Read Until The World Fades

Taglist: @bruhitsmoose , @lilmisslexapro , @stylesonlyangel4 , @lavend3rdust

Mental Health Resources:

ʚɞCanadaʚɞ𔓘 Call or Text if you are struggling or worried about someone you know: 988𔓘 CMHA “How to Get Mental Health Help”

Please, if you feel inclined, feel free to send me your country’s resources so I can link them for others. ♡

Taglist: @bruhitsmoose , @lilmisslexapro , @stylesonlyangel4 , @lavend3rdust

Mental Health Resources:

ʚɞCanadaʚɞ𔓘 Call or Text if you are struggling or worried about someone you know: 988𔓘 CMHA “How to Get Mental Health Help”

Please, if you feel inclined, feel free to send me your country’s resources so I can link them for others. ♡

His words are muffled, and they hardly sound like him. You look down. All you can see is the silver-dark mess of his hair and the hard, unevenly breathed curve of his back.

How bad was this dream? You want to murder it, choke it out with your hands.

Too much?

“What happened?”

Jack shakes his head, and the movement drags his cheek lower, from your chest to your stomach. He presses his face there as if the inside of you is where nothing can find him.

...You're flattered. Somewhere, in all of the belly-tense confusion.

"Jackie, I'm here."

You stroke his hair. He grips you harder.

"No, you weren’t. I couldn’t get to you."

His voice is hoarse. You let out a sigh, stomach sinking deeper.

Jack doesn't need to offer more, you know his nightmares always leave debris behind. They can be about so many things, but when they're about you and Chubby, you've become aware that they've turned you two into every possible ending he's spent trying to prevent.

You bend over him as much as his hold allows and press your lips to his hair.

"It was a dream. You’re home. We’re okay."

His fingers dig into your sides. You frown sleepily at that. You're only trying to help, but the pain is almost a pleasant delight---your greedy need for his need. You won't bother Jack with that now.

"You can't promise. Don't."

You can hear the anger grow louder in Jack's command, but it immediately falls back into a wavering, low noise.

You understand, you think. He doesn't want reasons that his anxieties won't let him believe, so you stop promising. You just hold him, palm moving slowly over his head, down his neck, across the tense spread of his beautiful, thick shoulders.

When he begins to cry into you, you're not sure that he knows he is.

You feel Jack's hot tears soak through your shirt, and he's not exactly fighting himself until you can be sure of the moment he realizes you can feel it. His tears, his silent cries.

He turns his face deeper into your stomach, hiding.

Your heart breaks before your face does.

"Jack, breathe, baby---"

You're surprised when he pulls away from you, especially when he was so in need of locking your body with his tears and arms, but your gaze follows his---to the dimly glowing screen of the baby monitor.

Jack reaches for it and stares at the tiny, black-and-white video image of Chubby lying sprawled in her crib. He holds it, still and focused.

"Chubby’s sleeping, Jack. She's fine."

He lifts his head, and as resentfully handsome in his tears, he looks wrong. Pale with reddened eyes and a mouth pulled so tight, like it's the only thing stopping him from making another sound.

All you want is for him to be happy, that's right. That's Jackie at his most beautiful.

Jack looks back to the monitor.

"You can't tell she's breathing on this."

It's a mumble as he throws the blanket aside and grabs his prosthetic from beside the bed. His hands are still shaking too badly for him to work the liner properly.

You crawl towards his side of the bed.

"Jack, slow down. The monitor---"

"I need to see her."

There's no room in his voice for discussion. And you know what? You know better than to try. Not tonight.

Jack gets the prosthetic on wrong the first time. You hear him swear under his breath and rip it loose before trying again. You move to sit next to him, but he holds out one hand without looking.

"You're staying."

The command is instinctive. You go still, and that's when he realizes what tone he's given you. He looks over his shoulder.

"Please, Sleepy."

"...Okay."

He stands, and his first step is unsteady, but the second finds him. He's gone before you know it, with all the urgency you're sure only he bears for the reassurance that a nightmare didn't take his girls away.

The first step is unsteady.

The second finds him.

Then he leaves the bedroom with the silent urgency of a man responding to a code no one else can hear.

Chubby’s door is cracked. Jack stops just outside it.

Good. Good. He can hear her now, her soft little breaths. Alive. Good. His hands will stop trembling in a second. He knows it. He fucking better, because there was a dream that kept some silence to a room where no living person belongs, and that he...that he....

He had found you first. Or what was left of you beneath the white sheet. Then someone handed him Chubby's shoe. The little girl you gave him. Nobody would tell him where she was, and he remembers screaming at Robby and tearing at curtains and slamming on doors.

Jack pushes Chubby’s bedroom door open. The sight nearly brings him to the fucking floor. You and she have a tendency of doing that. Menaces.

She's hugging Bun-Bun, safe in a way that kills him. Good.

Jack approaches the crib and places his hands on the railing, watching her chest fall and rise. He counts five, ten breaths.

Why isn't his heart finding its way out of the fucking fire?

He reaches inside and shushes the offended noise that leaves his little girl when he picks her up and puts her against his chest.

"Dada's got you, Chubs. He loves you so...so much."

The kid's heavy with sleep, but alive enough to knock her head into his chin when she settles. Jack closes his eyes. He breathes in.

He doesn't realize he's holding her too tight until he squirms. Fucking hell.

"Sorry."

Her head lifts, eyes barely open under her heavy lids.

"Dada?"

Jack swallows, not blinking.

Yeah, wake your daughter up from her sleep cause you had a nightmare. Dad of the year.

"Yeah?"

She blinks, and Jack tries to turn away before she can see him properly. But he should know his kid better.

Too late.

Her little hand rises, and his grief and self-hatred can only slow in its boiling when she begins to...pet his cheek.

Jack freezes in walking back to the bedroom. One of her fingers smears his tears away. Her brows pull together.

"S’okay, Dada. Okay? You okay?"

...He shouldn't put this on her, but how can he lie after that? How?

Jack's sigh is awfully loud and wobbled, just as wobbled as his chin.

"I had a bad dream, pretty."

He can tell Chubby's considering this. You've explained bad dreams to her before. Monsters aren't real, they're just scary things while she's safe in bed.

He'll never tell her how real they can all be in his head.

Chubby smiles. She knows the treatment for this.

"Mommy kiss."

...Fuck.

Jack looks toward the hallway, where he finds you standing with your chest stained where he cried into it. You look exhausted. The most beautiful.

He's sorry, baby. Are you sorry for being the most beautiful?

Jack’s eyes fill again. Chubby follows his sight, reaching for you, but when you come close, she doesn't care to leave his arms.

She just pulls you by the collar of your shirt and brings you into the hold.

Jack's arms close around your waist, and Chubby's held between you, very warm. Very confused. She's already beginning to drift off again. You kiss her cheeks before Jack's.

She smiles when she sees your lips meet his.

"Dere. Dada better?"

Jack looks down at your baby.

She's too small to be made responsible for this. Too small to learn that her father’s grief can be soothed by her and you alone.

But she's already petting his face again.

"S’okay, Dada."

Jack takes her hand and kisses the back of her palm, feeling you pressed up beside him.

...And he is. He is so much better. Both his girls are alive beneath his hands.

--- --- ---

Jack peeked outside the window, frowning. The weather had become a real problem - it was typical February weather: cold, windy, rainy and - just fucking unpleasant. Especially if you had a highly active toddler running around who wanted to go to the playground no matter what. He was glad he only had five toes left to potentially lose to frostbite - even though he’d had a nightmare just yesterday where his prosthetic leg had frozen onto his knee. In his dream he had to thaw it out with a hairdryer before he could get it off.

His brain was weird.

He shook his head slightly then looked back at the laptop screen. He was just scrolling through his email account - and then he stopped.

An email from the PTMC. Subject: Your Test Results Are Available

He clicked on it:

Dear Mr. Abbot Your laboratory results from your recent Post-Vasectomy Semen Analysis are now available. Please log in to your patient portal to review your results. If you have any questions, please contact your healthcare provider. Kind regards, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Department of Urology

He swallowed hard. 

Uh-oh. 

The moment of truth.

He didn’t want to think too hard about that appointment - him, alone in that sterile room, a specimen cup in front of him and just the sheer pressure to deliver - but he was really interested in the results. He was just fucking hoping all the pain had been worth it.

He logged into his patient portal and clicked on the attached report. He scanned the numbers.

Interpretation: No sperm identified (azoospermia). Findings are consistent with a successful vasectomy. Recommendation: Based on this specimen alternative contraception is no longer required unless otherwise advised by your treating physician.

Jack stared at it for a moment longer. He felt - weird. In a good way. Mostly. He knew that this was the result he had been hoping for. And still - it felt weirdly strange to know that he wouldn’t be able to get anyone pregnant now - especially not you.

He took a long breath, rolled his shoulders and looked up. “HONEY!”

“Yeah?” You stood in the bathroom, getting ready for the day - later than usual because you had been exhausted, sleeping for ten hours straight.

“I’m officially shooting blanks now!”

That was met with silence. A moment later you appeared in the doorframe, looking confused. “Um - what now?”

He gestured toward the screen. “I got the lab results. It’s official. The vasectomy worked.”

You started to smile. “Oh, wow, that’s great news. So we officially can get rid of the condoms then?”

“Fuck yes” he breathed out, his eyes shining. “We really need to celebrate that properly.”

“Oh, wow.” You laughed. “Let’s see how I feel tonight. My back’s still killing me.”

He immediately frowned. “No wonder, you carried these big-ass shopping bags yesterday - I told you you could just leave them in the car and I’d fetch them.”

You waved it off. “Anyway. I need a couple of minutes and then I’m ready. We could probably go outside for a bit? Maybe just the park? I can’t stomach an indoor playground today - the thought of fifty kids screaming and running around would probably trip me over the edge.”

Jack grinned. “Yeah, get this. Get yourself ready and we’ll see. Where’s Lizzie?”

“Playing in her room” you said with a shrug then walked back into the bathroom.

Jack looked back at the screen. 

Azoospermia.

He let out a sigh then opened the next mail. It was from your mom, which immediately made him sit up straighter on the sofa. It was a very detailed question catalog - he counted seventeen questions - about the wedding. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He was halfway through reading it when Lizzie waddled into the living room. She was unusually quiet - normally she arrived like a tiny hurricane. Loud. Fast. Carrying at least one object in her tiny hand which she’d smack against the floor, the wall or him.

Now she just climbed onto the couch beside him with a tiny serious face and leaned against his side. That alone was enough to make him look up. He put the laptop away immediately and took a look at her. 

“Hey Bean.” He brushed a hand over her curls. “You okay, princess?”

She looked up at him with big green eyes. “Izzie sick.”

Jack froze. “What?”

She nodded once. “Izzie sick.”

Immediately every emergency physician instinct in his body activated. He sat up straighter, turned fully toward her, already scanning her over and placed a hand on her forehead. “Okay, baby, what hurts?”

Lizzie blinked at him. “Izzie very sick.”

“Okay. You’re sick. I hear you. But what hurts, Bean?” He placed a hand on her stomach. “Does it hurt here?”

She continued to stare at him.

Jack cleared his throat. “HONEY?”

“Yeah?” Your voice came muffled from the bathroom.

“LIZZIE SAYS SHE’S SICK.”

You appeared in the doorway almost immediately. “Sick?”

Lizzie looked between both of you now, suddenly receiving the attention of two parents. She put her thumb into her mouth.

Jack touched her forehead again. She didn’t feel warm. No fever, he added to his mental checklist. “Bean, tell Daddy what hurts.”

She frowned like she was thinking hard about it, then leaned against him more dramatically. “Izzie sick.”

He let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. “Okay” he murmured mostly to himself, then glanced over at you. “Any vomiting? Diarrhea? Did she eat normally? Bean, do you have a headache?”

“Jack.” You really tried to hide your smile.

“She’s quieter than usual.”

“Jack.”

“Do you have a stomach ache, Bean?” He rubbed his own stomach. “Does your tummy hurt?”

“Husband.”

“She said she’s sick but it’s impossible to give a proper diagnosis if she doesn’t say what hurts.”

Lizzie watched him closely now. Her hand flew to her stomach, her brows furrowed and her lip started to wobble. “Izzie sick?” Her eyes got shiny.

“Oh, baby.” Jack pulled her onto his lap immediately. “Hey, Bean, princess, sweetheart, it’s okay. Don’t cry. Daddy is taking care of your ouchie, okay?”

Her face crumpled completely and a moment later she was crying - actual devastated sobs and big tears, her face pressed against Jack’s chest.

You had to turn away for a second because the situation was becoming absurd. Jack was too absorbed with in doctor mode that he didn’t notice what Lizzie was clutching in her tiny fist.

Instead he rubbed her back, looking mortified. “No, no, no, Bean, hey, tell Daddy what’s wrong, huh?”

She just sobbed harder into his shirt.

Jack swallowed hard. “Maybe we should bring her to the Pitt, get her checked out.”

You finally stepped in. “Jack.”

“What? Is she bleeding somewhere?” He leaned forward, checked the back of her shirt, looking alarmed.

“No.” You shook your head. “She just wanted you to play doctor with her.”

“She’s crying.” He stared at you like you had three heads.

“Yeah, because you panicked.”

That left him stunned. You pointed to the toy stethoscope clutched in her tiny hand.

Jack looked from you, to the stethoscope, back to you - and finally to Lizzie. “Bean, do you want to play doctor with Daddy?”

She wailed loudly. “Izzie siiiiiick.”

You sat down beside them, stroking her back. “Baby, are you hurting anywhere?”

She shook her head, hiccuping. “... no.”

Jack stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lost the fight and laughed outright. Lizzie peeked up to you, her crying slowly fading. 

You pressed a kiss onto her head. “You’re fine, baby. You’re not sick. You just want Daddy to be the doctor, right?”

She hiccuped again, then nodded. “Daddy Dana.”

Jack dropped his head back against the couch with a groan. “Oh my god, Bean, I was worried sick.”

She turned her head to him immediately. “Daddy sick?” Her eyes widened.

You nearly choked on your laughter.

When Jack didn’t answer right away she scrambled from his lap and ran out of the room. A moment later she appeared again, holding her little doctor kit, half-open, with the contents leaving a trail behind her. She put it on the ground and picked up a bandage. She climbed back onto his lap and smacked it right on his cheek. “Izzie Dana.”

Jack looked deeply betrayed by the entire situation for a moment - then his face softened. Apparently he couldn’t stay mad at his primary physician - especially when she was his daughter who just stuck a bear-shaped bandage right on his face.

“No, Bean” he muttered. “Daddy’s not sick. He’s just stupid apparently.”

She stared at him and touched his face sympathetically. “‘kay.”

“Maybe you lost some of your intelligence with your sperm?” you suggested, still laughing. “Maybe you’re just a little stupid now?”

He shot you a nasty look. “You’re a minx.”

Lizzie cuddled him. “Daddy dupid.”

That started the next laughing fit. “Lizzie, no, you can’t say that.”

“Daddy dupid” she repeated, nodding along.

Jack cradled her head, still shaking his head. “Five minutes ago I was worried we’d end up in the Pitt again with her. Now I’m only worried she’ll run around daycare telling anyone her dad is stupid.”

You shrugged. “It could be worse.”

“How?”

“She could run around telling people you’re shooting blanks.” You grinned.

He groaned.

Lizzie looked up. “Banks.”

You started laughing again. “Close enough, Bean. Close enough.”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

--- --- ---

Every time you returned to your usual workstation to sign off on a patient’s chart or update a note, a piece of candy was sitting right beside the keyboard.

First, a strawberry hard candy.

Later, a mini chocolate bar.

Then, a honey caramel.

You stared down at the caramel, a familiar warmth knotting in your chest.

Before he went away, before the sudden leave of absence, the rehab, the heavy silence that had hung over the ER in his absence, Frank had made a habit of doing exactly this.

He’d slip you sweets between heavy cases, a quiet, unspoken way of keeping your energy up and reminding you to take care of yourself without making a scene in front of the rest of the staff.

But you hadn’t seen him.

You weren't assigned to the trauma bays today, and as far as you knew, Dr. Langdon wasn't even back on the schedule yet.

"Hey," Robby said, cutting through your thoughts as he nudged a chart into your hands. "I need you to consult on a complex laceration down in bed 6. I practically had to drag Frank over there myself to take the case, he’s trying to ease back in, but we're drowning today and he's being totally stupid by doubting himself."

You froze, the chart hovering mid air.

"W-what do you mean? Frank? He's back?"

Robby paused, looking at you like you’d missed a flare going off in the middle of the hallway. "Langdon. He came in this morning. HR sign off, official return, the whole deal. Though honestly, he’s spent half his shift dodging the main floor." Robby gave a quick wave of his hand, already moving toward another bay. "Anyway, go give him a hand before he tries to escape the case."

Your heart took a hard thud. You clutched the chart to your chest and walked toward bed 6, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Eyes fixed on the patient's vitals on the top clipboard page, you rounded the curtain, talking fast to cover the sudden flutter in your stomach. "Dr. Robinavitch said you needed a second look at-"

You stopped mid sentence.

Standing at the bedside was Frank.

He looked rested, sharp, and unmistakably him.

He paused mid glove snap, turning his head as his eyes locked onto yours. A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips, carrying all the familiar warmth you’d missed for months.

A breath escaped you, half laugh and half disbelief.

"I knew you were here," you said, a bright smile breaking across your face as you reached into your pocket and held up the little wrapped caramel.

Frank chuckled, his eyes turning tender. "I couldn't let my favorite resident run out of energy on my first day back, could I?" You smiled, then pouted slightly, tilting your head.

"Hi." You'd missed him terribly.

"Hi, you." he answered, smiling sweetly at your expression.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

It was late, the hour where exhaustion catches up to everyone at once.

You were stretched out on the couch, half-asleep, resting your head on a pillow while looking at your phone, waiting for your son to tired off. Your two years old son, Tobias, was playing with his toy cars around the coffee table.

Frank was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sipping a cup of tea. His shoulders were tense, his body carried the stress of a long day in the ER.

All he needed was a quiet night with his family.

But there was nothing quiet about it.

Today you had meant to cover your glucose sensor after your afternoon shower, you always kept a protective patch, especially around a curious toddler. But running on low sleep and mom brain, you’d forgotten to patch it.

You’d explained to Tobias in simplified terms:

"Mommy’s button. No touch."

Your little boy paused in his playing, his eyes catching the white plastic disc peeking out from the sleeve of your t-shirt.

To a toddler, it looked like a sticker.

And stickers were meant to be peeled.

He toddled over, leaning against the couch. With zero malice and impulsive toddler curiosity, he pinched the edge of it and gave a hard yank.

The adhesive ripped violently off your skin, taking tiny hairs and a layer of dermis with it, while the flexible sensor filament pulled sharply out of your arm.

"Ouch! Baby, no!" you gasped, sitting up instantly as a stinging pain shot up your arm. A little blood immediately began to bead at the insertion site, trickling down toward your elbow.

The loud tear and your sharp cry echoed straight into the kitchen.

Frank set his mug down on the counter and strode into the room. The sight of blood, the discarded sensor on the floor, and you wincing in pain sent irritation and panic through him, which instantly manifested in authoritative anger.

"Hey!" Frank’s voice cracked across the room like a whip, far harsher and sharper than intended.

The sheer command in his voice startled the toddler. Tobias froze in his tracks, his bottom lip trembling, his eyes wide as he shrank back.

"Frank, wait-" you began, clutching your arm.

"We told you no!" Frank snapped, kneeling down abruptly in front of Tobias, his face tight with frustration. "No touch Mommy’s sensor! You do not pull on her like that!"

Tobias burst into loud tears, burying his face in his tiny hands as he sobbed.

Frank stood up, running a hand over his face. "Dammit, are you alright? Was it new?" He stepped toward you, his eyes scanning your arm with urgency. "He knows better. He has to learn he can't just rip the sensor off you."

"Frank, stop." you said softly, reaching out to catch his wrist. Your voice was calm against his blunt edge. "Love, please."

He looked at you, his jaw still set, his sharp eyes searching yours.

"It’s okay," you whispered gently, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. "It was my fault. I forgot to put the overpatch on after my shower. It was completely exposed."

"That doesn't mean he can just-"

"Frank," you interrupted softly, holding his gaze. "He’s two. He didn't mean to hurt me. He doesn't understand. He just acted on impulse."

Frank closed his eyes, taking a breath. He looked down at his son, who was weeping uncontrollably, shaken by his father's anger.

Regret settled over Frank.

"God," Frank muttered quietly, his tone dropping into something far softer. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I... I just reacted. I hate seeing you hurt, and I am completely out of patience today."

"I know," you murmured. "But it's okay. He didn't do it on purpose."

"Do you need help-"

"Get him first," you nudged him gently toward the crying boy. "He needs his dad."

Frank swallowed hard. He dropped down to his knees in front of Tob. "Hey... hey, buddy. Come here," he said softly.

His little boy hesitated for a second before throwing his arms around Frank's neck, clinging tightly to his shirt as he sobbed into his shoulder.

Frank wrapped his arms securely around his son, resting his hand against the back of Tobias's head and rocking him gently. "I'm sorry, buddy. Dad shouldn't have yelled like that. You're okay. Mommy's okay. I was just worried, alright?"

You watched them from the couch, a soft smile tugging at your lips. Frank held Tobias close, murmuring calm words.

Once the boy had calmed down, Frank carried him over to the couch, setting him down gently beside you.

Tobias reached out tentatively, pointing a finger at your arm. "Mommy owie?" he sniffled. "I sowy."

"Mommy's fine, sweet boy," you smiled, kissing his hair, while Frank leaned his head back against the couch with a sigh.

Later, you sat on the table with a new glucose sensor, an alcohol swab, and a colorful overpatch laid out neatly.

Frank sat across from you, with Tobias on his lap.

Tobias's hands rested on Frank’s arms, his cheeks still a little flushed as he watched every move you made with absolute focus.

"Look, big guy," Frank murmured, his voice low and calm as he rested his chin lightly on top of Tobias s head. "Mommy is putting a new button."

Tobias nodded solemnly. You wiped the back of your left arm with the alcohol swab, letting the skin dry. Then, you picked up the applicator, positioning it against your tricep.

Tobias tensed up on Frank's lap, his fingers digging into his dad's sleeve. He remembered your sharp cry from earlier and looked up at Frank nervously.

"It's alright, buddy," Frank reassured him softly. "It doesn't hurt Mommy. Just a quick click."

With a firm press, the applicator clicked sharply against your skin. You pulled the plastic away, leaving the fresh sensor neatly in place.

Tobias gasped, leaning forward off Frank's chest to get a better look. "New button!" he whispered-screamed.

"Yes, sweet boy, new button," you confirmed with a smile, picking up the brightly patterned overpatch.

"Here, let me make sure the adhesive is set," Frank said, leaning forward to help. He reached out his index finger to smooth down the edge of the sensor.

Before his hand could even reach your arm, Tobias’s small hand shot out and swatted Frank’s wrist away with surprising force.

"No, daddy!" Tobias barked, his forehead furrowing as he glared at his father. "No touch!"

Frank froze, caught completely off guard.

You couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped you. Frank looked down at his son. The strict boundary Frank had enforced earlier was now being thrown right back in his face.

"Buddy... Dad is just helping mommy stick it down," Frank explained smoothly. He reached toward your arm again. "I just need to press right here-"

Tobias swatted at his wrist again, shaking his head firmly. "No! Daddy no! Owie!"

"Unbelievable," Frank muttered under his breath. He pulled Tobias back against his chest with a soft chuckle. "Alright, chief. Point taken."

"Good boy, my baby," you said gently, peeling the backing off the colorful overpatch. "Look, Mommy puts the sticker on top."

Carefully, you centered the patch and smoothed the bright adhesive over the sensor, sealing it safely against your skin.

Tobias sat up straight on Frank's lap and began to clap his tiny hands together, letting out a burst of giggles.

"Yay!" he squeaked, bouncing on Frank's lap. "Button safwe!"

Frank smiled and wrapped his arms around Tobias's stomach, giving him an affectionate squeeze that made the toddler squeal.

"That's right, buddy," Frank murmured softly, kissing his son head. "Mommy's all safe now."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Even then, when the sunlight splinters through your eyelids and rouses you back to life, it takes a considerable effort to even twitch your little finger, threaded through by a deep exhaustion. The bags under your eyes must be a wonder. 

Your throat feels like sandpaper when you stick out your tongue to wet your lips, grimacing at the taste of your own morning breath. When you try to lift yourself up, your arm buckles, sending you toppling back down. Second time’s the charm though. There’s a deep ache in your hips and joints that you only feel when you roll out of bed. It’ll likely linger into the rest of the day. 

“Where are you off to?” a heavy voice grumbles from the other side of the bed. 

“A shower. Then coffee,” you croak, tucking your feet into a pair of slippers before waddling over to the door where you keep a housecoat hanging.

“Put the kettle on f’r me, darling,” John grunts, before turning over and burying his head back into the pillows.  

The coffee maker boils and bubbles while you take a quick shower. It’s not what you need, but it’ll do until you’re alone, when you can take an hour long shower and luxuriate under the hot water with no thought to anyone waiting somewhere else in your house. 

You sigh and shut the water off.

The breakfast table feels like a scene from a dream. 

On the plate in front of you sits a satsuma orange, quartered, and toast with a thick layer of butter nearly spilling over the crust. Another plate sits on the placemat next to yours, piled high with toast, beans, sausage, and two fried eggs, a stark contrast from your plate. 

At the sink, the man you let spend the better part of the night rutting between your thighs washes a pan. You stare at the meaty, undulating slabs of his back muscles until you’re nearly hypnotized, only snapping out of it when he shuts the water off, laying the pan down to dry in the dish rack. 

“That’s all you’re having?” John asks, gesturing at your plate with his fork.

“For now,” you respond. “I might have something later if I’m still hungry.”

“Of course you’ll be hungry, you’ve hardly got anything on your plate. Here—have one of my eggs.”

He holds his plate over yours and uses his fork to push one of his fried eggs onto your plate. It flops unceremoniously onto your toast. 

You decide against snapping at him because it’s too early and you’re far too tired. You slice open the yolk with the side of your fork instead, staring at the yellow spill over the sides of your toast.

There is a moment over breakfast where you begin to wonder whether John will leave at all. He eats his breakfast and drinks his tea with no real sense of urgency, no indication that he believes that he’s overstayed his welcome. You don’t want to come out and say it, but you can feel yourself getting antsy, your leg jittering under the table. 

Then finally: “Well, this has been lovely, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”

Euphoria swells in your chest at the announcement, but you force it down, schooling your expression into something understanding. “You sure you don’t want more tea?”

The wry look he gives you lets you know that he can see right through your feigned dismay. “No, darling, I think that was enough for now.”

Shrewd man. Far too shrewd for the likes of you.

You send him off with a kiss on the lips and a look so heated that it nearly singes. And then he’s gone, the door locked behind him and his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether. 

And then, and only then, can you finally exhale. 

It’s one of the first weekends in a while where you feel no compulsion to go out or do practically anything. All you want to do is laze about. You make a batch of iced tea and plop yourself in front of the TV, feet tucked under your thighs and phone open in your hand, both screens on at the same time. 

It feels so good to do laundry after making a mess of everything. You strip the sheets and throw them into the washing machine the second John’s out the door, your clothes from the night before not far behind. Later, you cobble together lunch from whatever you have in the fridge, and when supper comes around, you order takeaway, barely cracking open the front door wide enough to snatch the bag off the stoop before retreating back inside. 

He’s still there though. Every time you get a twinge in your hips or an ache in your belly. Every time you glance towards your bedroom on your way to the kitchen and you see the sheets, all clean and neat now, though you can easily recall what they looked like just a few days ago—a tangled, filthy mess of cum, spit, and sweat. 

Unlike your sheets, the stink of John’s presence isn’t easily washed away. 

By the time Monday rolls around, you feel normal again. Like you’ve caught your breath after a long sprint. No bout of Sunday scaries this time, not after the weekend you had, but still you come into work with your head on a bit of a swivel, feeling a bit like an emperor in invisible clothes. Waiting, against all odds and rational sense, for someone to read the signs of your weekend on you. 

No one does, of course. No one says a word because no one notices a thing. You might have expected that if you weren’t so on edge, but paranoia has a way of twisting the mind. By the time lunch comes around though, and no one has said more than a pleasant word to you, you start to let go of the anxiety. Better late than never. 

The latter point doesn’t apply to your period. 

Tuesday is better. You pass a flower shop on your way to work and stop to smell the roses for a change, the heavy weight on your shoulders barely a feather in the light of a new day. It’s that time of summer where every colour is at its most saturated, the pinks and greens and golds and oranges so intense and vivid that their colours seem to almost pour out of them. 

And then it’s Wednesday.

Wednesday is a croissant, the buttery flakes scattered all over the wax paper that you use as a plate, and an iced coffee. It’s a series of boring meetings at work that barely move the needle. It’s a long, circuitous drive home that ends at least once in a dead end because of all the construction going on downtown. It is, in every sense of the word, a profoundly boring day.

The first thing you do when you get home is collapse on the couch for a solid half hour, shoes just barely kicked off at the door. Supper can wait until later. Your stomach grumbles when you think about it, but you just don’t have the energy to cook, all of it eaten up by the stress of the drive home.

This is how the rest of your life is going to look. With a baby, for sure, but still, just you. Just you to come home from work and cook and clean and do it all. And even though it’s what you’ve been working towards, you’re a little morose thinking about it.

There’s a knock on your door. You lift yourself up to sit, frowning at the door. The bell follows soon after. 

You know it’s John before you even check. Call it a sixth sense or intuition, but when the bell rings, your breath catches and your stomach clenches, and you know it’s him on the other side. 

He comes bearing gifts at least. A stack of takeaway containers in a brown paper bag. Even just the smell has you salivating. You can almost imagine that you let him in, that you took a step back and waved him inside, interest and appetite piqued by the smell of greasy food. 

You didn’t though, a sneaky little voice reminds you. You let the door open just enough to poke your head out and he was there on the other side, taking up every inch of space, as if someone had suddenly built a wall right outside your door. And he was gentlemanly about it, smiled down at you and asked you how you were, but his foot was against the door and then wedged between it and the frame, working it open gently with his leg and shoulder, pushing his way inside. Polite all the while, of course, announcing the meal that he’d come with and dropping a sweet kiss on the top of your head, but he did, in fact, push you aside on his way in. 

Your problem is that you can always find a silver lining. Anyone with any common sense would tell you to kick him out tout suite—shove him towards the door, bye bye, so long, thanks for all your help, I’ll let you know if I need you to come back—but you can’t help thinking that, you know, while you have him here, you might as well—

John catches you glancing towards your bedroom door and smiles, amused. “We can get to that later.”

And he does. 

Three times in one week. That’s how many times he comes over. He never leaves without at least folding you over the side of the couch and pumping a load into you, only satisfied when he dips thick fingers into a creamy centre and pulls them out wet, your trembling legs letting him know that the job is done. 

You don’t complain because what is there to complain about? You have a man at your beck and call—though you haven’t yet had to call him—willing to help you make a baby and not asking for anything in return. 

His involvement in your life extends beyond just the bedroom though. You suffer through mid-morning headaches for a week before realizing from the label on the jar that someone must have swapped your instant coffee for the decaf version. John doesn’t deny it when you bring it up. 

Prenatal vitamins are the next thing shoved down your throat, albeit not literally. Fresh, organic fruits and vegetables as well. And grateful as you are for him saving you the trip, you can’t help but wonder if he realizes that you don’t need his help. Eventually, you’re going to have to be self-sufficient. You can’t get used to John bringing you dinner or picking up your meds or getting your groceries because eventually it’s going to end. 

He doesn’t always stay the night. Sometimes he leaves right after the act or in the wee hours of the morning while you’re half-tucked under the sheets, limbs akimbo. His goodbyes are always a long, drawn out affair, even if it means pulling you from a dead sleep. Always a soft, slow kiss sipped from your lips and a little bit of tongue. One last once-over to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes he even fetches a glass of water to set on your bedside table for the next morning. 

A pity you can’t look forward to this for the rest of your life. 

A week and a half later, your period arrives right on schedule.

It isn’t a surprise—you warned John as much over dinner—but it does dampen your mood somewhat when you realize this means that you won’t be seeing John 

The next time John calls, you tell him as much. 

“We should probably reschedule—I’m on my period this week.”

You can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Are you going away as well?”

You frown. “No, I’m not going anywhere. Why?”

“Then why would we reschedule?”

“Oh. Okay.”

Implacable. Unflappable. If you knew more about him, you would’ve expected that from him, but you learn it too late. Instead, you find out about this particular character trait in the shower of all places, your cheek pressed against the wet tile and your hips canted back, John’s cock plunging between your legs, blood dyeing the water around your feet pink and swirling down the drain. 

If you’d known that about him, you might never have let things get to this point. But the dice have already been cast; they’re out of your hands now. All you can do is grip the reins in both hands and hold on for dear life. 

It’s difficult to imagine what your life will be like after this. You’ve spent so long waiting instead of living. Waiting takes up so much space, so much time. It fills the walls of your mind with its presence, a constant, irksome insistence, making the world you’ve been running towards seem leagues away. 

And then there are moments when it seems close enough to touch. 

A month passes like a buzzing fly. Here one second and gone the next. You have an alarm on your phone that goes off while you’re scrolling in bed, waiting for John to come over, and you blink when you see a reminder for the first day of your period. You hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you. 

You pull your shorts and underwear off right there on your bed, checking the gusset for blood and feeling your heartbeat speed up when you find nothing there. You’re late. 

You call and catch him a couple blocks from your place, sounding half-crazy over the phone, but you’re coherent enough for him to double back and grab a box of pregnancy tests. One of the three-pack ones, splurging a little. 

The second you let him in, John herds you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock at the same time. Your stomach drops out from under you when you hear it click. 

“Here. In this,” he says, handing you a small, plastic cup. 

“Wait, can’t I just pee on the stick?” you ask, reaching for the box that he yanks away from your grasping fingers.

John shakes his head. “This is a better method. Less chance of you missing or not wetting it enough. We’ll put the stick in when you’re done.”

“John—”

“We can stand here all night talking about it, if you’d rather?” The slight furrow of his brows signals that his patience is wearing thin. 

You’ve clearly been giving him too much leeway if he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with putting you through the indignity of peeing in front of him. 

You do it though. Hunched over on the toilet with your pants around your ankles and the cup between your legs, John leaning against the counter and watching you the whole time.You stare down between your spread thighs and into the bowl instead of meeting his eyes, half to ignore him and half to make sure that you don’t miss. 

When you’re done, you hand him the cup. Let him handle it while you wipe yourself off and pull your underwear back up. 

The wait is excruciating. Three minutes of pins and needles, front teeth chipping away at the nail of your thumb. You wish that John would distract you somehow, but his eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test, unwavering. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the alarm on his phone buzzes, practically leaping over him to grab the pregnancy test. 

Your heart sinks when only one line stretches across the display. You turn the test this way and that, trying to make out even the faintest indication of a second line, but it’s clear what that one line means.  

Taking it from your hands, John sets the test down on the counter and wraps his arms around you, cupping his hand around the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest.

“It’s alright, love,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “We’ll keep trying.”

His comfort is an unexpected balm. A firm pressure over a wound aching to open back up. 

It’s the first time he sleeps in your bed without making a move on you. You almost have half a mind to bring it up, but you bite your tongue just in time. Why spoil the mood when his arm makes as comfortable a pillow as any one of yours? You like the way his breath tickles the tip of your nose. The way he doesn’t snore but breathes so heavily that he might as well. 

You’re glad that it’s him. This would’ve been harder on your own, with no one around to make the heavy moments lighter. 

Sure, you would have had your friends to lean on. But you would’ve had them on weekends and at mocktail hours, not in the quiet of your bathroom, staring at a negative pregnancy test in only your underwear. 

You’re glad you have John.

Not everyone shares your opinion.

A lawyer friend (not a friend by virtue of being a lawyer, but simply happenstance) goes ashen when you finally break and tell someone about your arrangement with John.

“Did you hit your head or something? Are you out of your mind?”

You wince, sheepish, aware that you deserve the dressing down. “I know.”

“No, you clearly don’t know or you would have come to me about this before having unprotected sex with a stranger in order to get knocked up. Did he even get tested before sleeping with you?”

“Obviously. I’m not that stupid.”

“You actually are that stupid. Did you have him sign anything forfeiting parental rights?”

Your lips form in a perfect circle and she groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. 

A day later, she has something for you to give John to sign. It’s long and technical, but you understand the gist of what a voluntary forfeiture of parental rights entails. 

It should’ve crossed your mind to seek out legal advice before all of this, but you hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. You’d sort of hoped it would be quick, that he’d spend one singular night with you, and two to four weeks later, you’d be pregnant. You hadn’t expected it to take this long; you certainly hadn’t foreseen John's active and prolonged involvement in the process. 

Clearly, you haven’t been thinking straight these past few weeks.

The next time John comes over, you hand it to him, expecting to have his signature by the end of the night. Not anticipating any resistance, and why would you? Your arrangement with him is predicated on this being a temporary affair. 

His face gives nothing away as he works through the document. He might as well be reading a circular. 

“Very official,” he remarks. You almost feel bad about springing this on him after everything that he’s done for you. He’s been nothing but helpful and dependable since this started. 

You feel so bad that you actually apologize. “Sorry. One of my friends is just really paranoid. It’s just a formality.”

John doesn’t respond, flipping over to the next page, eyes still scanning the text.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” you insist, guilt clawing at your stomach. 

“Nonsense,” he says, dismissing your worry. “I know this is important to you. You have to take care of yourself and our baby. That’s what matters most.”

Your stomach flips. Our baby. It doesn’t alleviate the guilt you feel about ambushing him with a legal document when there are groceries on the counter still waiting to be unpacked, another one of his thankless gifts. It just notches the arrow, the bow pulled back to a taut full draw. 

“Do you have a pen, love? I didn’t think to bring one with me.” The arrowhead punches right between your ribs. 

“No, just take it home. I don’t need it today. Please,” you stress when he tries to argue, trying to take the papers from him. “John, I’m serious.”

He sighs, reluctantly handing you the contract back. “Alright, love, whatever you say.”

There’s a certain relief in getting that off your chest, even if it means putting it on the back burner for a while. It’s not like you have to deal with this now anyway. You aren’t even pregnant yet. 

That must occur to John as well because he wastes no time divesting you of your clothes, his passion tonight a slow burn, a little ember cooking you from the inside. 

Even he seems to be suffering from it tonight. He touches the head of his cock to your lips and sighs like it’s a shame he can’t come in there. He doesn’t mind wetting it though. Makes it a smoother glide when he gets you down on all fours, the floorboards chafing your elbows and knees with every thrust. 

The next morning, you happen to glance down at the coffee table on your way to the kitchen and notice the contract missing. John must have taken it on his way out. 

The age gap between the two of you had always been something you both navigated quietly, the twenty years of wear, loss and hard earned medical instincts that gave him those faint silver threads at his temples.

Usually, that difference felt like a safe harbor.

But tonight, right now, it felt like a burden.

"Jack-" you started, your voice trembling as you held the bleeding wound on your forearm.

"Don't," he snapped, his voice was cold, sharp, and vibrating with danger. You had never seen him direct at you that way.

He finally turned to face you, stepping into the center of the room. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle jabbed against his skin.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, pointing a finger directly at you, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "Answer me. What in God's name was going through your head back there?"

"The, the patient had a knife! He was escalating, and security was at the other end of the floor-"

"So you stepped in front of him?!" Jack raised his voice, a sharp laugh bursting from his throat before turning deadly serious again. "You stepped into the reach of an intoxicated patient holding a fucking knife, bare handed? Without gear, without training, without waiting five bloody seconds for back-up?!"

"He was going to hurt a nurse!" you shouted back, the adrenaline still coursing hot through your veins. "I was right there! I reacted!"

"You didn't react, you acted like a reckless child with a savior complex!"

The words hit you. You flinched, the sting of the insult cutting deeper than the actual slice on your arm.

Jack instantly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. But when he opened his eyes again, the fury hadn't faded, it had just shifted into something far darker, laced with terror.

"You could have been killed," he whispered, his voice dropping, trying to calm himself down. "Do you understand that? One inch to the right, one sudden movement, and he would have stab you on the chest. And I would have been dragging your body onto a gurney. I would have been the one running the code on my own girlfriend."

"I made a decision-"

"It was a stupid decision!" Jack slammed his hand down on the metal table. You flinched, with a mix of fear and hurt. "It was completely undeniably reckless! You aren't invincible. You think you're helping, but all you did was put yourself in fatal danger!"

He ran both hands through his hair, pacing the narrow length of the room. The angry on his face was agonizing to look at.

"This isn't a fucking videogame, he stabs you and you're gone," Jack murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he stopped pacing, looking at you with eyes that were red rimmed and filled with agony. "You can't do something so impossibly stupid, so utterly careless with your own life..."

He paused, swallowing hard, his chest heaving.

"I hate it when you're like this" he breathed, the words heavy and devastating. "How easily I could lose you because you don't respect how fast a life can end in this place."

Tears finally welled up in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. "Jack, please..."

"No," he said softly, holding up a hand, refusing to let you touch him even as his own hands shook violently. "I need you to listen to me. I love you, baby. I love you so much it frightens me every damn day. I cannot watch you throw yourself into a fire just to prove you're brave. If you ever, ever, do something like that again, I won't be able to keep doing this."

He stood there for a moment, watching you cry.

Then, he reached into the cabinet, pulled out a strip of sterile bandages and an antiseptic wipe, and walked slowly over to you. "Come here,"

As his hand brushed against your skin, you pulled your arm back sharply, taking a sudden step away from him.

"Don't," you choked out, wiping the tears from your cheek with your shoulder. "I can do it myself."

Jack stopped, his hand hovering in mid air. A deep frustration crossed his features, pulling his brow down tight.

He had reached his absolute limit, the adrenaline and sheer terror of the night twisting his patience thin.

"Don't be immature," Jack said, his voice dropping into a firm tone. "Stop acting hysterical. You're bleeding, sit down and let me fix it."

The words immature and hysterical sliced through you, burning far worse than the cut on your arm.

The built up fear, the humiliation of being berated like a child, and the weight of his anger all exploded at once. You were done with him tonight.

"I said I can do it!" you gasped out, your voice cracking into a choked sob. You shoved at his chest, hard enough to pus him and make the boundaries clear. "Just go away! Leave me alone!"

Jack froze, taking a step back, shocked by the pain in your voice. But before he could say another word, the door opened.

Outside, Shen was by the doorway, listening. When he heard your voice, he step in. He took in the scene instantly: you backed from Jack, chest heaving and sobbing hysterically, and Jack standing over you with bandages in hand, looking stormily defensive.

Shen didn't hesitate for a second.

"Jack," Shen said, his voice was completely non negotiable as he stepped directly between him and you. "Out. Now."

"Shen, this isn't-" Jack started as he looked at him.

"I said out, Abbot," Shen interrupted, pointing firmly toward the open door. "You're done in here. I'll take care of her."

Jack looked from Shen back to you. You wouldn't meet his eyes, your head turned away as quiet sobs tore from your chest.

For a second, the anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by the realization of how he had just hurt you.

With a tight nod, Jack swallowed hard, set the bandage strip down and walked out without another word.

The rest of the night shift passed in a cold fog.

Shen had cleaned and bandaged the cut on your arm, giving you a little speech before sending you back out to work.

For the remaining four hours, you actively avoided Trauma Bays, took the long way around the nurse's station, and kept your head down whenever his figure in scrubs moved through the hallway.

Jack did the same. Whenever you were in the same general area, his presence felt impossibly heavy, but he never approached.

When 7 AM finally rolled around, you clocked out, feeling bruised down to your bones. You walked out to the parking garage, cold morning air biting at your face.

You half expected him to have left without you, but there he was.

Jack was leaning against the passenger side of his car, holding two paper cups of coffee from the cafeteria. He always drove you home after your shift. It was a rhythm you’d built together, a quiet ritual of transitioning from the madness of the ER back to normal life.

Neither of you spoke on the drive. The silence in the car felt suffocating.

When he finally pulled up outside your apartment building, Jack cut the engine. He didn't unbuckle immediately. Instead, he rested his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield before turning to look at you when you opened the car door to leave.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly as you where already walking to the building with wet eyes. "Please."

You turned around, nodding slowly. You didn't want to bring him inside, so you two stayed in the hallway outside your apartment door, key resting heavy in your palm.

Jack stood a step away, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice at you," Jack began, taking a breath and looking at youy. "And I shouldn't have... used those words. I was... terrified. I was out of my mind with fear, watching you put yourself in front of a blade like that. But I handled it wrong."

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "You spoke to me like I was a child, Jack. You called me immature and hysterical."

"Because you were acting on pure emotion!" Jack said, stepping a fraction closer, though his tone was defensive despite his apology. "You're a talented healthcare worker, but you lack the experience to know when a situation is beyond your pay grade. You rushed in without thinking about the consequences. That is impulse. That is a young and reckless reaction, and I can't just ignore it because it hurts your feelings to hear it."

His words settled over you heavily.

He is apologizing for how he said it, but not for what he thought.

Standing there, looking into his eyes, you saw it clearly. He didn't see an equal who had made a high stress judgment call in a chaotic trauma center. He saw a young, naive girl he had to manage and protect from her own foolishness.

The age gap between you wasn't just a number to him right now; it was a wall he was using to put himself above you.

A cold clarity washed over the anger, leaving behind an ache.

"You really see me like that, don't you?" you whispered, the realization pulling a broken breath from you. "Just a young, immature girl who doesn't know any better."

Jack blinked, panic entering his eyes by the calm of your voice. "That's not what I'm saying-"

"It is," you interrupted, shaking your head gently. "You think I'm too young to understand the risks, and you think you're the only one in this relationship who has any wisdom. Profesional and personal talking."

"I'm trying to keep you alive!" Jack snapped softly, reaching out to touch your arm, but dropping his hand when you took a small step back. "I care about you. I love you. But I've been doing this for longer than you've been in medicine. I know how this ends when people get careless."

"I know you love me," you said, tears brimming in your eyes again. "And I love you, too."

Jack let out a breath, his shoulders dropping slightly in relief. "Okay. Good. Then let's just go inside, get some sleep, and-"

"No," you said firmly, lifting your chin. "We need space. I need space."

Jack froze, his forehead furrowing. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not breaking up with you. But I see how you see me during some shifts. I'm going to ask to be switched to day shift for a few days," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the tremble in your hands. "I need to work without you staring over my shoulder waiting for me to to fail and you need time to decide if you actually respect me as an adult, or if you just see me as someone you have to babysit."

Jack stared at you, stunned into silence. For the first time all night, the authority drained out of his posture, replaced by vulnerability.

"Day shift?" he repeated quietly, the reality sinking in. "We won't see each other at work. We won't even have the same sleep schedule."

"I know," you replied feeling your heart break and a tear escaping your eyes. You turned the key in the lock and opened your apartment door. "I don't liked how you talked to me tonight. I understand your point but I think that's what we need right now."

You stepped inside, but paused.

You looked back at him standing alone in the hallway. Despite everything, the sadness and terror in his eyes was still raw.

You leaned forward, rising on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss against his cheek.

Jack’s breath hitched. His hand shot forward, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you against him so suddenly it felt like a silent plea. He squeezed your waist with a desperate warmth, his whole body shaking as if he were trying to convince himself you were still whole and unhurt. For a fleeting second, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his uneven breath felt hot against your skin.

He wanted to hold on. He wanted to pull you back inside the safety of his arms, but the unspoken wall of his condescension still stood cold and immovable between you.

You gently placed your hand over his wrist and slowly pushed back.

His grip loosened with agonizing slowness, his fingers lingering on your waist as if letting go was tearing something out of him. He lifted his head, his eyes glossy, and completely shattered by the realization that his own need to protect you had pushed you away.

"Get some sleep, Jack," you whispered, your voice breaking on his name. "I will... I will text you later. Okay?"

His hand finally slipped off your side.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. He just nodded.

You stepped into the safety of your apartment and pulled the door shut. The click echoed down the hallway, leaving him standing in the cold alone. Regretting all he has said.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

--- --- ---

Robby pressed the bell and waited until he was buzzed in. He walked down the hallway, which was decorated in bright colours and with cartoon animals. It reminded him slightly on the peds room back in The Pitt, just with less people dying in here.

Significantly less.

He looked around until he found the door to Lizzie’s classroom, with a frog painted on it. He knocked gently and waited until the door was opened.

A young blonde woman stood in front of him, smiling. “Hey. You here for pick-up?”

Robby nodded. “Yeah. Elizabeth Abbot - her mom is stuck at the office for longer than planned and her dad is still sleeping off night shift. So they asked me if I could fetch her.”

“Ah, that’s nice of you. Let me fetch Lizzie. I’m Abigail, by the way.”

“Michael Robinavitch” he said with a smile.

She nodded and turned around. She let the door open and walked over to the small play kitchen, where Lizzie stood with a girl in a similar age and black hair. They were cooking together - or did something resembling cooking. The teacher crouched next to them, talking to Lizzie in a gentle voice.

Lizzie stared at her for a moment, her thumb already halfway to her mouth - then her whole face chanced in an instant. It scrunched up - and then she let herself fall down onto her backside and started sobbing. “No, no, nooooooooo.” She threw her hands around, her voice getting louder and louder. “NO. ‘IZZIE STAY. ‘IZZIE AND AMBER PLAY!”

Robby had to hide his smile.

Abigail turned around and pointed at him. “Lizzie, see, your uncle Michael is here to pick you up. That’s nice of him, right?”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” She was still sitting and wailing, pressing her eyes shut, her little hands clamped up in fists. “Noooooo.”

“Lizzie, look - he’s standing there, waiting for you. Do you want to come and say hi?”

She opened her eyes for a moment then closed them instantly. “Noooo.” She pressed her face against Abigails thigh.

Abigail furrowed her brows. “Lizzie, can you tell me if that’s your Uncle Michael?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Nooooo! Unc RARA!” Her sobbing bordered on hysterical by now.

“Um, okay.”

Robby shifted uncomfortable from one foot to the other. “She’s lying. Or - well, she’s not lying. But for her I’m usually Uncle Robby. Or Rara, as she calls me. No one calls me by my given name, you know?” He tried a charming smile.

Abigail stroked Lizzie’s cheek, then stood up slowly. She walked over to Robby, her steps a little stiffer than before. “Sir, I’m going to need to see some identification.” She grabbed the tablet from her desk, already opening Lizzie’s file.

“Yeah, sure, absolutely.” Robby reached for his wallet, opening it and a moment later handed over his ID.

The teacher studied it for a long moment then compared it with the details in the pickup authorization. Michael Robinavitch. Then she looked back at Lizzie, who was still sniffling while Amber hugged her.

Then she took a deep breath. “Okay, I do believe you are who you say you are” she said eventually. “But let me just doublecheck with her mom, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” He took his ID again. “Can I go and talk to Lizzie while you’re doing that?”

Abigail thinks about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

He gave her a smile then stepped toward Lizzie, suddenly feeling like Gulliver in Lilliput because all the children only reached as far as his knees. He sat down next to Lizzie.

“Hey Elizabeth.”

That made her look up. Her lip was still wobbling but she couldn’t quite hide the fact that her face lit up when she saw him. “Rara…”

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry for interrupting your playdate with… your little friend there. I’d be upset too if someone would come and kidnap me when-”

“Excuse me, did you just say kidnap?” Abigail asked, holding the phone.

His eyes widened in sudden panic. “No? No, I just said I too would be upset if someone would interrupt the playdate with my friend” he said, his breath hitching, his pulse racing. “I didn’t say the k-word, I promise.”

She stared at him for another second then dialed your number.

Robby swallowed hard then turned around to Lizzie again. “Fuck me, kid, that’s really not going well, huh?”

Abigail shot you another look. “Please, don’t drop f-bombs around here. We try to teach the kids a non-graphic vocabulary.”

Robby blushed. “Sorry” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head like a schoolboy. “I’m sorry.”

Lizzie blinked then let out a delighted shriek. She crawled into his lap and cuddled herself against his chest, like she hadn’t just denied his entire existence. She started babbling incoherent toddler-nonsense while the other girl turned back to the kitchen and resumed her cooking.

Robby wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head. “Yeah, that’s better, huh? Did you miss me, Elizabeth? I’ve got the feeling I haven’t seen you in ages. You grew like twenty feet since I last saw you.”

Lizzie giggled.

Abigail finished her phone call with you and walked over. She smiled again. “Okay, everything’s settled. Mrs. Abbot confirmed that you’re allowed to pick Lizzie up - and she even confirmed that she calls you Rara. Which is adorable, by the way.”

Robby smiled and stood carefully, Lizzie still clutched to his chest. “Up you go, Lizzie-bear” he groaned. “Then let’s fetch your stuff and get out of here, huh?”

The teacher bit her lip. “Sorry for double-check” she said. “But you can never be too careful around here. Sadly.”

Robby waved it off immediately. “Don’t worry, I get it. And you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to.”

“Yeah, still, I’m sorry-”

“No, don’t apologize. Really.” He stroked Lizzie’s hair then looked back at the teacher. “If a kid is crying like this and someone you’ve never met walks in, I’d be worried if you didn’t ask. Honestly.”

Abigail looked at him and nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. Thanks for understanding. Do you need help finding her backpack?”

Robby chuckled. “Yeah, that’d be much appreciated.”

You: Thanks for picking her up! (But I’m dying to know what happened that made Abigail call me to confirm your identity.) Robert: Short version: Lizzie had a breakdown because I wanted to pick her up while she was playing. She denied knowing me. Teacher wanted to see my ID. Lizzie was still sobbing. Teacher decides to call you. Then I might or might have not used the word “kidnapping” You: … Okay, so I’m glad you didn’t end up in prison. Robert: Yeah… fair. You: That’s the worst fucking idea to use THAT word in the middle of a daycare. Robby: I KNOW OKAY? Anyway. We’re going to get lunch now somewhere. And ice cream. Just call me when you finish work then we can arrange the handover. You: Do I need to get a ransom? And how much? 6 figures? 7? Robert: Ha-ha. I forgot how funny you are. (Not.)

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

--- --- ---

Any other day, you might be worried about the chemicals —or lack thereof— in the water. You might fluster over the possibility of a property manager reneging on Frank’s lease or a neighbor snitching on you for trespassing. 

It’s too goddamn hot to care about any of that.

You square up to the steel-barred fence, about seven feet tall, nibbling on your tongue in concentration. This whole week, even after sundown, you’ve existed in a perpetual, thin sheen of sweat. A bubble of perspiration. 

The still, blue water mocks you.

Probably isn’t even that cold, you reason, having sat in direct sunlight all day. Trying to convince yourself you don't need it. Even if you were thinking about cool water splashing over your skin all day.

“Let’s just go inside,” Frank sighs behind you. “I’ll blast the AC, we can stand in front of the freezer and not touch each other. Like a normal, loving couple.” 

You barely hear him, too focused on the siren call of the water. It would be such a relief, even if it’s only ten degrees cooler than the air. 

“Baby?” Frank asks. 

You launch your towels over the fence. “Give me a boost, Frankie.”

His bewildered reply: "What?"

You whip around to see his head cocked to the side, an adorably confused German shepherd.

No, a golden retriever.

"Give me a boost," you insist, jerking your chin in the general direction of the pool.

"Are you serious?"

"No, I just threw our towels over for fun," you mock him, too miserable in your own skin to pretend you're playing instead of straight-up being mean. "Yes, I'm serious!"

"We might get it trouble," Frank protests, much to your surprise.

"No doy, dummy," your voice ventures further into annoyance territory. "Come on, it's too hot to play by the rules."

"God, you were the kid pressuring everyone to drink at parties in high school, weren't you?" He asks, crouching and beckoning you forward.

As you clamber into his grip, you grumble. "That would require me to have been invited to parties in high school."

Frank punches your weight up, giving you enough momentum to vault over the fence.

Your ankles scream when your flip flops smack against the concrete, but you're otherwise unharmed. You beckon Frank towards the metal bars.

He doesn't move.

"Come on, Frankie," you coo, giving your best impression of Marilyn Monroe. The air around the water is humid, but inviting.

You tug on the strap of your swimsuit cover-up —a dress made of towel material. "Don't you wanna see me in my swimsuit?"

"Got a pretty good view when your legs flew over my head, Tinkerbell."

Your doe eyes tighten to daggers. "Pervert."

Frank snorts and grabs a fistful of the materal through the gap in the fence. "Tease."

You smack his hand away.

"Come on," you step out of his reach. "I don't want to break the law by myself."

"But you look so cute in orange."

"Frank!" You whine now, going so far as to stomp your foot.

"Ok, ok. Jesus," he holds his hands like you've got him at gunpoint, then glances around.

Frank finds a concrete block by the gate, and uses the extra six or so inches to white-knuckle the top of the fence. He grunts as he swings himself over and lands in a shaky squat. The chlorine instantly infiltrates his nostrils.

You stand with all the patience of a feral cat, your hip jutted out at an angle. Lips pressed tightly together.

The urge to kiss that disgruntled look off your face is all-consuming, but Frank has learned from experience that it's far too warm for you to appreciate —nay, tolerate— any physical displays of affection.

The heat wave this past week has been hell for many reasons, but the worst of all is how touch-starved Frank has been.

On a typical day, his hands find your body through countless excuses. At work, he often 'needs to slide past' you, strong palms finding your shoulders in a firm squeeze.

From the moment you leave the hospital, he's a stage-five clinger. Holding hands. Finding any reason to cup your cheek, scratch your back, tug at the hem of your shirt. Whether you like it or not is irrelevant. You put up with it as a comfort to him, and he's grateful for the grounding the skin-on-skin contact provides on a daily basis.

You've never complained. Until this week.

And Frank agrees, it's too hot to be swapping oxygen back and forth for any length of time, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss it. Deeply.

To the point where glancing up your little towel-dress-thingy was enough to send him into orbit.

And now, as you tug the dress over your head, the water casting a soft, yellow-blue glow over your sweat-polished skin, Frank's breath catches in his throat.

Your swimsuit's nothing to write home about, objectively speaking —just a white one-piece decorated in little pink stars. But it sculpts over every last one of your delicious curves. Frank thinks he might like to have it framed.

After folding your dress into a neat rectangle, and setting it atop your towel, you clock Frank gawking at you like a schoolboy.

"Is your back okay?" You ask.

"Huh?"

"Your back, Frank," you reply, all concern as you step closer. Entering his personal space for the first time in a week. "You've got this horrible look on your face. Did you tweak your back?"

"N-no," Frank stutters through a broken laugh, then blows out a long huff of air. "Let's just… let's just get in the pool before we get caught, yeah?"

"Okay, weirdo," you scoff, then take the clip out of your hair. Tresses spill from where they'd once been secured, falling around your shoulders in waves. Frank's heart trips over itself.

He peels his own shirt off then, dropping it beside the towels in a heap beside your neatly folded cover-up. There's a splash behind him.

When he turns around, you're emerging from the water, hair now slicked back against your neck. You rub the water from your eyes, and smile up at Frank for the first time in a week.

"Oh my god, Frankie, it's fucking amazing in here," you exhale all in one breath. Water ripples around you.

The water is almost perfect, perhaps a hair too warm, but still an ice bath compared to the muggy, thick heat hazing over the rest of Pittsburgh.

Frank squares up to the deep end, creating distance between him pool's edge. You scrunch your whole face up at him, perplexed, until you see him take a running start.

"Frankie, no, we gotta be quiet!" Your words are drowned out by the enormous splash that reverberates through the whole pool as result of Frank's cannonball.

Water flies in all directions, small waves erupting through the water. You're lucky enough to miss the brunt of the splash, but that's the least of your concerns.

You flick your head around, searching for anyone who might be around to bust you for trespassing. Once the cool(ish) water sent relief through your body, the mild delirium started to clear, and now you're dreadfully aware of how much toruble Frank could be in, lest you get caught.

When his head bursts out from underwater, you glare at him.

"You're gonna get us in trouble!" You growl from where your feet can still touch, hanging on to the concrete side.

"Wanna see me do a handstand?"

Your frown persists as a long silence passes between you. Him, wanting attention. You, denying it.

He swims to you in wide, broad-shouldered strokes, the cords of his arms rippling with each arc. His hands find your hips under the water, tugging you closer.

You shove his shoulder, but make no real move away from his touch. "I actually wanted to cool off, not just have a five-second dip in the water," you complain.

"Grumpy, grumpy girl," he tuts, relief spreading through his visage as he spreads his hands over your backside. "I wanted to show off. Can you blame me? You're just so pretty."

"Hmph."

"Grumpy Gus," his touch drives your hips, angling you so your back presses against the side of the pool. "You didn't like my cannonball?"

"You're a child."

"You're the one who broke into the pool," he counters, tilting his head closer to yours. "I missed you."

"I haven't gone anywhere," your brows knit together as Frank's lips find your neck.

"No, you've been gone," he husks between wet, pointed kisses, tingles shooting up and down your arms. "The heat took you from me."

You purse your lips in the side of your mouth, not quite giving in to the desire starting to rumble in your tummy. "I didn't realize I was so terrible in the heat."

Frank pulls his head back, frowning at you. "Baby," he scoffs.

"Frank."

"This week has been awful for everybody," he explains.

"But apparently I'm grumpy and terrible to be around and not at all myself," your mouth flattens, arms still flopped, useless, at your side.

"So's everybody else," Frank says like this makes it all better. When you don't cave, he slides his hands to your shoulders, squaring you up to him. "Baby, you've always been high-maintenance. You can't look at me and tell me that's not true."

Your expression tightens.

"You think I'm high-maintenance," you phrase it as a statement rather than a question.

"Everyone thinks you're high-maintentance," Frank shakes your shoulders like you're a ragdoll. "But, listen, okay? I like being the one maintaining you. It's, like, my favorite job. Second only to Dad."

Frank presses his wet thumb to the corner of your mouth, coaxing a half-quirked smile.

“There's my girl," he hums, then ducks his head to kiss you.

On instinct, your palms slide up his bare chest, winding around his neck. You reach up and pierce your fingers through his sopping hair.

He hugs you closer by the hips, one hand traveling to squeeze your rear.

Frank’s tongue juts out to play with yours, lapping you up like… well, water. But these aren’t kisses you’ve gotten before. These are a homecoming, missing-you, glad-to-have-you-back kisses.

You whimper. He swallows the sound, legs tangling with yours under the water.

“You’re not so grumpy anymore, are you, baby?” He hums, voice low and breathy, as he squeezes the curve of your ass.

“It was just hot,” your pout rematerializes, but Frank’s just as quickly kissing it away.

“I know,” he sympathizes. “But you’re all cooled down now, aren’t you?”

One hand bursts from the water to cup your jaw, rubbing with pressure. Under the water, his fingertips dip beneath the taut nylon at your thighs. It’s a tight fit, teasing you under your bathing suit, but he manages somehow.

“Not here,” you shake your head in a whine, and Frank’s fingers leave the warmth under your suit. You crave his touch, but you aren’t willing to risk trespassing and public fornication. Not tonight. “Later, though.”

“Mmm, okay,” Frank hums, then kisses you again.

It’s just as deep and long and wanting, the promise of what’s to come once you’re out of the pool, out of this suit, out of your heat-induced bad mood. He nibbles and sucks at your bottom lip. Where your hips square up to his, you feel a distinct firmness.

Your man. Your best friend. The guy who breaks into a pool with you half past midnight.

"You do a good job at it, Frankie," your voice comes out a half-moan, a squeaky lilt. "Maintaining me."

"I know," he pulls back to shoot you a cheeky grin. "Now will you please watch me do a handstand?"

You don’t think about if he’s still this affectionate with Abby when he leaves to go home. All you know is that after work, just mere hours after the episode in the closet, he’s at your door. Soft and pliant, wanting to be held. You don’t press or prod. Wonder aloud if he felt bad about keeping you stuck in one place, suspended in time for him.

Evening was passing at unprecedented speed, well past the usual hour he’d push off and say it was time to go home. But no moves were made. Asking him was on the tip of your tongue. So was telling him that Dana seemed to see through the façade you guys had put up. You almost say it eighty times over. Then he’ll lean a little and peck the wrist rubbing his scalp, and the thought will be gone. Carried with the wind.

It’s almost ten at night before you find the words. “Do you not need to get back tonight?”

There’s a bit of hope bubbling below the surface. Cadence soaked in sincerity.

He hums a little and turns up, chin resting on the soft swell of stomach. Your sofa housed both of you comfortably, as long as you were a tad upright against the arm. And Frank was between the centre of your legs. Knees bent slightly.

“You kicking me out?” He mumbles.

It’s too soft. Too vulnerable. You want to cradle the point of his cheek, rub gently over its skin. You don’t. You keep your hand locked in his hair. Somewhere safe.

“No. Obviously not.” You say it like it’s clear you never would. “It’s just later than you usually stay.”

He shrugs a little. Almost coy. “I’m on call tonight. Said I was gonna stay at the hospital on the off chance.”

You swell slightly at the notion he’d be staying. If no one called, he could sleep over as planned. Instead of waking up in a blind panic at all the people looking for him.

You must be quiet too long. “Is that not okay?” He asks, toying with the hem of your shirt.

It’s more than okay. It’s almost too okay for it to be acceptable.

“When do I ever say no to you?” It’s not meant to sound sad. It does though. Soaked in the melancholy that seems to go hand in hand with Frank.

He nods a little, laying head flat again. There’s too much to say about it. It’s just easier not to.

“Dana was weird with me today.” He announces suddenly. He doesn’t seem confused as to why. He’s too smart not to know.

“Oh yeah?” You try, muscles tensing ever so slightly.

He hums. “I think she knows.”

There’s no urgency in his tone. Nothing to suggest he’s going to try and remedy it. You stiffen up waiting for the drop. For the second that all is pulled from beneath you like the tugging of a rug. But there’s nothing more. Just the peaceful silence.

Your voice is rough when you finally choke something out. “How do you feel about that?”

There’s a beat. Then a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t think she’ll say anything. But if she did…” the thrumming of your heart punctuates his thought. “It’s out of my hands then. Abby would leave me, I’m sure.”

The inconsequence of how he says it isn’t promising to you. Confusing, at best.

“And that isn’t what you want?” You whisper. It’s the question you don’t want the answer to. The one that has lived under your deceitful tongue.

When he looks back up at you, there’s something steely in his eyes. A firmness almost too solid. It permeates the air around you, making it harder to pull breath.

“I used to think I knew the answer to that. Now, I’m not so sure.”

—

You don’t want to get used to the sight of Frank curled into the comforter of your bed. Back bare to the creeping of daybreak. Still, you take a picture just for prosperity. One to look back on when it’s taken away.

It doesn’t seem like an ‘if’ at this point, but a ‘when.’ What you have isn’t built to last. The sleepover is nice. You pretend it’s not a one-off. That maybe it would be a drop in the ocean of domestic bliss in your future. But the clock counts down to the alarm set to go off. He’ll go to work, and you’ll head to Robby’s for coffee.

This was the first day where the schedule has lined up for you to have a stiff breakfast with your dad in a while. He insists that you do it whenever possible. As though a weak coffee and under-salted eggs will mend a fractured bond. You try to work out if this is the first time you’ve spent an extended period with Robby since you and Frank started up six weeks ago.

It doesn’t seem possible it’s been that long. But you hadn’t had a lot of spare time around work, what with Frank. And Robby is always at the hospital. Even when he’s not supposed to be.

You’ve been selectively mute about what your morning plan was with Frank. He knows you’re not heading into work. It feels wrong to discuss plans with Robby. Like it adds an extra layer of grime to the whole affair.

He still asks when he’s sipping coffee what your day looks like. You have surpassed the need for pretending he wasn’t your boyfriend, as much as he can be while still married to someone else. You share brewed coffee together. Him stood between your legs at the kitchen counter– much like how this whole thing began.

You’ll see him off to work. Playing dress up as his house-wife.

“I’m having breakfast at Robby’s.” You grumble, setting your mug on the counter.

The spare hand he had rubbing up and down your thigh stutters a little. More like a tremor. Or recollection that you are his boss’ kid, as much as he pretends you’re not.

“And you sound thrilled about it.” He jokes.

The look you give him is dense. One you hope illustrates that you’re not in the mood for jokes.

“I just wish we could either get past the awkward, ‘sorry I basically abandoned you’ thing or just stop the whole charade.” You sigh, rubbing fingers over temples– a nervous tic only your dad brings forth.

Frank pulls your hands down to your lap to hold them from the vicious massage you were administering to your skull.

“You could start calling him dad?” He suggests earnestly. “That might help.”

Your body slides off the counter and away from his warmth instinctually at the suggestion. It’s unconscious how much you want to be away from him at that moment. It would take years of explaining to make him understand why you can’t do that. It’s time you don’t have. And don’t wish to expend.

“Was that not the right thing to say?” He sighs turning to watch you stack dishes in the sink.

You lock eyes with the way the coffee pools and drags against the current of the drain. Moving with its own mind never to be seen again. You envy it for a short moment.

“It’s not that.” You groan. “I know he’s my dad, Frank. That’s the problem. He doesn’t know how to be dad, just as much I don’t know how to be his daughter.”

You feel his hand curl around your hip, rubbing in soothing circles. It’s small moments like this that make it hard to forget he’s not yours. When it’s like this, he feels like he is.

“That’s a really complicated thought you’re having.” He whispers gently. “Good or bad, I’ll call you when I got off tonight and we can talk about how it goes.”

He has to leave. You know he does. But you want to curl yourself around his form like ivy. Growing into the absent places of his body. Whatever tears threaten are swallowed whole, and you agree silently. Letting him kiss the coffee off your lips before he’s gone. Like he was never there at all.

You make it to Robby’s on autopilot. You realise you don’t remember getting ready or walking the blocks over. It’s unclear if you’re protecting yourself from seeing him or if you’re trapped in the never-ending thought cycle of Frank. What this was becoming. What it made you.

You’re only guilty when he’s not around. When he leaves, all the light goes. All you see is his wife and children– that you now can recognise from sight alone thanks to the intricate social media stalking you did. You know when their anniversary is and where they vacation. You torture yourself with the details, like a punishment for what you’ve done. And then he comes back. All made better by the grip of skin and twist of tongue.

Robby’s chirpy this morning. Uncharacteristically. You’re taken by surprise to find Dana and Abbot are with him. Helping butter toast and stir pan. You think for sure that you’re done for. She was here to expose the rotten truth.

“Daughter.” Robby cheers– a joke he’s been making for years, like it’s funny or something. Tongue in cheek.

You let him scope you in a hug. And you avoid Dana’s eyes when you do the same with Jack. No one had told you it was a whole group thing. You’d have liked to know.

“Trouble.” Jack smiles. “Where have you been hiding?”

Dana watches with sharp eyes as you squirm under the scrutiny.

“You’d see me all the time if you weren’t always night crawling.” You smoothly avoid the question. “I’m never not working.”

This was true. You get your standard days off, rotational with Kiara. And then you save PTO. You had two weekends worth upcoming. One for a visit with a friend. Another for Pitt-fest which was two weekends from now. You get to participate in family bonding time with Jake and Robby. Like it’s not weird to see the step-child he raised more than his own.

“And the rest of the time?” Dana questions with a knowing smile.

You love Dana. It’s not as if you think she’s being cruel for sport. You just know she’ll keep you honest. And the honesty of the matter is that what you and Frank are doing is wrong. She mightn’t know for sure. But if she has the scent for it, she’ll make sure to snub it out before it destroys anything permanently.

You let her kiss your cheek.

“She’s with the boyfriend.” Robby chuckles, handing you your second cup of coffee for the day.

Suddenly you wish you had something strong to spike it with.

“Boyfriend?” Jack whips round. “No one told me this.”

You want the earth to open wide and swallow you whole. Jack was like a familiar uncle. Hardly one you’d text about your love-life. But he is Robby’s life partner– for all intents and purposes. Many a heart to heart was had over the years about not giving the old man such a hard time. You’d sooner avoid discussing it with Jack all together. He would see through you quicker than Dana.

“There is no boyfriend.” You bemoan, sucking down a large gulp of too hot liquid. It scalds your tongue.

“Oh, there is definitely a boyfriend.” Jack smirks to Robby. “She’s all twitchy. You’ve always been a terrible liar, you know. Ever since you were a kid. ‘No, Uncle Jack, I didn’t eat the last cupcake.’ With blue frosting still on your face.”

He’s ruffling the softness of your hair, like you were ten years old again. It’s comforting. Almost like being told you were still young enough to make mistakes.

“Does he work at the hospital?” Dana suddenly cuts in. No curiosity in her tone. Just sharp cutting to sever all joy from the room.

All three of them turn to look at you with expectation. Each pair of eyes feel like a thousand. Like you’re being studied in a lab.

“If I told you one more time that there was no boyfriend, would you leave me alone?” You try, laughing it off uneasily.

Robby and Jack shrug like it’s suddenly not that interesting if you weren’t fessing up anyway. But Dana remains firm on you. She lets it go for the whole breakfast, but you know it’s not the end. This is confirmed when you find her waiting for you outside the bathroom upstairs.

She’s leant against the wall opposite you when you come out. There’s no where to run or hide. You figure there was almost no point in trying to lie. If she asks, you’ll tell.

“Bathrooms free.” You mumble.

“I’m going to ask you one time, and I want you to tell me the truth.” She says quietly. “Are you sleeping with Langdon?”

Whatever you thought might happen seems to crumple you. Instead of finding denials or anger at the accusation you slap a hand over your mouth to conceal the sob that threatens to escape. You nod through the tears.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” She seethes tipping her head back. You wonder if she’ll shout, or blame. Judge you for being so naïve as to cry over your own poor judgement. But instead, she pulls you forward into a gripping hug.

She rubs your back through each hiccuped cry until eventually you’re pulling back to hide the evidence of your shame.

“What are you doing, kid?” She presses, helping you get the last of the stray tears. “He’s married. He’s got kids. I don’t know what lies he’s been feeding you, but he won’t leave her.”

The laugh you let out is biting. Manic. You throw your hands in exasperation; suddenly considering pulling each strand of your hair out.

“I know that, Dana.” You whisper shout. “The worst part about is that he’s never even said that he will. I’m such an idiot.”

You try to miss the pity she seems to take in you. The way the judgement seems to fall way to sympathy for how silly you must be.

“You love him.” She concludes.

You don’t need to say anything back. She knows you do.

—

Dana doesn’t tell anyone.

She doesn’t even outright tell Frank she knows. It becomes clear that she’s letting you learn the hard way. You can’t decide if that’s worse. You don’t see Frank for days after the breakfast. And with your weekend off coming, you know you won’t.

He’s meant to be going somewhere with the kids. Your mind leaves out the addition of Abby. So, you can pretend it’s not a family get away.

He still calls the night he said he would. And texts when he’s supposed to. No time for secret meetings. And he makes it abundantly clear that he can’t be missing-in-action with his weekend off closing in. You start to see the ways an affair fails to suffice in a real-world setting.

You’re having a shitty week. You needed him after the Dana stuff but he can’t do that for you. He can only be there on his terms. When he needs you.

You don’t realise how much you need the company until your friend cancels her trip down. She’s a lawyer, and too busy for a weekend gallivant. You’re not mad at her; she promises to buy a ticket for Pitt-fest instead. But you needed her now. You need someone who isn’t a staff member of this hospital to tell. Someone who can confirm if you’re crazy and or if he feels the same back.

You’ve lost all sense of reality it feels like. If you’re reading too much into the small. In favour of ignoring the big, beaming red sign that he’s stayed with her and made no plans to the contrary thus far.

You’re sat in the break room complaining not so subtly to Cassie about your suddenly free weekend. She doesn’t seem empathetic considering you still had a Saturday and Sunday free. A rarity for this kind of work.

“How did you even snag two Saturdays in a row?” She quizzes, almost ignoring your anguish.

The break room isn’t empty. Robby and Frank are fuelling up on coffee, speaking to each other in what could be code only they understand. It’s not nice being in the same room as him but being as relative as a stranger.

“I’ve known about Pitt-fest for months so that was easy. This weekend was a lucky dip. I took a weekend in December for Kiara. She took this for me, so I could see Sammy.” You groan, knowing you’re wasting the PTO. “Now she’s not coming, I’m just squandering the time.”

Robby must overhear the complaint and looks over. “Sammy isn’t coming tomorrow?”

You turn and see both him and Frank watching now. You gulp on instinct. “Called into work. She’s gonna come down next week instead for the festival.”

Robby nods through the information. Frank keeps eyes on you, but without the usual intensity. Like he was trying to remain neutral.

“Can I be your boss and not your dad for a couple minutes?” Robby asks gently.

You burn eyes into him like you could eviscerate him from sight alone. As if he hasn’t been doing that since the day you first arrived on his doorstep at three years old.

“I suppose.”

“We’re a couple staff members down this weekend. Might be swamped,” he dances around the point. “Had to ask Frank to stay back from his trip to be on-call. Might need a spare set of hands for social stuff. Think you could be on stand-by?”

Any feeling you might have had being angry about dad is eaten away by the fact that Frank wasn’t going anywhere this weekend. And hadn’t told you. You steal a look at him, leant against the counter seemingly intrigued by handle of his mug.

You barely think about agreeing before you say yes to Robby.

You get called down for one of Franks cases an hour later. He corners you at the nurse's desk to hurriedly explain.

“He only asked me this morning.” He whispers as you read a shared patient notes. It’s hard to concentrate on both at the same time but somewhere you manage. “I was gonna say something tonight. I had no idea he was going to ask you.”

You hum a little and look around to confirm no one was listening. “I never said I was upset.”

He laughs smugly. “Your face said enough.”

You glare at him weakly. “It’s not like it’s any of my business.” You can see his fingers twitch when you hand the tablet back. “This guy needs to see psych before you release him. If the burns are self-inflicted, he’ll need a 5150 in place.”

Frank looks at you dumbly. “I already called psych.” Like it was so obvious.

You grip the bridge of your nose is exasperation. “Then why am I here?”

“I needed to talk to you.” He says it likes its simple, and not at all manipulative. “Look, do you really want to waste the first weekend we’ve both had free. The possibilities…” he trails off suggestively.

He was being bold for where you are. Listening ears at every turn. But you would be lying if what he said wasn’t appealing to your worse instincts. A whole two days alone.

“We’d still be on-call.” You concede a little, unconsciously moving closer to him at the desk.

“I know.” He murmurs, twitching around to see no one was looking. “I’ll cook for us, and we’ll just have to hope nothing emergent happens.”

You peak up at him to confirm he’s being earnest. He’s just looking down at you, past the screen balancing in his palms.

“You better be a good cook.” You warn.

He just grins.

—

Frank appears at your door holding grocery bags at 9pm on Friday. It hadn’t occurred to you that Abby and the kids would’ve already left for upstate. They must have gone while he was at work. You wonder if she was mad he was staying back for work. You think you would be. If you were allowed to feel things like that.

“Weren’t expecting me?” He smiles, brushing past with a kiss to the lips.

It wasn’t that. It’s just how domestic the whole thing was. He’s unpacking groceries in your kitchen like he belonged there.

“I just figured the kids and…Abby.” The words are like hot pokers. “I just didn’t think they’d be gone already.”

His hands stall a little. “Yeah, she decided it would be easier to take them to her parents today. We were only holding off for my shift.”

You pad to sit on the sofa, watching his back muscles contract through the cotton of his shirt while he works.

“That makes sense,” you twist your fingers around each other nervously. “Is she mad?”

You watch his shoulders deflate. You categorise each tiny movement, trying to read between the lines of body language.

“The normal amount of mad she usually is with me.” He sighs. “Do we really need to talk about this?”

You feel yourself wanting to shrink down half the size. Curl yourself into something small enough not to be a problem for him.

“We never talk about her.”

He’s walking over to the sofa too relaxed for what the situation is. Even the way he leaps over the back of the couch to land in a lazy lounge feels nonchalant. He selectively hasn’t heard you it seems. Just drags your feet into his lap to rub at them.

“Is that not the whole point of what we’re doing?” He asks grabbing at the discarded remote.

You guys had started a show together. It felt like one of those modern fables about dating, like not planning a vacation together– unless you wanted to break up soon. You start a fifteen-season reality show with a married man. Inviting the universe to laugh in your face.

“I’m not really sure what it is.” You mumble, trying to relax into the massage. It’s not supposed invite a serious conversation. Maybe it’s your body betraying your mind. Asking for what you can’t.

He pauses the show before it even starts, turning to regard you. “What does that mean?”

You sigh and try to grab at the remote from him. He holds it on higher ground, holding both your wrists with one hand– not bruising, just like a gentle warning.

“Use your words.” He says softly.

You flush a little at the double meaning under it but untangle your arms from him.

“It means what it means, alright.” You huff, flipping back down. “I don’t know what this is. Are you my boyfriend? Are you my keeper? Should I expect you to sleep in my bed after we fuck? Or am I a warm body after a long day? And if I am then why are you here? Staying for the weekend, making me dinner, starting tv shows with me?”

The words are coming out in shakes and pants. “I’m not allowed to talk about her, so I can’t ask if this is the pit-stop. You and your wife are having a bad patch so you’re with me for now. And when it’s better, you’ll go back. And I’ll still be me. In perpetuity. Stuck in that hospital with you, having not prepared for what it feels like when you’re gone.”

His face is stone, sternly dissecting each new word and its impact on what was supposed to be a nice weekend. It’s like once it starts, it can’t stop. There’s no force on earth strong enough to stop you from getting all of the toxins out of you. You stand from the sofa now, pacing the floor willing the words to come out smoother and the tears to remain at bay.

“And you know you never dissuaded me from feeling like this. You who calls me your pretty girl and tells me that I know things about you no one else does. I tell you Dana knows about us, and you shrug.” You accuse. “You told me not to date anyone while we were doing this, but you never said it was because there was anything waiting on the other side. So, I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t know what the point of this is. Maybe you do? Maybe you could explain it to me before I completely lose my mind. And if you can’t, then you should go. Because I’m already too in love with you to force you to leave.”

The quiet that follows is long. Expanding the width of each wall, closing in on you until you feel like you’re no longer in a room– but a vent of some kind. Poorly circulated. Poorly lit. With only space to press your hands and face against the wall praying it doesn’t cage you in further.

Frank remains motionless in front of you. Strange vacancies stealing over his usually bright eyes. He doesn’t seem angry. Or confused. Almost like he might have seen it coming. Then the bubble drops. Falls below the surface like he had only just connected the syllables to they’re meaning.

“You’re in love with me?” He whispers.

You shudder out the first sob. Then another. It sounds so foolish out loud like that. Juvenile. Your mismatched furniture and chipped nail polish all evidence that you were just not a serious person. You’re baring your heart to a man with a wife and kids. This would never be enough. Not on either side. He needs a wife; a mother. You were asking him start over on the promise of maybe.

Maybe you’d be up for being in his kids lives. Maybe you’ll stay round here permanently. Maybe you would become brave enough to tell your dad. All of it variable. Based on what you might feel upon waking up each morning– ever changing, never consistent. It’s not enough.

The adrenaline plummets out of you, rendering you shaky and cold all of a sudden. You back yourself blindly to sit on the coffee table in front of him– where he still remains motionless twisting the band of his ring over and over.

“Can you say something please?” You plead. “I’m like, freaking out here.”

Almost as if spurred by your broken tone, he’s pushing down to perch below you, fingers clasping around your thighs. Even with his angle looking up at you, you’re not meeting his stare.

“Hey, look at me.” He coaxes, trying to brush your cheek with his thumb.

Your chin is a wobble so violent that you can’t barely get the words out. “I can’t.”

“I love you too.”

The come out so fast that you almost miss them. They merge into each other forming one frankenword. You’d like to sigh at the relief that he had given you the inch. The sign of life in what you were certain was time of death. But it doesn’t sound like a promise out of his mouth. It sounds like resignation.

You stay mute, trying how they feel on for size. How it might feel to hear them murmured against lips on slow mornings. Just before work each morning.

“Did you hear what I said?” He presses, contorting his head into strange positions to see your eyes.

“You make it sound so sweet. When you lie to me.” You croak.

“I’m not lying.” He promises. “I love you. I love you so fucking much…”

There’s too much space. Too much air around what’s not being said. You wait for the fall, but he doesn’t carry on.

“But?” You push.

“You know what it the but is.” He grumbles. “It’s complicated.”

“Do you still love her?”

He flinches away from you completely, standing in the rear of your vision, pressing thumbs into eyes. “Yes, and no. I don’t know what you want me to say. I love that she made my children. And I love that we grew up together. I don’t know if we’re still in love.”

“And you’re in love with me? You know it for sure?” You don’t know what you want the answer to be. If it would be better if he didn’t know for sure. Then the reason you aren’t together will be a lack of certainty and not that she met him first.

“I’m certain.” He vows pacing a hole in the floor in front of you.

You stack forward to cry a little, half relief, half broken. Wasn’t getting what you want supposed to feel better than this?

“Hey,” he whispers, rubbing hands over your back. “Look, this is my mess. It’s me that needs to work out what we do from here. I don’t want you worried or upset. I know this can’t go on like this. I know me and Abby—” there’s a pause. Something tangible. “I know me and her can’t stay together like this. Not when I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You spring back up to look at him. The tears that bloat in his waterline. The strange sense of calm before storm. He’s not jittery like he usually is. He’s still, like the surface of an undisturbed lake. There’s a part of him so stoic in this moment. His mind made up, after a month of quiet.

“Is that what you want?” Your voice is hollow.

“I just want you.” He sighs like it hurts.

When you stretch up to attach onto him, he swallows you whole. Cartilage and arteries. Bone and muscle. Your body complies with each steady kiss. Each languid motion.

You fold yourself around him, hands clasped in his shirt, like he’ll leave if you hold loose. When you part, you’re more pant than woman. Shattered breath, looking at the way the blue in his eyes darken in the centre. You want to shrink in their intensity.

“Say it back.” He instructs, sounding distantly strange to you. Like the words didn’t belong to the Frank as you knew him. Something hungrier.

“I want you.”

He cracks, body falling limp in a groan, before you’re being tugged and pulled to your bed. You don’t question or wonder. That’s what being with Frank was. He removed your need to be curious. To explore things beyond how they appeared to be at first sight. If it wasn’t like this, you’d have noticed all the warning signs before you hit the collision.

You let him pull each item of clothing off of you with little a look or word. He was unwrapping you. Laying you bare. You’d let him do what he wanted to you. It didn’t matter anymore. He would stay, or he would go.

“How bad do you want me?” He whispers above you, still clothed from the waist down.

He didn’t need to ask. From his vantage point he knew the answer for what it was. The quiver in your muscles, the way your thighs clenched together searching for friction. You were keening, desperate. And he hadn’t done all but remove your clothes.

“Do you even need to ask?” You whine, trying to grab at him. He dodges it without blinking.

“I’m not doing a thing till you do, baby.” He insists.

You throw your head back in a silent scream. It comes out anyway, all the things he wants. Like it’s all you know how to do.

“I want you more than anything in the world. I want you so much that I’ve turned myself into a bad person for you. I want you. I want you. I want you.”

You’re grasped and rolling to sit above him, Frank suddenly naked and ready. Eyes almost brown in the light. Almost too dark to be his. You drag yourself up the length of his hardness, looking for anything. Something to fill the void screaming out at you.

“Show me then.” He tells you, dragging you to place the head at your clenched opening.

You whimper a little but sink almost all the way down to the base. Body twisting and almost rejecting the intrusion completely. The usually chatty and light sex you guys have is gone. You’re floating out into some murky waters. The waves have long erupted and past. All that was left was the reckoning. One way or another the charade ends today. You love each other.

“So good, pretty girl.” He coaxes you to meet him in the middle.

Your back shudders forward, shoulders rolling with the experimental buck of hips. Whatever noise in you catches in your chest. It feels different. You can’t put your finger on it.

When he moves your body up and down him; you’re panting, whining, wailing. Letting him use you. He drags you down into a biting kiss. Capturing your air into his.

“I love you.” You whisper into each thrust.

“I know, pretty girl.”

He leans up to circle both hands up your back, gripping you so close to his chest that you feel as though you have formed to be one person. One growing entity. The grinds become weak and each scream feels further away than the last.

When you cum– you do so profoundly, that your vision blanks for what feels like minutes. You almost miss the way he holds you firm at the hips, making sure to let go inside you at the deepest point of the hilt, whispering dirty nothings in your ear.

“I’m going to put a baby in you one day.” You can’t tell if it's a threat or a promise. He’s airy with each word, like he was too spent to do more. “Make you mine forever. My pretty girl.”

You nod, ignoring that it’s insane. Pretending that the alarm bells don’t ring about his coherency. About his mental state. To say that to you the same night he decides he might leave his wife.

You say nothing; just let him curl around you. This is what you wanted after all.

—

The call rouses you from sleep. You guys had passed out without a second word about what had happened before. There wasn’t anything left in you to say. But a phone call in the middle of the night means something. Especially for hospital workers.

It takes a few seconds of fumbling in the dark to know it’s his phone, not yours. You’re awake nonetheless, watching him groan at his screen.

“It’s the hospital.” He croaks, voice bitten with sleep.

“Better you than me.” You yawn, ready to roll back down.

You watch him push himself to the edge of the bed, sheets barely covering his naked form. You can see him rubbing the bottom of his spine– something he does regularly with the back pain he pretends isn’t there. You can’t help but take over for him in the rubbing as he answers the call.

“Hey man.” He grumbles.

There’s a muffle on the other end. No doubt Jack. There’s not much conversation, just the occasional hum. Then:

“Yeah, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Punctuated with a sigh.

You knew he would be going when the call came. It doesn’t mean you’re not disappointed. Especially when things are so unsettled.

He seems apologetic as he flips the light switch on. You have to adjust your eyes to the brightness.

“What’s the emergency then? Do you think I have a call in post?” You ask, pushing up to sit a little.

He’s fishing on the ground to find discarded underwear. It’s hard not to check him out. Even when you see it so regularly.

“MVC. Multi-car. They didn’t say anything about kids, so I think you’re fine.”

You nod quietly, almost sad that he’s going without you. Wondering if he was coming back after.

He’s getting ready so you figure you’d get water for the bedside; you’d fallen asleep without setting up the normal bed routine. It’s too early (or was it late) to make casual conversation. Neither of you wanted to be awake. Much less heading out the door for work.

The living room wasn’t tidy the way you prefer. You’re not anal. But you like things a certain way. When Frank was over his stuff kind of monopolised the space, having not found where they might live permanently. You have to think about where they might end up going. If it comes to that. Do you have it in you to make the space? Suddenly, you understand more Robby’s commitment to being alone.

You busy your hands to ignore these thoughts. Fixing comforters and piling the various things Frank left out next to the backpack he always uses. You’re not intending to snoop. You promise yourself that’s not what it was. But when you see the ziplock bag half hanging out the hidden compartment on the bag, you inspect.

Something about it feels important. The small voice in your head whispering to look. You don’t know what you think it’ll be. But it’s not what you find.

You count fifteen pills. Hospital grade. You’re not a prescribing worker. Zero certification to administer medication, even standard Tylenol. But you know the hospital print. You also know this isn’t anything over the counter. Especially not hidden and kept in a shady ziplock.

“I’ll come back when I’m finished. I was gonna do past—” Franks voice carries through and stops short.

You’re stood holding the bag, trying to think of something– anything– that might explain this. You’re coming up with little to nothing.

“What are these?” You ask, scarily calm.

You look at him and know the answer isn’t good when you see that he’s completely frozen in freight. His mouth is opening and closing; working overtime but to little avail.

“My— my back.” He finally clears his throat. “They’re for my back.”

You don’t believe him. You now know that Franks never lied to you before now. Because he’s bad at it.

Or maybe he’s great. Maybe he’s the best damn liar you’ve ever met. You’ve known drug addicts. You’ve known them in your personal and professional life. None like Frank though. None that work sixty hour weeks and practice excellent medicine.

Then again, he was erratic. He was cheating on his wife. Constantly moving. Making wild leaps of judgement. Fucking his boss's daughter in his kitchen while he sleeps upstairs. The nausea eats away at your stomach as you start connecting dots. How silly you must have been not to notice.

“You’re lying.” You say flatly. “You’re a fucking liar.” You rear back to throw the pills at him, storming through to the kitchen to grab the counter for purchase.

You don’t even know what to say.

You can hear him flanking you, fast feet and manic in energy.

“It’s not like that.” He promises, trying to grab at you. You brush his hands off aggressively. “I know how it looks. But it’s not like I’m a junkie. I hurt my back. They gave me some pills– fucking painkillers, whatever. And I needed more. But I’m tapering off. That’s what they’re for. Its fucking muscle relaxers. It’s not like its heroin.”

You laugh but it hurts coming out. Scratching your throat. “Okay, if you’re not an addict then why are you hiding them, Frank? And where did you get them?”

You fold your arms, watching the way his hand tugs and pulls through his hair. It’s messing up the already sleep mussed mass.

“I don’t want to answer that.” He finally mumbles.

He’s been stealing them. Even knowing that could ruin your career.

“That’s a fucking felony.” You scream. “Have you lost your mind?”

He moves forward to try and pull at you again, but you keep your hand up between you. Keeping him at arms length.

He shrinks back from your rejection like it physically hurts. “Fuck.” He yells, kicking the kitchen table.

You feel crazy that you didn’t see it. The way he moves with a stutter at all times. The calm he seems to keep at all issue– big or small. He didn’t even blink when Dana found out. He’s too out of it on lorazepam to care. He told you he wanted to get you pregnant mere hours ago, and you didn’t even question it. Of course he was high. He’s lost his damn mind.

“You need to go.” You whisper.

He shakes his head abruptly. “Please don’t do this. We can talk about this. I’ll call Jack and I’ll tell him to ask someone else in.”

You don’t want to speak. You can feel yourself sinking into the place you’ve been before. Facing someone you love lying to you. Tricking you into trusting them when you shouldn’t. All the fights with Mark about staying sober. And Frank knows all of this.

“I’m not doing this again.” You say firmly. “I’ve played this game before. You’ve put me in such a fucking terrible position. I can’t—”

You can barely get the last word out. You crumble in on yourself.

“I told you I loved you.” He pleads. “We were going to make a go of it. Tell Abby. Is this really all it takes?”

You can’t look at him. The way he begs and cries. It’s too much to ask of you not to take him into your arms and forgive. But you can’t do it again. You know you won’t survive.

“I told you about what happened before. We talked about this. I won’t go back.”

He’s barely listening. You see it in the way he’s grasping at the next thing to say.

“You’re shocked right now. I’ll come back and we can talk more.” He’s bargaining with no one. There’s no way around it.

“You can come back, but the answer will be the same. You’ve got a lot of shit to work out. Abby. This pill shit. I don’t even trust you would be here if you were sober.” You sniffle. “Have I even known you when you’re really you. Or has it always been you high?”

You let him grab at you, crouching down to your waist, hugging at your middle. You hold his head even though you know you won’t let him stay. You ignore the way he relaxes into the touch.

“I’m not high.” He promises. “It’s not like that.”

You chose to stay silent. Let it speak for itself. It must eat at him. All the things he wants to say bubbling below the surface.

“Are you going to tell Robby?”

The words hit like concrete. Pushing at your limbs to drag yourself away from him. He seems ejected by the way you pace off, making haste for the front door.

“You need to go.” Pulling the door open. “I’m not ratting you out, if that’s what you’re worried about. I want no part of this. I want you to go. Don’t call me. Don’t text. I don’t want to see you.”

--- --- ---

Jack was still asleep after another night shift. Lizzie was asleep too, worn out from daycare and whatever little cold she’d managed to bring home this week. It seemed like she was collecting daycare germs as if there were a prize for catching every single one.

The apartment was quiet - which should have been the perfect opportunity to get a little wedding planning done. So you were curled up in the corner of the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees. A mug of coffee sat next to you, balancing dangerously on the sofa cushion. Next to it lay a notebook, a handful of printed emails and your phone, buzzing from time to time with another notification.

You heard footsteps approaching and glanced up. It was Jack, dressed in boxers and a wrinkled shirt, rubbing his eyes, yawning. “Bean asleep?”

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Yeah. She’s a little warm. I think she’s coming down with whatever’s going around daycare.”

“Oh.” He rolled his neck. “Do you want me to have a look at her?”

“Maybe later, if she’s still feeling warm?” You gave him a small smile. “Until then I’d suggest letting her sleep. She was pretty cranky when I picked her up.”

“Mhm.” He wandered into the kitchen and returned a minute later, holding a mug. He sat down beside you while you placed your own coffee mug on the coffee table. “What are you doing?”

You let out a small sigh. “I’ve got an email from the wedding coordinator at Bramblewood.”

Jack leaned over just enough to read the subject line of the email on your screen:

Final Guest Number - Bramblewood Weddings

“Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So, what is the final guest count?”

You shrugged. “I still don’t know. We have 143 people who RSVPd ‘yes’ and 23 who have not RSVP’d at all, so…”

“Well, do we know who hasn’t replied yet?” He took a sip of coffee.

You nodded and looked around. You rustled through the printed emails and documents and handed him a list. “Here, that’s the guest list with everyone’s RSVP status and responses.”

Jack took it, looking mildly impressed, and scanned it over. “Okay, I’ll call them and ask.”

You blinked. “Really? You’d do that?”

Now he looked offended. “Of course I’d do that. I know you hate calling and the last time I checked it’s my wedding too. So I can do stuff.”

You smiled. “Thanks.” A pause. “Can you do it today? I really should go back to the wedding coordinator as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, sure” he said with a laugh. “I’ll give you a status report by the end of the day.” Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss on your cheek. “What else is on your list?”

“How would you know I have a list?”

“Come on, honey, I know you. You don’t just have one list. You have at least two spreadsheets, two lists and probably some Pinterest boards somewhere.”

A blush spread along your neck. “... maybe.” Then you reached for your notebook - and held it toward him. “Here.”

He looked down at it.

RSVPs Flowers Guest accommodation Dress? Bachelor/bachelorette?! Transport to venue and back Cake - an extra one for cutting? Photographer? Videographer? Catering options → must have: vegetarian, gluten-free, vegan options How many children?! → babysitter? Music? Band? Spotify Playlist? Mom arriving Saturday - staying for how long?!

“Okaaaay” he said slowly. “That’s not too bad. Right?”

You stared at him. “That’s all the stuff we should have an opinion on by now.”

“Well then let’s form an opinion now. What’s the first thing on your list?” He checked again. “Flowers. Okay. That should be easy, right? I mean it’s flowers.” He paused, taking another sip of coffee. “So - flowers for what exactly?”

You laughed. “For the ceremony, the reception and for my bouquet and your boutonniere.”

“Do they have to be different flowers?”

“No, we can agree on one flower or a few varieties and then just use it everywhere.”

“Okay. What about… lilies?”

“It’s not a funeral, Jack.”

“Sunflowers?”

You made a face.

“Okay - do you have something particular in mind?”

Now you were blushing. “Um, yeah. At least I thought about a theme.”

“I’m all ears, honey.”

You opened another tab on your laptop and went straight to Pinterest. You clicked through a few inspiration boards- and then turned the screen toward him. “Look, I thought about peonies, garden roses, maybe some sweet peas and foxgloves… I want it to feel like ‘English country garden in late spring’. Um, yeah, so, what do you think?”

Jack looked at the pictures, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s nice. So… that’s settled then? We’re having our ceremony in an English garden?”

You tilted your head. “Um… I guess?”

“Okay, so we have to find a florist, right? Who can take this-” He gestured toward the screen. “- and make it a reality?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Do you want to do that yourself or should I do it? Or, I don’t know - Robby?”

You started laughing. “I’m not letting Robby be in charge of the flowers. Have you seen what that guy mixes color-wise?”

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, okay, fair. So is this something you want to do yourself?”

“Mhm. Yes.”

“Okay, do you need help finding a florist?”

“No, I already have a list.”

“Okay. So… I think we can put this into the ‘working on’ category, right?” He took your notebook and a pen and crossed it. “So, what do you mean by accommodation for the guests?”

“Well.” You reached for a different paper. “My relatives are flying out for the wedding so they need somewhere to stay. A couple of them already asked if we have a guest bedroom or something.” You made a face.

Jack immediately looked up. “Nope. We’re not doing that.” His voice was firm. “We’re not transforming our apartment in some sort of youth hostel.”

“None of my relatives is young enough to qualify for some sort of youth hostel” you mumbled with a small smile.

He rolled his eyes affectionately. “Still. They need a place to sleep? Fair. But this ain’t our place. So - we need to find a hotel. How many rooms?”

“Um.” You scanned the list. “Around twenty-three?”

“Okay.” Jack scribbled something on the notebook. “Easy. See?”

Guest accommodation → Jack

“I’ll ask some hotels around here if they do discounts if I book a bunch of rooms. Easy. Maybe I can even play the retired veteran card. Works wonders.” He grinned. “Okay, so - next thing? Dress?” He looked up, confused. “You already have a dress.”

“Yeah.” You shrugged, scratching the back of your neck. “But that was for officiating the wedding, you know? I thought maybe… another dress for the party later? Maybe a little shorter? But I don’t know. Seems excessive to have two wedding dresses, right?”

His face softened. “Do you want to have another dress, honey?”

You looked down at your hands. “Maybe?”

He put the notebook down and pulled you closer, pressing a kiss against your temple. “Then buy yourself another dress. It’s your day. And mine. And we can do the fuck we want. Buy a third one if you’re in the mood. Or go naked. I don’t care. Do what you want.”

You started laughing - and after a moment the laughter turned into sobbing. Your laptop slid from your lap and fell onto the sofa while you pressed yourself against Jack.

He seemed momentarily confused why exactly you were crying now but pulled you closer anyway. “Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. It’s fine. You don’t have to cry, okay?” His chin rested lightly on top of your head while he rubbed your back. “I know, it feels like a lot and I wasn’t really helpful. I know. I’m sorry. But we’re doing this together, okay? No need for you to carry all of these decisions alone.”

You nodded, still sobbing, still clutched against him. “... okay.” You let out a laugh - wet, shaky - and shook your head slightly. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t even know why I’m crying right now. It’s stupid and… I… it’s just… with going back to work and Lizzie and the wedding and my back hurting all the time and this fucking PMS and my mom-” Another shaky breath. “- I love her but she’s a lot right now because… she wants to have a say in every decision and I get it, I’m her only daughter and she already didn’t know about our first wedding and … but still… it’s just a lot right now.”

He pressed another soft kiss on top of your head. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “No. She would eat you alive.”

“Thank God” he exhaled immediately. “I’m shitscared of that woman.”

That made you laugh for real. You wiped your tears away with the back of your hand but stayed cuddled against his chest. “Maybe we should ask Robby to talk to her.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Um, what now?”

“She has a tiny crush on him” you said with a shrug. “He could suggest anything and she would eat that shit up.”

“Oh, wow, honey.” He chuckled. “You must be pretty desperate if you want these two to collaborate like that.”

You let out a sigh, followed by a half-shrug. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?”

“Fair.” He pulled you even closer so that you were now half-sitting on his lap. “But please, that should be our last resort. I really don’t want Michael to become my father-in-law.” He paused. “He would be unbearable.”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

--- --- ---

Today, he had made it his personal mission to test your breaking point. Between a botched central line attempt by an intern you were supposed to be supervising and a chaotic three car pileup in Trauma Bay 1, Frank had been relentless.

His voice had cut through a case, sharp and brutally professional.

"If you can't manage your patients, Doctor, I'll find someone who can."

His words had burned all afternoon.

You’d kept your composure, bite marking the inside of your cheek, maintaining a crisp "Yes, Dr. Langdon" through the remaining six hours of your shift.

Now, the door of his apartment clicked shut behind you both.

Before you could even kick off your shoes to go directly to bed, Frank’s hands were on you.

He didn't even turn on the entryway light. He simply walked in, took your bag off your shoulder and dropped it to the floor before taking your waist and bringing his face close to yours.

"Frank-" you started, your voice cracking as the exhaustion and humiliation of the day caught up to you.

Helpless tears spilled over your eyes as he kissed you slow and deep.

"Shh," he murmured against your lips, then burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you against him. "Don't. Just let me."

This was the pattern. His pattern.

The fierce R4 who commanded the interns gave way to a man consumed by heavy devotion the moment the door locked.

It was as if he spent his off hours desperately trying to undo every sharp edge he’d shown you under the ER lights.

His thumb brushed beneath your eyes, but the tears kept coming, catching on his skin. His expression softened, tormented by a subtle guilt he’d never voice aloud in front of the board, but showed you completely at home.

"You were a dick today," you sobbed softly, the words coming out small and broken against his chest as you squeezed your eyes shut.

Frank’s chest heaved, his heart breaking at the sight of you unspooling. He cupped your face with both hands, leaning in to press soft kisses directly to the damp tracks on your cheeks, tenderly chasing every tear away.

"I know," he breathed against your lips. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

He captured your mouth in an agonizingly slow kiss. It was a wordless apology that resonated deep in your chest. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your oversized sweater, his warm hands resting against the bare skin of your waist.

You gasped softly into his mouth as his fingers traced your ribs.

He pulled back to look at you, his dark eyes were intense. "Let me take care of you. Please."

Before you could answer, Frank hoisted you up by your thighs. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, letting out a small breath as he carried you toward the bedroom.

He laid you down on the mattress, trailing a line of kisses down your jaw, over your throat, and down to the collarbone he’d spent all shift watching from across the nurses' station.

"Frank, you don't have to overcompensate every time-"

"I want to," he interrupted. He took your sweater off, tossing it aside, his gaze devouring the sight of you. "I spent six hours pretending I don't want to take you to an empty room and show you how sorry I am. Let me have this."

He peeled away your clothes piece by piece, pausing to kiss every newly exposed inch of skin.

Every touch was an antidote to the stress of the day.

When his fingers finally brushed over the damp center of your underwear, you arched into his hand with a soft groan.

"Look at you," Frank murmured. "So wet for me."

Instead of stripping off his own clothes, Frank sank down onto his knees between your spread thighs. The sudden shift in position made your breath catch, but before you could protest, his hands gripped your hips, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

He didn't hesitate. Frank pressed his mouth directly against your wet center, taking you in with his tongue, pulling a cry out of your throat.

"Frank—ah!"

"I've got you," he rumbled against your sensitive skin, his warm breath fanning over you as he worked. His tongue swept over your clit with precision, his thumbs digging gently into the soft skin of your thighs to keep you pinned. "I'm sorry, sweetheart... I'm so fucking sorry for earlier."

He sucked you into his mouth, swirling his tongue around your center and working until the first orgasm crashed over you.

Your hips bucked off the bed, hands entangling wildly in his hair, but Frank didn't pull away.

He ate right through your orgasm, licking up every drop of your release, murmuring muffled and possessive apologies against your flesh.

"Frank, wait, it- it's too much-" you gasped, your voice trembling as the heat built right back up in your stomach.

"No, it's not," he rasped, lifting his head just enough to glare up at you with intent eyes, his lips glistening. "I want you completely undone. I want you to forget every damn thing about that hospital. Every chart, every trauma bay, every word I said."

He plunged two fingers deep inside you while his thumb found your swollen center again, flicking it in rhythm with the relentless suction of his mouth.

The sensation was devastating. A second orgasm tore through you, leaving you sobbing his name.

He didn't give you a second to catch your breath.

Frank knew every reaction of your body, knew exactly how to push you over the edge again and again. Three, four times; each orgasm bled seamlessly into the next until your brain turned to complete static.

The lingering humiliation of the shift, the stress of the ER, the exhaustion; it was all ruthlessly devoured by his tongue and his intoxicating praise.

"That's it, come again for me... good girl... so good for me... feel how sorry I am?... my perfect dumb girl..."

By the time the fifth orgasm shattered what was left of your sanity, your body was shaking, completely spent. A soft whimper escaped your lips as your thighs trembled uncontrollably against his shoulders.

Frank gently kissed the inside of your thighs, slow and reverent, before rising from his knees.

He crawled up the bed, settling beside you and pulling your limp ruined body against his chest. You were completely dazed, heavy lidded, and fucked-out; the heavy fog of sleep was already dragging you under before he even pulled the duvet over you.

Frank stroked your damp hair away from your forehead, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple. For a long time, the only sound in the room was the rasp of your breathing.

"Better?" he asked softly, smiled at the sight of your relaxed face.

You let out a sleepy laugh, resting your head on his chest. "If this is what happens when you yell at me, I personally might start messing up central lines on purpose."

Frank chuckled, his arms tightening around you protectively. "Don't push your luck, baby. But... I'm sorry. I really am."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

After a day out with friends, you weren't quite sure what to expect when you got home. Oh, you didn't expect the house to be a mess or anything, no, you trusted Brendon in regards to that. You just didn't know what he and the one-year-old had gotten up to that day. One day you had come home to the two of them sitting in a blanket fort watching Finding Nemo and…eating goldfish crackers? That didn't quite track for “fish are friends, not food” but whatever. You snapped a photo for posterity.

The house was mostly quiet when you got inside. You heard faint music in the distance and figured Brendon was working out while your daughter napped. A peek into the baby's room said that was not the case. That meant the baby was in her play area in the home gym Brendon had set up.

Yet again, you were wrong as you stepped into the gym. Instead of her dancing to the late 90s music Brendon usually listened to, you found Brendon sitting on the floor at the head of his bench, one leg on either side with the baby laying on the bench holding a “barbell”, laughing at her father who was making silly faces. Brendon smiled wide as you walked in. “We went shopping,” he said cheerily.

You furrowed your brow. “I see. What led to all this?”

Brendon moved back from the bench and sat the baby in his lap before he handed the barbell to you. It was a thin PVC pipe with two slices from a pool noodle on either end. “I tried to work out this morning and she wasn't having it. She wanted to be involved. Obviously I wasn't going to let her play with even my small weights. So we went shopping and got creative. She has a barbell and two dumbbells.” Brendon reached for his phone nearby to show you the picture of her trying to gnaw on a dumbbell. “There's still progress to be made.”

You sent the photo to yourself. “I see that, so you two were working on her chest press?”

Brendon nodded. “Want to see?”

“Of course.”

Brendon put the baby back on the bench. “She's gonna be the strongest kid at pre-school one day.”

You rolled your eyes. “Let's not rush things,” you told him and handed him the barbell. Brendon laid the baby down and she laughed looking at him upside down. He placed one of her tiny hands on the bar and put one of his own fingers over her hand to help her hold it before doing the same with the other hand. He then moved it up and down like she was lifting the bar. “See, just like Daddy does it.”

You took a picture of their set up. “Very cute. What else have you done?”

“She was the weight for weighted squats. She had more fun than I did,” he explained, taking the bar from the baby and helping her sit up.

“I'm sure, she's a solid little roly poly,” you said and took your baby from the bench. “Maybe we can workout by going on walks and strengthening these little legs,” you said, squishing her thighs.

“Cardio is very important. We can do cardio at the park and then get ice cream,” Brendon said nodding to the baby. She nodded back not knowing what she was agreeing with. “It's two against one. We have to now.”