted his head toward the bar, voice dropping even lower.

“Can I get you another drink?”

You should’ve said no.

You didn’t.

“Yeah,” you heard yourself answer. “Please.”

He brought you back a whiskey, same as you always liked, and stayed.

The night blurred after that.

You and Eddie kept finding each other. At the table. Near the dance floor. By the bar again. Robin and Nancy checked in a few times but mostly gave you space, shooting you knowing looks every now and then. You kept accepting the drinks he offered. He kept accepting the ones you brought him. The conversation stayed light on the surface- old stories, what everyone was doing now, laughing at how weird it felt to be back in this town- but underneath it was something heavier. Different- but in a nice way. Every time your fingers brushed when you handed him a glass. Every time his eyes lingered a second too long. Every time your hazy mind wandered to a place you really didn't want to go to. 

By the time the formal part of the reunion wound down and people started heading to the after-party at the big house across town, you were both pretty drunk.

Not sloppy. Just loose. Warm. The kind of drunk where the edges of everything felt softer and the things you weren’t saying out loud felt louder.

Eddie’s hand brushed the small of your back as you both stepped outside into the cool night air, heading toward the parking lot where people were figuring out rides. The touch was light. Barely there. But it sent heat straight through the thin fabric of your dress.

He looked over at you, eyes darker than they’d been earlier, voice rough from the whiskey and the hours of talking.

“You still good to drive?” he asked, even though you both knew neither of you should be getting behind a wheel right now. “Or… we could figure something else out.”

The question hung there between you, heavy with everything that had been building since the moment he stepped into the bar last night. 

You both skipped the after-party.

It was an easy decision once you were standing in the parking lot, the night air cool against your skin and the whiskey making everything feel a little too honest. Eddie had looked at you, really looked at you, and said, “We don’t have to go. We can just… stay here. Talk.” And you’d nodded before you could talk yourself out of it.

Now you were in your hotel room.

The door clicked shut behind you both. You kicked off your heels with a relieved sigh and climbed onto the bed without thinking twice about it, settling back against the pillows. Eddie hesitated for only a second before he toed off his boots and joined you, stretching out on his side so he was facing you. The mattress dipped under his weight. The space between you was small- close enough that you could smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint trace of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke from earlier.

It felt dangerous in the best and worst way.

For a while you just talked.

About nothing important at first. Old teachers. The way the town had changed and somehow stayed exactly the same. How weird it was to see everyone dressed up and pretending the last ten years hadn’t happened. But the longer you laid there, the more the conversation slowed into something softer. Heavier.

And then it hit you.

This- the two of you sprawled out on a bed in the dark, voices low, the rest of the world shut out- felt exactly like those nights on his old porch at the trailer. The ratty couch that always smelled like weed and rain. Chain smoking until your lungs hurt. Talking about everything and nothing until your mom’s text lit up your phone and you had to drag yourself home. Back then it had been easy. Charged with teenage hormones and the constant, fluttering fear of ruining the best friendship either of you had ever had. The will-they-won’t-they tension had been sweet. Innocent, almost.

You liked the nostalgia. It wrapped around you warm and familiar, like pulling on an old hoodie that still fit even if it was a little tight in the shoulders now.

But you weren’t those kids anymore.

You were grown. Both of you. And life had carved deep, ugly lines into both of you since then. You had a husband who at this moment- you couldn't care less about. A daughter you were terrified of uprooting. Years of resentment and fear and settling because the unknown felt scarier than staying. Eddie had his own scars too- you could see them in the way he carried himself, in the quiet way he listened without pushing.

This wasn’t porch talks and curfew texts anymore.

This was two adults who had lived through some shit, lying on a hotel bed after you’d spent the night before spilling every dark, humiliating detail of your marriage to him. The air between you was thick with it. With the things you couldn’t unsay. With the way he’d looked at you in that green dress like he wanted to burn the memory of it into his brain. With the fact that his room was literally across the hall and instead he was in your room- with you- in your bed.

Eddie shifted slightly, propping his head up on one hand. His eyes were darker from the alcohol and the low light, but they were steady on you.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he said, voice rough and low. “What’s going on in that head?”

You looked at him for a long moment, the nostalgia still sitting warm in your chest even as the reality of your life pressed down heavier.

“Just thinking,” you murmured. “About how this feels like old times. But it’s not. We’re not those kids anymore.”

Eddie didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softened even more.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “We’re not.”

He didn’t push for more. He just stayed there, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, waiting to see what you’d say next- or if you’d say anything at all.

The hotel room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner.

And for the first time all night, neither of you reached for another drink.

You just laid there, looking at each other, the weight of everything between you heavier than it had ever been on that old porch.

Eddie’s eyes were on you- really on you- like he was weighing something he’d been carrying for a long time.

Then he spoke.

“I always had feelings for you back then.”

His voice was rough, low, a little unsteady from the alcohol and the truth of it. “From sophomore year, at least. Maybe even before that. I just… never did anything about it.”

You felt your breath catch.

He kept going before you could say anything, eyes dropping to the space between you on the bed.

“I was too fucking scared. You were my best friend. The only person who actually saw me back then and didn’t treat me like I was some freak or a lost cause. I was terrified that if I said something and you didn’t feel the same, I’d lose you completely. And if you did feel the same…” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “I didn’t think I deserved that. So I kept my mouth shut. Figured it was better to have you as my friend than risk ruining it.”

The confession sat heavy between you.

You swallowed hard, the words coming out before you could stop them.

“Then why didn’t you stop me from leaving?”

Eddie’s eyes flicked back up to yours.

You pushed on, voice quieter but steady.

“If you had told me… if you had just said something, I wouldn’t have left. I would’ve stayed. Or I would’ve tried to make it work long-distance. I would’ve-” Your voice cracked slightly. “I would’ve chosen you.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Eddie’s expression shifted- something pained and tender all at once. He reached out slowly, like he was giving you time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your cheek for a second longer than necessary.

“I couldn’t do that to you,” he said finally. His voice was rougher now. “I couldn’t be selfish like that. You had this whole life ahead of you. New York. College. A chance to get out of this town and become whoever the hell you wanted to be without some metalhead burnout from Hawkins holding you back.” He exhaled slowly. “You needed to grow. You needed to go. And I loved you too much to be the reason you stayed.”

The word “loved” hit you like a physical thing.

Past tense. But the way he was looking at you right now didn’t feel like past tense at all.

You stared at him, the alcohol and the weight of everything you’d told him last night and the ache of ten years of what-ifs crashing together in your chest.

Eddie didn’t look away.

His hand was still near your face, not quite touching anymore but close enough that you could feel the warmth of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For not saying anything back then. For letting you go without a fight. I thought I was doing the right thing.” His voice dropped even lower. “But watching you walk away that summer… that shit wrecked me more than I ever let on.”

The room felt smaller. Hotter. The space between you on the bed was charged and fragile all at once.

Eddie’s eyes searched yours in the low light.

“I’m not trying to make this harder for you,” he said. “Not after everything you told me last night. I just… needed you to know. Before we go back to not talking for almost a decade.”

He went quiet then, waiting.

The ball was in your court.

And the way he was looking at you made it very clear that whatever you said next was going to change something between you- maybe everything.

You took a shaky breath, the words coming out quieter than you meant them to.

“Seeing you here… it’s changed everything,” you admitted. Your voice was rough from the whiskey and the long day. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do now. I have a kid. A whole life back in New York that I built, even if it’s falling apart. And I have no idea how you feel about any of it. About me. About the mess I’m in. Last night I told you everything and you just… listened. Like it didn’t scare you off. But I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what any of this means.”

Your eyes stung. You blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

Eddie didn’t look away. Not once.

He shifted closer on the bed, close enough that his knee brushed yours. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady, every word deliberate.

“It means I’m still here,” he said. “It means none of what you told me last night changed how I see you. Not even a little. Your daughter? She’s not some complication to me. She’s part of you. And I’d never look at you and see a mess. I see someone who’s been surviving some really fucked up shit and still showing up every day. That’s not messy. That’s strong as hell.”

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear again, his fingers lingering against your jaw.

“You deserve to feel loved without conditions. Safe. Like you don’t have to walk on eggshells or wonder who you’re gonna get when you walk through the door. I know you’re scared. I know you have a kid and a marriage and a whole life that feels impossible to walk away from. But none of that makes you any less worthy of something better.” His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. You don’t have to have the answers. You just have to know that I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”

The words hit somewhere deep in your chest and stayed there.

You wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt.

The space between you on the bed felt electric. His face was right there- the familiar line of his jaw, the way his eyes had gone soft and intense all at once, the faint smell of whiskey and smoke on his breath. Every part of you was screaming to close the distance, to finally do what you’d both been too scared to do when you were teenagers. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

But you didn’t.

You stayed right where you were, trembling with the effort of holding yourself back. Because there was still a ring on your finger. Because there was a little girl back in New York who deserved better than whatever this was becoming. Because you were drunk and emotional and everything felt too big.

Eddie didn’t push. He just stayed close, his hand resting lightly near your face like he was anchoring you there.

Eventually the exhaustion won.

The long day, the emotional weight of last night, the reunion, the drinks, the confessions- it all caught up at once. Your eyes grew heavy. Eddie’s did too. Neither of you moved to the other side of the bed. You just stayed there, facing each other, the space between you small and charged and safe all at once.

At some point your hand found his on the mattress. His fingers laced through yours without a word.

You fell asleep like that- still in the green dress, makeup smudged, heart aching in ways you didn’t have names for yet. Eddie’s breathing evened out beside you, his hand warm and steady in yours.

For the first time in a very long time, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

You woke up first.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of that damn air conditioner and Eddie’s steady breathing beside you. Morning light was already slipping through the gap in the curtains, soft and golden across the bed. Your hand was still loosely tangled with his on the mattress between you.

For a long moment, you didn’t move.

You just laid there and let yourself feel it.

Your head ached a little from the whiskey, your dress was wrinkled and twisted around your body, and your makeup was probably smudged to hell. But none of that mattered right now. Because for the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt… content. Happy, even. A quiet, fragile kind of happy that settled warm in your chest instead of the usual knot of anxiety and resentment.

You analyzed the situation in the stillness.

Last night had changed something. You can't remember it all- just bits and pieces. You already know you told Eddie everything. You remember the feeling of nostalgia. The warmth of his words. You couldn't remember what they were though- just that they filled you with dread and excitement at the same time.

You know that he made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Seen. Worthy of something better. When he told you that you deserved to feel loved without conditions, it hadn’t felt like empty comfort. It had felt real.

You were still holding his hand.

That had to mean something.

You knew it didn’t magically fix anything. You still had a daughter back in New York. A husband who had tried to make you feel bad with every aspect of this trip. Years of damage and fear and resentment. But lying here, in the quiet morning light with Eddie’s fingers loosely laced through yours, you felt happy. Genuinely happy. Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, there was a version of your life that didn’t feel so heavy.

You were still turning it all over in your head when Eddie stirred.

His eyes blinked open slowly. It took him a second to focus, and when he did, you watched the exact moment he registered where he was- and who he was still half-holding hands with.

A flicker of shy awkwardness passed between you.

Neither of you pulled your hand away right away, but the air suddenly felt different. More awake. More real.

Eddie’s voice was rough with sleep when he finally spoke, quiet and a little careful.

“Morning.”

He didn’t let go of your hand.

But he also didn’t move closer.

You could feel the weight of last night sitting between you now that the alcohol had worn off- the blurry words you both had probably said, the feelings you couldn't name swirling around in your chest, the very real life waiting for you outside this hotel room.

He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to read how you were feeling in the daylight.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

The question was simple, but it carried everything.

“Do you remember anything from last night?”

Eddie's expression shifted- from concerned to thoughtful. His tongue poked out from between his plush lips like he had always done when he was concentrating.

“Fuck. Uh.. kinda? Not really though. I think we drank our weight in whiskey. Chrissy really shouldn't have done the whole open bar thing.”

“Yeah…”

Your mind drifted, desperate for answers that were lost to the haze of the night.

You were still holding his hand.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to let go.

Heart warming at the way John tells you stories behind each pictures, the longing look for the past gracing his eyes beautifully. Sharing soft chuckles when he somehow cringes at the memories.

The chubby cheeked baby John that made you wonder about if that's what your future son would've looked like to high school John with questionable fashion sense that made you laugh when he cringed, you noticed his smile stayed the same.

The smile that made you fall in love with him.

Poetic that your favorite thing about him is the one thing that stayed the same ever after all these years.

It was all fun and games until you stopped yourself at the last picture.

You had to physically stop yourself because he just looked so... beautiful. The wind blowing in his hair styling it perfectly, gone was the baby fat in his cheeks and the cute smile, and the facial hair that framed his face handsomely. God, You could look at this picture for hours if he'd let you.

He looked a little too out of your league for you that you didn't realize you commented about how handsome he was.

"Was" being the word that sparked his overly dramatic response.

"Ugh, don't say shit like that as if you don't know what the you now are doing to me," kissing his shoulder gently as you grin.

"No, no, you said 'was' that got some layer to it, babe." He's whining and throwing the picture into the table like a petulant child jealous of his younger self.

"are you kidding me? i tell you you're handsome every single day."

"i was skinny in that picture." he points out like that changes the argument.

"Yeah, because no one is taking care of you." you retort back.

he huffs. seeming like he doesn't have anything to say anymore.

You sit up straighter to look him right in the eyes. "Babe i'm gonna be honest and say it," you take the picture from the table again much to his dismay. "If you looked like this when we first met, I wouldn't even dared myself to like you."

"What the fuck?!?" He shrieks, his eyebrows furrowed. "This is your way of telling me i've let myself go and that you're not in love with me anymore."

"That is not what i meant and you're just twisting shit i say."

His tiny pout made you chuckle. "What? You've seen old pictures of me, tell me that it's not so crazy to think someone like this," you wave the picture in your hand and he frowns at the picture. "Would'nt even talk to someone like me."

"I mean, babe, this is like your picture back then, right? This is the type of picture that made girls line up just to get a hi from you. I wouldn't even have the balls to interact with you, let alone dare myself to have a stupid crush on you."

He pry the picture away, throwing it behind his shoulder without much thought. "that is the stupidest thing i've heard coming from you,"

"you can't tell me it's crazy for me to think that, you know."

"no, it's crazy and stupid."

The almost anger you sensed made you tone down the grin. Something tells you this was not mere jealousy over his younger self.

he fish his phone from his pocket, unlocking it before he opens his gallery. you can't see what he's looking for, only the focused furrow of his eyebrows.

He turned his phone toward you once he found what he was looking for.

There, in his phone gallery, titled with love emoji, is an entire album of your childhood pictures —the collection you showed him from back at your parents' house a few years back.

He doesn't take pictures of it carelessly; he actually spends the time to properly scan each picture with his phone so that you actually have it digitized now. not that you know it, of course.

"do you know what went through my mind the first time your mom showed me the album? Back when your dad still didn't let me sleep with you in your room?"

You shake your head so softly, trying your hardest to keep your emotions from overflowing. Eager to listen to what he has to say.

"I thought just how much I wished we'd known each other for far longer, that i wished i was there to grow up with you, to be there for every tear you shed over some stupid whatnot, to hug you every time you needed it, to tell you that i've loved you for far longer than I've known you."

"john," you call to him softly. he shakes his head gently to tell you he's not finished yet.

"I know that even if we met back in high school or even elementary," he paused a little to catch his words. "I would've fallen in love with you the same, i see every phase that you went through, listen to your stories about just how 'unlovable' you were back then, and all i can think is 'i would.' I would love you through all that."

he scrolls a little for a specific picture- the picture you once told him just how much you hated the way you looked in that year. "see this? Remember what you told me?"

you nod. tears already threatening to fall.

"i hated, hated, the way you talk about yourself when you showed me this picture, because i know if i was there during the period of time you felt that way about yourself, i would've told you that it was stupid. i would've told you just how beautiful you are, that you don't see yourself the way i do, and that i love you."

You can't hold it back anymore: the beautiful ache in your heart, the gentle way he speaks of you, the awe you have for the man beside you. The tears started to flow.

he locks his phone, scooting closer towards you to hold you in his arms.

"i love you so much that i know no matter what phases of our life that we meet each other, i would've loved you as i do now." his words turned softer against your hair. "so please, never insult the woman i love by saying she has no chance with some stupid frat-looking boy who doesn't know better, trust me when i say that that boy would've made his life straighter if he met you earlier."

he relaxed himself backward, pulling you tighter against his chest as he lets you sob happy tears. god, you love this man so much you didn't think it was possible to even be more in love than you were.

you finally speak again when the tears got easier, his hands still caressing your back softly.

"when did you?"

he smiles, pressing a gentle peck on your forehead. "That first night in your parents' house," there's a soft chuckle as he reminisces. "i couldn't sleep on the couch because i can't wrap my head around us, you know."

"why?"

"babe, the living room was filled with you and your family. i just can't believe that the girl of my dreams is letting me into her life by inviting me to the family."

"my dad liked you instantly," you replied meekly, still in disbelief from his confession. "the whole couch thingy only lasted one night,"

he chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest. "your dad caught me scanning the album, you know."

you had to lift your head a little to get a better look at him. "What?"

he nods, the corner of his lips lifting. "yeah, think it was like two? he came down to get some water, saw the flash going off where i'm supposed to sleep, so he approached me, then had some talk."

"is that why he let you sleep with me the next day?"

he shrugs. "i dunno, maybe?"

he let out a soft smile at the way your lips quirking into an earnest smile of interest. "what did you say? or was it him? What did he told you?" This was news to you. All you knew was your dad changing his mind about John sleeping on the couch, so he allowed him to sleep with you.

john's memory of that night flits through his mind. Wide-eyed, looking at your dad with his phone in hand, going through your album. Promising your dad that he'll always take care of you, telling him that he knew you were the one since the moment you met, answering your dad's question about his intention.

He shakes his head. Deciding that what happened that night was between him and your dad. he lifts his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. "Nothing much, really. Just told him I love you."

you press your lips against his before dropping your head back down to his chest, listening to the soft thump of his heartbeat. "ugh you're too sweet," his chest rumbles with his chuckles, his hand holding you even tighter. "i love you too,"

He walked in barely 30 seconds ago but was already feeling annoyed. The flashing lights bothered his eyes, the strange music hurt his head, and the shallow conversation took years off of his life. One of the only things that got him through these unbearable parties was – oh, champagne. Thank God. He swiped a flute from a tray being carried by one of the waiters passing by. 

Downing it in seconds, he placed the empty glass on a nearby table, already looking around for another. With no luck, he put his head down and walked over to the bar. His hand flashed up in a gesture to get the bartender’s attention, shouting for a scotch. He felt much more relaxed with the glass of amber liquid in hand. 

He’s able to socialize, slightly, talking to a few Capitol citizens he recognized from trying to get sponsors for previous Games’ tributes. He mainly keeps to himself, eyes scanning the room intensely. He won’t admit it out loud, but he’s searching for you. 

You were one of the only people in this world he could tolerate, no that’s not the right word. He accepted you, enjoyed your company more than anyone else's. You were a fellow victor from a different district, and although younger, understood the horrors he had endured. 

You were the only person he felt like he could talk to properly, the only one who could meet him where he was. You could take a joke as well as you could make one, and didn’t get wrapped up in all the frivolity. You performed for the citizens, then went back to real life in your district. 

He didn’t have to put on a front for you, could simply talk about what was bothering him and you’d sit there and listen all night long if that’s what it took. You always knew what to say. He found your emotional intelligence wildly attractive. But that’s not all, physically, he thought, you were perfect. Of course he’d never tell you, if you ever asked he would chalk up all of the pet names and feather-light touches of your back or your knee to the influence of the drink. Sometimes it was just that, but most of the time he knew what he was doing. He couldn’t help but put a hand, or both, on you when you were near. 

It was about an hour into the party when he first spotted you, wrapped up in some conversation with two other women clearly from the Capitol. You were dressed up of course, but not like them, no, never like them. They wore enormous blonde wigs, blinding white powder, monochromatic dresses, and lipstick in the shape of a triangle. But you. You wore a strapless, forest green dress that fell above your knees, structured as if it was floating off your body. The back was partially open, with sparkly gold chains hanging down in a U shape, which ghosted across your skin every time you laughed or moved. 

He felt like a shy teenager when you caught his gaze, waving and smiling before running over to say hello. 

“Hi Haymitch,” you said, and hearing his name roll off your tongue was already pulling him under. 

“Hi beautiful,” he replied, smiling for the first time all night. “Having fun?” 

“God no.” You replied immediately, and he was reminded all over again why he was infatuated with you. “Those two women I was just talking to were going on and on about how their wig stylist is retiring at the end of the month. I truly could not have cared less. It’s so out of touch it makes me want to scream.” 

He took a sip of his drink as you spoke, hoping the glass to his lips would cool off the burning sensation he felt when you were near. “Sounds utterly awful.” He replied. “At least it’s over with.” 

“For now.” You continued. “Until the next group comes and swoops me away. I’d much rather be hanging out by the bar with you.” 

He tried to ignore how his heart rate sped up at your words. “Trust me when I say the same, sweetheart.” 

He admired the way your eyes seemed to sparkle when he called you that, something he always pretended not to notice. You continued talking about your night as he fell deeper and deeper into the trap that was you. He hoped you didn’t register his gaze flicking down to your chest every so often, not in an entirely vulgar way, just watching the way your collarbones flexed when you used your arms to get a point across. It seemed your stylist had dusted them with a gold shimmer, making them pop even more. 

“(y/n)! That you?” Someone called from behind you. You turned around at the sound of the voice, connecting in a hug with another woman you obviously recognized.

You turned back to him. “Haymitch, I’m so sorry to interrupt our talk. I have to run for a minute but I’m sure I’ll see you again later.” 

“Go go. Don’t worry about me.” He gestured to the pair to go off and have fun. “We’ll be in touch.” 

“Absolutely.” You replied, and you were off again. Too sweet, too popular for your own good. Another reason you’d never want a recluse like him. 

He almost audibly groaned as you walked away, honing in on the lean muscles of your back he could see through the open back of your dress. He watched the way your smooth legs carried you off in those high heels so effortlessly, pursing his lips. 

You seemed to be sculpted by the gods. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed, how many more drinks he had, but he knew he was more than ready to leave. 

On his way out to the front where the cars would be waiting to take guests home, he felt lucky to run into you again. 

“Hey.” He said, tapping you on the shoulder. 

“Hey!” You exclaimed, clearly under the influence of far more liquor than the first time he had seen you that night. “You heading out?” 

“Yeah. ‘Bout that time for me. I’m not as young as I once was, can’t keep up with you party animals anymore.” He joked.

You laughed, a hearty, belly laugh that made him feel like the most notable comedian in the city. He knew you were drunk, but he didn’t care. “I think you could still outdrink everyone in here.” 

He shrugged. You were probably right.

“Who knows. But I’m not gonna find out tonight, anyway.” He replied. 

“Well get back safely. It was so wonderful to see you.” You said. 

“Thanks darlin’.” He replied. “You too.” 

“I will.” You beamed, leaning in for a hug that he gladly accepted. His arms wrapped around you, giving you a small peck on the cheek before pulling away, a sign of affection. The only one he could muster without giving himself away. 

You waved as he walked off. 

He sighed as he slumped down in the backseat of a cab, gruffly telling the driver which hotel to go to. He closed his eyes, replaying all of your conversations over again. Your sweet voice was all it took to make him feel…stirred.

It was about a 15 minute drive to get back to his hotel, and he stumbled through the too-bright lobby once he was dropped off. He accidentally pressed the button for the 10th floor instead of the 12th, which made his elevator ride a bit slower than he would’ve liked. 

Stumbling into his room he immediately loosened his tie, feeling like it had been suffocating him all night. He kicked off his shoes and discarded his suit jacket on a chair. 

He was alone again, and drunk, but not enough that he wouldn’t remember all this in the morning. He practically fell back onto the bed, button down shirt half open and tie loosely around his neck. 

Should he shower? Probably, he thought, and forced himself back up after a few more moments. Before that though, he walked over to the complimentary mini-bar to pour himself a glass of something. He didn’t even bother to look at what it was before it splashed into the intricate vessel and he brought it up to his lips.

He brought the drink into the massive bathroom, turning the light on and quickly dimming it. Why does every room have to be so fucking bright? He grabbed a towel from a shelf on the far wall and threw it onto the sink counter. 

He swore every shower in this godforsaken city was different. Why did they all have an ungodly number of buttons and switches? Give him on and off and he’d be fine. He pressed one, and all it did was project a cityscape onto the frosted glass walls. 

He sighed deeply, composing himself and taking another sip before fumbling with some more buttons, finally getting hot water to stream out of the showerhead. He placed the glass on the edge of the sink for easy access.

With all his clothes discarded on the floor he hopped in, letting the water run over his tired shoulders and sweaty blonde hair, relaxing for the first time all night. As he relaxed, his mind calmed, thinking about nothing for a few moments, until the thought of you crept back in.

He tried to shake it off, tried to use the strong scent of whatever soap he grabbed to distract him, but to no avail. The pretty picture that was you in that dark green dress wouldn’t leave his mind. 

Practically every part of you had been carefully looked over by his eyes at some point in the night. Your eyes, of course, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight, your hair, curled without one strand out of place, your legs…man he loved your legs. So smooth as you walked around and danced, wearing heels but still managing to be shorter than him. The gold chains that hung over the back of your body, barely covering the supple skin there. For all the body parts that he couldn’t see, well, he had no trouble imagining them. 

His eyes were closed at this point, and he didn’t realize he had tilted backwards against one of the shower walls until a blue light turned on when he accidentally leaned against one of the buttons. 

“Shit,” he muttered, trying to figure out how to turn it off. He quickly discovered he had no idea, but it didn’t end up bothering him much. The cobalt light shining reminded him of the party, which once again reminded him of you. 

Shaking the thoughts away once again, he reached for the bar of soap to finish cleaning himself off. He traced the velvety product around his body, starting at his arms, moving to his back, his stomach, and below the belt. Important to keep that clean, too.

As he did so, he realized the touch of his hand in the area sent shivers down his spine. And not in a way that signified he was cold, but instead that he was aroused. He sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers ghosted over his cock, which was beginning to take on a life of its own. Was this all because he was thinking of you? 

He reached out a soapy, soaking wet hand to grab his drink that still remained half full on the sink counter, hoping it would help him forget everything. It didn’t, in fact, he thought it only made it worse. 

When he finished rinsing off his body, he was met with what could only be described as a raging boner. He felt like a fucking horny teenager.

He didn’t even know the last time he felt like this; definitely months, maybe even a year. Couldn’t tell you the last time he’d gotten himself off. He decided to try and keep it that way, hoping some sleep would help it all settle down. 

He couldn’t, wouldn’t give into the temptation. Not when you had no idea of his attraction, because he knew if he…saw this through…he’d never be able to be normal around you again. No, it would be all he’d think about when he looked at your pretty face. 

Shaking his head forcefully for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour, he turned the water off and grabbed the towel to dry himself off. The bathroom was filled with steam now, hot and humid from his unusually long shower. He downed the rest of his drink. 

After sliding on a pair of black pajama pants that hung low around his hips, he flopped onto his bed once again, wet hair sprawled out across the half a dozen pillows that decorated the mattress by the headboard. He decided sleep would be best, although somehow he didn’t feel tired. Nevertheless, he flipped on his side, closing his eyes and trying to drown out everything that was swirling inside his brain. 

When he woke up again, the first thing he noticed was that it was still pitch black outside, and the sound of car horns still blared in the distance. Do these Capitol assholes never sleep? But once he rolled over to look at the clock next to the bed, he realized it hadn’t even been an hour since he initially shut his eyes. 

He groaned in annoyance, rolling back onto his stomach with his face stuffed in a pillow. 

That movement, that’s what woke him up fully. With the front of his body brushing the bed, he realized he was hard. Again. 

He pushed his face deeper into the pillow, trying to surround himself in darkness, picture anything else in the world besides you in that dress. It didn’t work. His cock was aching, even more so now than when he went to bed in the first place. He had to do something about it. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

“Fuck.” He whispered. 

It was a few more minutes of trying to control himself before he finally gave in.  

That first gentle snap of his hips into the bed felt like he set a fire to his insides. He was still on his stomach, head leaning to one side, hands gripping a pillow with his eyes shut tight. He thrusted a second time, taking note of the way his pajama pants shifted deliciously against his shaft. 

God, what was he doing? He thought at first, but as he grinded into the bed with more force, he reached a point where he didn’t care. 

It was probably horrible how through his shut eyes all he pictured was you. He imagined it was you underneath him in this bed, squirming and gripping onto his biceps as he pounded into you. Or maybe you’d like it more gentle? He slowed down his movements, thrusting once every few seconds, teasing himself.

He slowed down to a stop, trying to catch his breath. Rolling over onto his back now, he palmed himself through his pants, feeling his rock hard cock through them. He once again pictured your soft hands, teasing him over the fabric, looking up at him with glassy eyes as your nails softly raked up and down, up and down. 

He couldn’t take it anymore, he slipped his hands under the waistband and threw the pants down his legs, kicking them off the bed with his feet. The cool air on his hot skin brought an entirely new sensation, breathing heavily as his hand moved to his bare cock for the first time. 

It felt so fucking good, all thanks to this fantasy of you. His mind dreamed up a scenario where he’d taken you home after the party, unzipping that dress and throwing it somewhere on the floor. His hands would’ve flown to your breasts, massaging them, twisting the soft skin. The cool air would’ve sent goosebumps down your arms, and he’d kiss down them to warm you up. You’d climb into bed with him, still naked if you like, and your limbs would tangle together in some sort of erotic dance the two of you couldn’t get enough of. His hands would slide up and down your bare body, squeezing your ass every so often. You’d let out pretty little moans that were only for him, and say his name in that sweet voice that drove him insane. 

He was vigorously pumping his cock as he came back to reality, breathing deeply, biting his lip every so often to stifle the sounds that threatened to spill out. But it got more difficult, the more he thought, the faster his hand moved, the closer he got to reaching that high he hadn’t felt in ages. It was all becoming too much. 

So when a moan of your name left his parted lips without thinking, he froze. His hand ceased its movements, dick twitching under his calloused fingers. 

Shouldn’t do that, he thought. Can’t go there. It was bad enough he was using the thought of you naked to help him reach his high, he couldn’t say your name as if you were actually in the room with him. 

Could he?

Fuck, it felt so wrong. But with the way his body responded, so right, too. 

He felt precum spilling from his tip, and he began to slowly, slowly, pump his shaft once again. But that pace didn’t last. In fact he quickened his movements almost immediately. 

He was right there. 

He imagined all the nicknames he’d use on you to help you feel special. Beautiful, sweetheart, gorgeous, would fall from his lips like it was nothing, but it would be the opposite. He’d mean every word he would say. He thought so highly of you, and this was a new low for him. The juxtaposition of those thoughts strangely only turned him on more. 

Broken moans he couldn’t contain spilled out as he twisted and pumped himself to reach his high. And eventually, it felt so good he couldn’t wait anymore. 

“Fucking hell…” He said. And with a few more quick thrusts up into his hand, white hot liquid was shooting from his cock, painting his chest with the proof of his strong arousal. He rode out his orgasm as the last few drops sprayed onto his shoulder, uncontrollable. His legs shook, he imagined because it had been so long since he or anyone else had touched him in this way. 

Once those nearly earth-shattering seconds were over, he attempted to catch his breath, realizing he was now completely spent. 

It took everything in him to get up and get another towel in the bathroom, quickly wiping himself off and discarding it on the floor. 

He fell down back onto the bed once he was completely dry and cleaned off again. 

“What the hell.” He muttered, so tired now he couldn’t think of much else to say. 

“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. 

And you’re not alone anymore. 

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.

You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.

Not healthy ones, anyway.

He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.

Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.

He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.

There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.

And there’s no cheating.

One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.

“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”

Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.

“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”

“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”

When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”

Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.

“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.

“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”

He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.

You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.

(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).

“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.

He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.

You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.

“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”

And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.

It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.

Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.

But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.

Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.

He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.

He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.

Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.

It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“You look like you’re having a blast.”

The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.

“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.

Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”

“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.

You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.

What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.

“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.

Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”

The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.

You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.

Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.

“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”

And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.

“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.

That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”

“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”

Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”

“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.

“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”

You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”

“At least a dozen people saw that.”

“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”

At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.

“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”

Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.

“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.

“It’s a surprise.”

It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.

And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.

Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?

The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.

As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.

“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”

You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”

You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.

He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.

A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.

“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”

From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.

You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”

You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.

You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.

“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”

You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.

“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”

The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.

If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”

You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”

You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”

You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.

It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.

The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.

But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.

“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.

“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”

He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”

Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.

That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.

And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope barely slept a wink last night.

He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.

One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?

And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.

Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?

Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?

He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.

Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.

Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.

But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.

The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.

He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.

“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.

“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”

Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.

Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.

(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).

Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.

You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.

“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”

Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”

“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”

Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”

He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”

He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.

Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.

Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”

He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.

“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”

There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.

He settles for a simple I promise instead.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.

She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.

It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.

Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.

When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.

You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.

Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.

Lena hadn’t, either.

Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.

You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.

The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.

“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”

You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.

“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.

She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-

Lena is staring at you.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”

“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”

She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.

“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”

“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”

She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.

But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.

Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?

You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.

Even if you wish he was.

And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.

None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.

You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.

You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.

Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.

“You got shot,” you hiss.

“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”

Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”

“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”

Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.

“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.

And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.

“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He follows you into the house without any protest.

“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.

You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.

It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.

Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.

Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.

“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”

“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”

“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”

“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”

“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.

“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.

“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.

Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”

A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”

“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”

“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”

You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”

The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.

Shit.

Your room…and Deran’s room.

“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”

It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.

Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.

“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.

Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?

You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”

The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.

You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.

At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.

You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—

But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.

“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.

Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.

“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”

Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.

“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”

Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.

He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.

Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.

“No.”

You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.

He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.

The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.

Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.

As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.

If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.

And that’s a very dangerous thought.

Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.

“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.

He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.

You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.

“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”

“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”

You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”

Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.

You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”

It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.

“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.

“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.

The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.

Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.

Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.

At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.

You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.

“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”

You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.

“Where’s Pope?”

Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”

“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.

“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”

Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”

The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.

“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”

You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”

Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.

Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.

When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.

Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.

All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.

Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.

You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.

It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.

The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.

He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.

Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.

When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.

He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.

Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.

If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.

You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.

Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.

Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.

Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.

But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.

So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?

Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.

You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.

You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.

He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.

“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”

“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”

“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.

“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.

Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.

And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.

You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.

You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.

You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.

“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”

“You were right.”

He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”

You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”

He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.

“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”

No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.

“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”

You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.

“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”

“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.

“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.

“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”

“Why?”

You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”

You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.

His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”

Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”

You swallow. “Now…”

Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.

For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.

His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.

“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”

“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.

“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.

You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.

Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.

He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.

You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.

His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.

Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.

The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—

Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.

“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”

Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.

You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.

“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”

You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”

Really smooth, idiot.

Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.

“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”

A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”

Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”

For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.

After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.

“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”

Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”

The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.

And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.

It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.

“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.

You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.

“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”

You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.

“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”

She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.

Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.

“Oh—”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”

Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”

“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”

That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.

Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?

When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.

By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.

“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.

“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”

Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”

“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”

He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”

You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”

“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”

You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.

What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?

No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.

Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.

Pope’s mouth is on your throat.

Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.

An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.

He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.

“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.

“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”

His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”

A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”

“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”

Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”

You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”

You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.

You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.

Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.

“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.

“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”

Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.

Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.

“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”

“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”

Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”

And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”

You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.

“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”

You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.

And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.

Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.

And he knows you very well.

Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.

He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.

Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.

But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.

He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.

Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.

Still. He never expected it to be Pope.

But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?

He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.

His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.

When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”

You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.

“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”

Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.

The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.

But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.

He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”

You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”

“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”

“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”

“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”

You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”

“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”

You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”

He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.

“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”

He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”

You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.

“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.

He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.

You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”

“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”

He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”

You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”

That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.

Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.

Let me know how it goes.

You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.

How pissed is he?

He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.

It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.

Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.

Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.

When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.

“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”

But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.

He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.

It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.

You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.

“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”

“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.

You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.

“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”

His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.

And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.

He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }

“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”

“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.

“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”

The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.

A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.

“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”

He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.

“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.

“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”

Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.

And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.

They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.

Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.

Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.

It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.

“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”

“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”

He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”

“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”

He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”

The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.

“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”

Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”

By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.

Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.

You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.

“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.

You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.

He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”

“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”

Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.

The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.

Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???

thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

“And which one are more you?” He tapped his finger to his lips as he looked at the different flowers in front of them. He pointed at some pink roses in the very back of the display and you nodded. 

You grabbed all three bouquets of flowers, some filler bits, and a couple of vases. When you and Kian got home he insisted on creating his own bouquet. You cut the stems to size for him as he arranged them and decided the perfect place for them was the living room table. 

You agreed it was the perfect place as you put the remaining two bouquets on the kitchen counter and dining table. You liked that you could see the flowers from every corner of the house. 

When Baran got home that night Kian had been picked up by his father and it was just the two of you in the house. She immediately smelled the flowers when she walked in. You were taking a lasagna out of the oven when she arrived and didn’t see or hear her come in. 

But when you heard sniffles you quickly turned around and saw Baran crying. You turned off the oven and rushed to her side. You caressed her arms and searched her eyes, trying to figure out why she was crying. 

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Baran blubbered for a few minutes and gestured to the flowers. 

“You got me flowers?” You smiled at her and relaxed. 

“Yes, actually Kian chose them and even made you a little bouquet. It’s in the living room.” Baran clutched her heart before grabbing your face and pulling you into a rather wet kiss. 

You smiled into the kiss nonetheless and wiped away her tears. 

“This is the first time anyone’s ever bought me flowers.” Your eyes widened as Baran’s watery doe eyes stared up into yours. Your jaw dropped. The thought had never even crossed your mind. 

“What do you mean?” She shrugged as she pulled you into the kitchen and served you both a portion of lasagna. You sat at the dining room table with her and brought two glasses of water. You were both sitting next to each other, angled towards one another as you ate. 

“Mark always thought they were stupid so he never bought them.” She was so nonchalant about the whole thing it made you angry. 

“He may be a good dad, but damn that man was such a crappy husband. I will now be budgeting for flowers for the rest of our lives. I’m going to add it to my spreadsheet now actually.” Baran chuckled at you. She thought it was adorable that you had an expenses tracker. 

“The rest of our lives?” You blushed as you realized what you said, but knew you meant it. Baran stared at you quietly as you put your phone down after adding it to your spreadsheet. 

“Yes. I loved choosing them with Kian and you deserve flowers.” Baran’s eyes softened as she grabbed your hand. 

“Good. Do you think Kian would enjoy choosing flowers for our wedding?” You almost spit your water across the table. Baran wholeheartedly laughed as she kissed your hand. 

Your heart was racing as your face flushed again and your palms began to sweat. 

“Don’t worry azizam, I’m not proposing. Not yet anyway.” Baran smiled into her water watching you squirm in your seat. This woman was going to be the death of you and somehow you were right where you wanted to be.

***

Dating Chief of Emergency Medicine Robby would include…

A man who very rarely spends his money on anything enjoyable. He finds very little reason to treat himself, the only reason he bought an apartment is because of Jack and his wife before she passed. He basically let them pick it and decorate it with the very little furniture, and whenever you don’t come over for a while it gets a bit messy. Not awful, buts there some clothes on the ground, a few beer bottles on the end tables, some dishes in the sink, and the feeling of blinds not being opened for a while. He’s just so tired after shift and has another one the next day so he doesn’t can’t make himself put in the effort every time. When you came along he quickly just… handed over his card. Not in a ‘I’m in charge’ way, or even some super sexy way, no it’s a ‘I’m scared of you not having everything you need incase I leave someday. He’s added your name to some banking things but doesn’t tell you. On his good days he dresses up, takes you to dinner, or if he’s having a really good few weeks he’ll take you out camping or to some hotsprings resort. On his bad days though? When he’s off shift but his mind is attacking him? He wants to lay in bed with you. Hold you in his big arms, feel along your body to remind himself your real, see your done hair and nails while wearing way to expensive lounge wear, and know that he’s taking care of you.

Dating Senior Attending Baran Al-Hashimi would include…

A simple but expensive life. She has a nice home, cozy that she doesn’t owe on anymore, room for herself, you, and her son when she has him. She doesn’t like to flaunt the money openly, but when you really look at what she owns you realize how high quality it is. She doesn’t buy a new expensive car every year, but the one she has certainly is luxurious when you get in it with its heated seats (which she always has turned on and ready before you even get in), and smooth feel when driving. Clothes aren’t overly flashy, but they’re definitely more than is necessary. If you like lulu, she’s buying matching sets. If you don’t, she’s stocking your closet with whatever brands you like. You want a coffee? Sure, you can both drive down to that one fancy place where the pastries are way too expensive but just melt in your mouth. When she wants to treat you? You go to this smaller little restaurant where you can sit side by side, and she orders fancy wine, and even your food because she’s been eating ‘fancy food’ longer then you so she’ll know what you like

Dating Attending John Shen would include…

A life of enjoying yourselves. John worked incredibly hard during med school and residency, and now he likes to enjoy the money he has. He likes to go out for dinners, getting a coffee everyday, living in a nice apartment, and once a year he takes you on a big trip. Plans his vacation around it for wherever you both decide to go, and you make the trip count. You go to the best restaurants, stay in the best hotels, go out and do activities while also enjoying just laying around together. One your last trip, he led you to a romantic dinner on the beach before getting on one knee and proposing. The diamond is gorgeous, and you celebrate big that night.

Dating Senior Attending Jack Abbot would include…

Being spoiled fucking rotten. He legit gets off to the fact that he’s financially providing for you. He certainly doesn’t have anything better to do with the money, so might as well spoil you. In a world of Robbies and Shens, he’s perfectly in the middle. He had a nice house but not too flashy, he has average clothing while you have new clothes, hair and nails done, and the sweetest smelling perfume. He’s got you a card for his account and if he checks his account and you haven’t bought anything for the day he suggests you go get yourself a treat. Maybe that fancy coffee you seem to love? Or maybe a new pair of shoes- you know what, get a new outfit, you’re going out to dinner. He cleans up nicely too though. He has his crisp suits, designer shoes, he has some sort of collection of things that are expensive and you don’t quite get. He also has a pool. People come in to clean and maintain it just so he can watch you sun tan in the pretty bathing suits(or nothing) and he gets to lather you in sunscreen every 90 minutes because he’s a doctor and he knows best, baby :)

You and John Shen were different in many ways, you were a sunshine of a woman, awkward, shy, easily flustered, yet a sweetheart, everybody loved you, and you worked dayshifts. John, however, was cool, calm, and collected even under pressure, always sipping on a Dunkin cup.

You and John decided to make your relationship work, even though you worked opposite shifts, and what made up for the time you missed with eachother was the small moments.

Like the leftovers left in the fridge with a sticky note from you, saying, "please eat, made your favorite :) x" and John always smiled at them, the mornings where you tiredly kissed him goodbye before going to work, you coming home to a load of laundry in the dryer. Those small moments made it all worth it.

You had gotten the day off, and decided to bring some baked goods to bring to Shen and the rest of the nightshift, so you got dressed and headed out the door, the drive to work short, and soon you're parking in the employee parking lot, carrying the boxes of pastries in, smiling when you see the nighshift charge nurse, Lena, who smiles brightly at you.

"Hey, Sunshine, he's in triage," she says, already knowing why you're here, and you nod in thanks.

You walk towards the break room, fluorescent lights bright like usual, doctors and nurses and other hospital personnel hurrying past you. You drop off the pastries, and leave the break room again.

"I brought pastries for anyone who wants, they're just in the break room," you tell Abbot who's reading a chart at the nurses station, and he looks up in surprise before grinning.

"There's my favorite Shen," he huffs and strides over to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"I don't think HR tolerates bias," you grin up at him, "but I won't tell on you," you whisper.

"Who brought cupcakes?" You hear Mateo yell, and a few of the nurses and doctors you recognize stop.

"Our favorite Shen!" Abbot calls back to him, ruffling your hair.

"Hey! I thought that was me," Shen huffs, finally getting out of triage, heading towards you with a smile.

"Hi, sweetheart," John mutters, and Abbot lets go of you and walks away, going back to work.

"What're you doing here? You should be home in bed. It's 1 am." He sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Couldn't sleep, and I missed you, so I decided to bake, cause I couldn't come here emptyhanded," you smile up at him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Shen!" A resident says, walking past you with a cupcake in hand.

"You're welcome," you grin. "See? Happy doctors, happy patients, right?" You tease.

He shakes his head with a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips, "alright, Cupcake, go home before Abbot comes back over here and you two get up to something," John says softly.

"What?" Abbot gasps dramatically, coming up behind you, arm back around your shoulder, "we would never, right sweetheart?" He teases, bumping his hip gently into yours.

"You know we wouldn't," you bat your lashes at John, giggling at his exasperated expression, before he smiles, and shakes his head again.

"Why must you torture me like this?" John sighs dramatically.

"Alright. I'm going home," you say, and turn to hug Abbot who hugs you back, pressing a kiss to your temple, "don't crash," he says teasingly before walking away again.

You turn back to Shen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You press your lips softly to his, and he places his hands on your waist, leaning down slightly to meet you.

"Love you," you whisper against his lips.

"Love you too," he says, and pulls away with a sigh.

"Don't overdose on caffein, please," you tease, pressing a last kiss to his cheek before finally walking away, calling goodbye's and you're welcome's to the people thanking you for the baked goods.

You wake up just before your alarm goes off, and turn it off before it can start blaring. You roll out of bed with a groan, tired from too little sleep, and your taxing job as an attending on the dayshift.

You get ready, half-awake, bringing a to-go cup of coffee, sipping at it as you drive to work, the bustling city of Pittsburgh quiet other than the sounds of cars on roads and birds screaming.

When you get into work, you head towards the nurses station where Robby is already waiting for you, waiting to do handoff with Jack and John.

"Hi, Robby," you smile at him, and lean against the desk beside him.

"Hey, Sunshine," he responds with a nod, and the two of you stand in silence, until Jack and John come towards you.

You and the other attendings finish handoff, and everybody on the day shift starts to get to work, though you follow John to the locker room.

"Hi, missed you," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing soft kisses to his lips, his hands falling to your hips, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing against your scrubs.

"Missed you too, sweetheart, I'll see you at home?" John murmurs against your lips.

You nod, "yeah, I will. Sleep well," you say softly as he gathers his stuff, and waves a final bye at the exit of the hospital.

You let out a sigh and watch him walk towards the staff parking for a moment before getting to work.

It was hard working opposite shifts, but you and John made it work, still loving and always making time for eachother no matter what gets in the way.