Red

Naoise groaned shifting onto his side so he could look at you, his eyes soft with sleep.

"He'll be watching telly," he replied, bringing your hand up and kissing your knuckles.

"Go and get him," you insisted "he should be sleeping,".

"You know wha' he's like," Naoise replied, his eyes closing again, his breath warm on the back of your hand.

"Please?".

Naoise groaned, knowing you weren't about to let it go and he wasn't going to get back to sleep until he'd done what you'd asked. He took a deep breath before sitting up, bushing his lips over your knuckles again before swinging his legs out of bed and standing. He had been sleeping naked as always and you enjoyed the bounce of his arse cheeks as he stood, his feet heavy on the floor.

The floor was cold on his bare feet but the chill in the air was welcome on his skin, he always woke up overheated and slightly clammy. He stumbled a little as he slipped out of the bedroom door and down the hallway to the living room, although the door was shut there was a slice of blue hued light around the edges of the door.

Naoise pushed the door open and saw exactly what he expected to see. The TV was playing silently, the images reflected in Liam's glassy and distant eyes.

"Hey," Naoise greeted, keeping his voice soft so he didn't startle the other man. On the coffee table were the ends of several blunts in the ash tray and a couple of empty cans of beer.

"Did I wake ya?" Liam replied, his eyes slipping from the TV screen to Naoise.

Naoise just shook his head.

"C'me to bed, ya eejit,".

"Can't sleep," Liam replied with a shake of his head.

"You didn't even try," Naoise quipped, his eyes narrowing.

He had been awake when Liam had first come to bed hours ago, it had been just after midnight and Naoise had been aware of the other man's weight on the bed, the sounds of him tossing and turning and sighing and finally, Liam giving up trying to sleep and getting back out of bed. You'd been able to sleep through it but Naoise suspected that was something to do with the edible you'd taken before bed.

"I did," Liam spat back, the look on his face incredulous.

"C'me on," Naoise repeated, "I can't go back on my own, she'll not have it,".

Liam laughed softly before turning the TV off and standing, he stretched his arms over his head, the joints at his elbows and shoulders cracking as he yawned. With his hands still above his head he pulled his t-shirt off and left it on the sofa, that could be tomorrow's problem. He walked toward his friend in the doorway, letting himself slump against Naoises body, feeling his arm slip around Naoises waist as the two of them walked back toward the bedroom.

You watched from your spot in the middle of the bed as the two of them returned to the bedroom, Liam was slipping out of his black joggers as he came to the right side of the bed and pulled back the covers.

"Sorry I woke you, love," he said softly, slipping under the sheets next to you.

"Is 'kay," you murmured, feeling the bed dip the other side as Naoise also joined you.

"You know what I'm like," Liam whispered, as he brought his body flush against yours before slipping one hand up the t-shirt you'd been wearing to sleep in.His warm palm found your breast and he squeezed softly before kissing the soft spot behind your ear that he knew drove you crazy and making you moan softly.

"Go to sleep the pair of yous," Naoise grumbled, turning on his side and pulling the duvet up to his chin.

You made a soft sound low in your throat and turned toward him, curving your body along his back and slipping your arm over his waist and resting your hand on his chest. You rubbed your cheek on his shoulder like a cat marking their territory. Liam had followed you as you turned and the three of you were curled together like spoons.

You could feel Naoises chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply, quickly falling back to sleep, the skin under your palm heating up as he almost immediately warmed up. You listened to Liam's breathing behind you, at first you could tell he was still awake but has his grip on your breast loosened and the sound of his breathing deepened you knew he was finally asleep as well.

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.

It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.

A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.

This is a problem.

A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.

And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.

You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.

“Fuck!”

You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.

A second you don’t have.

With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.

You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.

So vivid.

Stop thinking about his hands.

Stop thinking about his voice.

Stop—

You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.

It doesn’t help.

By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.

“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.

“You’re late,” Dana says.

You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”

“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”

You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”

You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.

“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.

Only to turn right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Unmoving.

“Shit, I—”

You look up.

And your entire nervous system shuts down.

Dr. Robby.

“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”

His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.

His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”

You are not fine.

Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.

“I—I’m gonna—”

You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.

“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”

You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.

She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.

“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”

God. You could have chosen better words.

“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”

She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.

He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.

“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.

“Stop what?”

You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.

“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”

You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.

“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.

“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”

Abbot snorts. “Dana?”

You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”

“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”

Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”

Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.

You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.

You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.

“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”

You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”

She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.

On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.

When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.

After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.

Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.

“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”

The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”

You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”

As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.

You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.

Fuck.

Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.

God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.

“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.

When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.

“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.

Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”

Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”

They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.

“Malinaw,” Princess says.

You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.

You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.

“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”

Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.

He points at you as he walks. “With me.”

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.

“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”

“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”

Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.

His arm brushes yours.

Your stomach flips.

Focus.

“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.

You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.

“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”

“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”

You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.

“Trachea midline.”

Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”

“BP holding?” Robby asks.

The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.

“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”

Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”

“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.

“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.

“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”

Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”

“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.

You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.

“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”

You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.

You swallow. “Okay.”

Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”

You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.

The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.

“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.

Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.

You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.

“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”

You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.

“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.

Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.

“Good,” Robby murmurs.

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.

“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.

Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.

You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.

Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”

His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.

“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.

“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.

Until it stops.

Too much resistance.

“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”

He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.

You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.

He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.

His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.

Fuck. Now is not the time.

You tighten your grip on the tube and push.

Then—

A rush of air.

“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”

Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.

“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.

“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”

You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.

“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.

Abbot nods.

From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.

“Nice work, Doctor.”

You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.

As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.

You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.

“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”

“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”

Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”

You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.

“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”

You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”

“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”

As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.

And Santos notices—because of course she does.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”

You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She stares at you for a second.

“A sex dream?”

You nod miserably.

Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.

Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”

“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.

She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”

“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”

Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”

She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”

“Because he’s my boss!”

“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”

You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.

“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”

She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”

You nod. “Good.”

Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.

“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.

You sigh. “What?”

She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”

Your pulse jumps.

“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.

You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.

“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”

The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”

You glance up, and he nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”

“Will do.”

You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.

The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.

About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.

Except the way it made your spine arch.

Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—

“Doctor.”

You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.

“Sorry—what?”

Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”

You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”

He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”

“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.

You stare at him. “And?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”

You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.

“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”

Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.

Fuck.

You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?

So much for being a vault.

“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.

You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.

“Lucky us,” you mutter.

She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.

“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”

You shrug. “Just a little off today.”

She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.

She hums quietly.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”

You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”

She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”

You nod. “North Four, on it.”

You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.

“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.

“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.

“Oh.”

“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”

“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”

You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.

“Everything’s fine!”

You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.

On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.

So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.

Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.

You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.

You’re just… nervous.

Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.

You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—

“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”

You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.

Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.

The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.

And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.

“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.

She winces. “Not so good.”

“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”

She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”

You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”

She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.

“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”

“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”

You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.

“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”

She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”

“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”

“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”

“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”

She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”

You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.

“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”

You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.

“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”

Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”

Ms. Park sighs.

“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”

She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.

Not that you can blame her.

Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.

But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.

He’s looking at you.

You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”

Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.

You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.

“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.

Heat floods your face.

“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”

He glances at you over the top of his glasses.

“You had it handled.”

You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”

Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.

“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”

“I supervise,” Robby mutters.

Dana hums.

“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”

Hovering?

You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.

Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?

He hovers around every resident and med student.

It’s not like he was—

You shake your head.

No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.

You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.

Nowhere else to go.

“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.

You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”

You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.

“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”

Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”

She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.

“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”

She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”

You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”

“Caring?” she offers.

You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”

She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.

She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Your entire spine locks.

“What was that?”

McKay straightens, already grinning.

“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”

“But—you just—”

She laughs under her breath, already backing away.

“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”

Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.

You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.

“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.

“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.

Your eyes snap up. “You.”

Her brows lift. “Me?”

“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”

She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”

“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”

You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.

She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”

“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.

You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”

Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”

Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.

You glare at Santos. “Neither.”

“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.

“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”

“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”

You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.

“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.

Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”

Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.

“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”

Hovering?

Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”

“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”

Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.

Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.

Your pulse stutters.

“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.

“I threw it,” you blurt.

He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.

“I know.”

You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.

“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”

You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.

Right.

Charting.

You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.

With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.

After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.

The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.

“Back to charting?” Princess asks.

You nod. “The never-ending task.”

She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.

“You seem off today,” she says.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

“And red,” she adds before turning away.

You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.

With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.

Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.

Abbot.

You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.

Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.

Your stomach drops.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.

Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.

“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”

You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”

Then she shakes her head and walks away.

You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.

And today is not a day you want to stay back.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.

The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—

“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”

Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”

Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.

“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”

You tilt your head. “Oh.”

“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”

Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”

Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.

Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.

Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.

There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.

“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.

He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.

Still, your eyes follow it.

They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.

“Deep breath for me.”

Your pulse stutters.

Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.

The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Look at me.”

Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.

Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.

Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It wasn’t subtle.

Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.

His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.

You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

The word brushed over your lips.

You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.

God.

The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.

Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.

Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.

“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”

You blink at her. “Already?”

She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”

You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.

You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”

She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”

You glare at her. “I’m charting.”

“You’re drooling.”

You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.

Santos smirks. “Metaphorically.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Fuck who?” Whitaker asks, appearing beside Santos.

Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”

“Santos,” you warn.

She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”

“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”

Your stomach drops.

You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.

“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”

She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”

“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.

“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.

Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”

Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”

“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”

Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”

Santos smirks. “Yep.”

“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”

Perlah snorts.

Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.

“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”

Silence.

Perlah is staring at you.

Princess is staring at you.

Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.

And Santos—

Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.

“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”

No one answers.

Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.

Whitaker clears his throat.

Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.

“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.

Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.

He clears his throat.

Once.

“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”

That’s all it takes.

Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.

Whitaker rushes off toward triage.

Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.

And then it’s just you.

And him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.

And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.

But that would be ridiculous, right?

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.

How to function.

You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.

God.

This has to be some kind of HR violation.

Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.

Or worse—night shift.

You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.

Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.

Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.

Not when you’ve let it affect your work.

Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.

You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.

All you can do now is your job.

All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.

You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.

The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.

Whispered about, probably.

But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?

By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.

None of it requires you to look up very much.

Which is ideal.

You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.

And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.

Not that you’re avoiding him.

Obviously.

You’re just… busy.

You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.

Like nothing happened.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.

“Hey, you busy?”

You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”

“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”

“Of course. What size?”

“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”

You nod. “On it.”

“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.

You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.

You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.

You’re just being helpful.

But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.

You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.

“Oh—shit.”

It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.

Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.

“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.

McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”

She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.

“Scalpel slipped.”

McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”

Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.

“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”

“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”

Fuck.

You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.

He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hold your arm out obediently.

His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.

“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”

Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.

“Come with me.”

The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.

“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”

Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.

“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.

Robby nods once. “Thanks.”

Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.

You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.

“Lay back,” he says.

Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.

He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.

His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.

You try not to think too hard about his fingers.

“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.

You nod. “Sharp blade.”

Like he didn’t already know that.

He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.

“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.

You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.

He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.

The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”

“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”

You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.

He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.

Completely calm.

Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.

The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.

“Breathe,” he says automatically.

God.

If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.

You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.

“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”

His hands pause for the briefest moment.

Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.

“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”

You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Mhm.”

The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.

Your stomach tightens.

“Busy department.”

He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.

“Not exactly what I meant.”

You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.

“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”

He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.

You feel like you’re about to throw up.

“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”

Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.

“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”

You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”

His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.

“Fired?”

You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”

He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.

“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”

Your face burns.

He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.

“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”

You stare at him.

“Concerned?”

“Mhm.”

He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.

“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”

Your stomach drops.

“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.

Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.

Hovering?

Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.

Why was he even there to begin with?

Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.

I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.

I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.

And suddenly the entire day looks… different.

Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.

Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.

Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.

“Keep that dry for the next—”

And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not graceful.

It’s barely even planned.

Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.

For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh—fuck. I—”

You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”

The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.

He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.

Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.

Your pulse is hammering.

“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.

His hand lifts.

The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.

Your breath catches.

He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.

Then he leans in.

The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.

For a second it’s almost restrained.

Then it isn’t.

His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.

The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.

He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.

Not stopping.

If anything, the opposite.

His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.

Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.

But definitely knows how to do.

And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.

You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—

The curtain whips open.

“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”

Abbot stops dead.

For half a second no one moves.

You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.

Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.

His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”

Robby straightens immediately.

Not panicked. Not flustered.

Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.

“Jack,” he says evenly.

Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.

“Michael.”

The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.

Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.

“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”

The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.

“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.

Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.

Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.

“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?”

His brows lift.

“Your text.”

Your eyes widen.

Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.

“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”

“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.

Abbot’s mouth twitches.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”

You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”

Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Your girl, huh?”

Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.

“Shut up.”

You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.

The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.

“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”

“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”

“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”

You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”

You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”

She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.

“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”

Your entire face goes hot.

You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.

Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.

“…Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

Your stomach sinks.

Will this day ever end?

Right on cue, the soft hiss of the lab doors sliding open broke the quiet.

You didn't turn around immediately, letting the rustle of his jumpsuit and the soft, hesitant thud of his sneakers against the metal floor grating announce his arrival. He walked into the lab, stopping a safe, meticulously calculated four feet away from your chair.

"Hey," he said. His voice was a little too loud for the dim lighting, tightly wound with nervous energy.

You pushed your chair back slightly and turned to face him, keeping your feet planted on the floor. "Hey, Ryland."

He was clutching a digital tablet to his chest like a ballistic shield. His hair was slightly ruffled, and that betraying flush was still lingering high on his cheekbones.

"So. I've been doing some thinking," he started, launching immediately into his rehearsed speech before his courage could fail him. His words came out in a rapid-fire, heavily academic clip. "And some reading. I reviewed the ship's psychological medical files regarding long-term, deep-space isolation, and I think it's really important that we contextualize what happened in the control room."

You raised an eyebrow, staying perfectly still. "Contextualize it."

"Yes!" He tapped the tablet, not looking at you, his eyes locked desperately on the screen. "You see, in an environment devoid of external stimuli, the human endocrine system begins to aggressively seek out serotonin and dopamine. Furthermore, forced proximity combined with high-stress situations can cause an artificial spike in oxytocin, leading the brain to misinterpret standard platonic attachment as a... as a romantic imperative."

He finally looked up from the tablet, offering a tight, panic-laced smile. "So, the slip-up earlier, the vocabulary choice... it was just a neurochemical misfire. Entirely clinical. We can just log it as a symptom of space madness and completely forget it ever happened. Right?"

Instead of answering, you stood up.

The gravity felt heavy and grounding as you closed the four feet of empty space separating you with slow, deliberate steps. He took a sudden, panicked step backward until his shoulders hit the cool metal of the bulkhead with a soft thud.

You didn't stop. You stepped completely into his personal space, so close that the toes of your shoes bumped gently against his sneakers. Because of the height difference, you had to tilt your head back to look at him. The proximity forced him to look down, his posture stiffening as he tried to press himself as flat against the wall as physically possible.

"Clinical," you repeated, keeping your voice low and soft.

"Y-yes," he stammered. His eyes were wide, darting nervously across your face before dropping to your lips and quickly snapping back up to the ceiling. He swallowed so hard you saw the apple of his throat bob. "Very clinical. Textbook."

You let a small, teasing smile touch your lips. You reached up, lightly resting your palm flat against the center of his chest.

Ryland made a sound that was half-whimper, half-squeak. Beneath the thin fabric of his jumpsuit, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your palm. His fingers went completely slack. The digital tablet slipped from his grasp, hitting the metal floor grating with a sharp, loud clack.

"So, the isolation made you do it," you murmured, lightly tracing the zipper line of his jumpsuit with your fingertips. "The oxytocin made you call me a good girl in that exact tone of voice."

"Please don't say it back to me," he whispered miserably. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head thump back against the bulkhead. "I'm going to die. My heart is going to give out before we even reach Tau Ceti."

"I don't know, Dr. Grace," you murmured, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Your heart feels pretty strong right now. It's practically beating out of your chest. Is that the oxytocin, too?"

"It's the... the adrenaline," he choked out, opening his eyes. He was trying so desperately to keep his composure, but his gaze immediately dropped to your mouth again. "Flight or... or fight response."

"And which one are you doing?" you teased gently. "Because you're backed against a wall, Ryland, and you're definitely not fighting me."

"I..." His voice cracked completely. "I'm trying very hard to be professional."

You waited for a moment, letting your hand rest against his chest, giving him the chance to drop the act. But he just stood there, frozen in place, his breathing shallow and his eyes wide behind his glasses, completely paralyzed by his own over-analytical brain.

You let out a soft, slightly resigned sigh. You let your hand drop from his chest, taking a slow step backward.

"Okay," you said quietly. The teasing edge completely left your voice, leaving behind something far more gentle and a little sad. "I can give you space to be professional, if that's what you really want. Goodnight, Ryland."

You turned away from him, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor grating as you started to walk back toward the lab doors.

You only made it two steps.

"Wait."

His voice wasn't a stammer this time; it was slightly raspy, sudden, and urgent.

Before you could fully turn around, his hand caught yours. His long fingers wrapped around your hand, halting your momentum instantly. The grip wasn't painful, but it was incredibly firm - the grounding, desperate hold of someone who had just realized exactly what they were about to lose.

You paused, looking back over your shoulder.

Ryland wasn't pressed against the wall anymore. He had taken a sudden step forward, closing the distance you had just tried to put between you. The panic was still there in his eyes, but the hesitation was gone, overridden by the sheer terror of watching you walk away.

"Don't," he breathed. He tugged gently on your hand, pulling you back around to face him. "Please don't go."

"Ryland..."

"I'm not trying to be professional," he confessed, the words tumbling out of him in a rushed, breathless whisper. He stepped closer, using his grip on your hand to gently pull you back into his space. "I'm just... I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm doing, and you're so incredible, and my brain is just short-circuiting because I can't believe this is actually happening."

He lifted your hand, pressing the back of your knuckles softly against his chest, right over his racing heart.

"The data is flawed," he murmured, a shaky, self-deprecating smile finally touching his lips as he looked down at you. "It's not oxytocin."

He didn't give his brain another second to overthink it. He let go of your hand, only so his arms could encircle you. He bowed his head, his shoulders hunching slightly to accommodate the height difference, and finally pressed his mouth to yours.

The kiss wasn't perfectly smooth or practiced, but it was overwhelmingly sweet, dizzyingly eager, and completely unguarded. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for years and had suddenly been handed a feast. You felt his rigid posture give way entirely as he let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your lips. His arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you close, his warmth chasing away the chill of the lab. You slid your hands up to his shoulders, tangling your fingers gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.

When you finally broke apart to breathe, he didn't pull away. Instead, he just let his forehead drop to rest heavily on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His chest heaved against yours as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the furious heat radiating off his cheeks.

"So," you whispered into his ruffled hair, a tiny smile playing on your lips as you rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Still think it was just a neurochemical misfire?"

Ryland let out a breathless, muffled groan against your shoulder. He held you a little tighter, completely abandoning any remaining pretense of being 'just colleagues'.

"Okay," he mumbled into your collarbone, refusing to lift his head and face his own mortification just yet. "Okay, fine. I admit it. My hypothesis was completely wrong."

You let out a soft laugh, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The tension that had been suffocating the ship for hours finally broke, replaced by a warm, comfortable domesticity.

"I'm glad to hear it," you murmured.

He stayed hidden in the crook of your neck for a long moment, just breathing you in, letting his nervous system finally catch up to the reality that you weren't going to reject him. When he finally lifted his head, the furious blush had faded to a soft, warm pink across his cheekbones. His glasses were slightly askew, and his hair was an absolute mess. He looked incredibly handsome.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his hands slid from your waist around to the small of your back, resting there as he looked down at you. The panic in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, overwhelming affection that made your breath hitch.

"You're going to get a crick in your neck," he murmured softly, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your jumpsuit at your spine.

Before you could ask what he meant, he took a half-step forward. With a surprising, quiet strength, he gripped your waist, lifted you effortlessly, and set you down on the edge of the metal lab counter behind you.

The change in elevation brought you perfectly eye-to-eye.

Ryland let out a small, satisfied sigh at the new arrangement. He stepped between your knees, stepping completely flush against the counter. He reached up, his hands gently framing your face. His thumbs lightly brushed across your cheekbones, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your heart ache.

"Much better," he whispered.

This time, when he kissed you, there was no hesitation. The desperate, frantic energy of his first kiss smoothed out into something slow, deliberate, and dizzyingly intimate. He tasted like the bitter ship's coffee and the minty toothpaste from the washroom, a bizarrely comforting combination. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

He let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down from your face to trace the line of your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your collarbone - a deliberate, lingering echo of the touch that had started this entire cascade. His lips trailed softly to the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed, heated kisses against your skin that sent a searing jolt straight down your spine. He wasn't dominant or aggressive; he was thorough, attentive, and incredibly observant, learning exactly what made you gasp and immediately repeating it.

The cool, sterile air of the laboratory seemed to evaporate, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. You tilted your head back, letting your eyes fall shut as his lips moved to the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"Ryland..." you breathed out, your voice slightly wrecked.

He paused, resting his forehead against your temple, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. "Am I doing okay?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, still carrying that adorkable need for positive reinforcement.

"You're doing amazing," you managed to say, pulling him back in.

He smiled against your lips, a bright, genuine thing, and leaned in to kiss you again-

Beep.

The sharp, electronic chime of the PA system echoed through the quiet lab, instantly shattering the heavy silence.

"Observation. Human biological monitors are registering unprecedented spikes."

The deadpan, robotic monotone of the translation software blared from the ceiling speakers. Ryland froze instantly, his lips hovering a millimeter above yours.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Ryland groaned, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder.

"Heart rates are highly elevated," Rocky's voice continued mercilessly. "Body temperatures have increased by zero-point-eight degrees Celsius. Respiratory rates indicate lack of oxygen. Are you experiencing a medical emergency, question? Or is this the continuation of the mating ritual, question?"

You pressed your face into Ryland's shoulder, your shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. Ryland let out a long, long sigh, resting his weight against you for a moment before reluctantly pulling back.

"I forgot about him," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I completely forgot about the very smart, very nosy alien spider who has complete access to our biometric data."

You hopped down from the counter, smoothing out your jumpsuit while still biting your lip to suppress a grin. "We have to answer him, Ryland, or he's going to roll in here to administer first aid."

Ryland dragged a hand down his face, looking up at the nearest security camera. He hit the comms button on the lab console.

"We are not having a medical emergency, Rocky," Ryland said, trying to inject as much calm, teacher-like authority into his voice as possible. "We are... we are fine."

"Understood," the robotic voice replied. "Then it is the mating ritual. Does Earth biology require privacy for mating, question?"

Ryland's entire face burned a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked at you, utterly mortified, but you just nodded encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue.

"Yes," Ryland said, his voice cracking slightly. "Yes, Rocky. Human... human bonding requires a high degree of privacy. It is a very strict cultural imperative."

"Fascinating. Eridanians sleep in large piles to maintain temperature and security. Isolation is illogical. But I will respect Earth customs."

A series of musical chords filtered through the speakers, the raw audio of Rocky humming to himself, before the translator kicked back in.

"I have disabled the biometric alerts and audio-visual feeds for the human sleeping quarters. I will remain in the engineering bay. Have a good mating ritual. Words of encouragement.”

The comms clicked off, plunging the lab back into the low hum of the centrifuge drive.

You stared at the speaker for a moment, letting the sheer absurdity of the conversation wash over you, before you finally let out a loud, genuine laugh.

Ryland buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. "I am a respected scientist," he mumbled into his palms. "I have published papers. And I just asked an alien for permission to have privacy with my crewmate."

You walked over, gently prying his hands away from his face. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile breaking through his embarrassment.

"Well," you said softly, linking your fingers through his. "He did turn off the cameras in the sleeping quarters."

Ryland looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The nervous energy was entirely gone now, replaced by a quiet, deep anticipation. He looked back up at you, the dark intensity returning to his eyes.

"He did," Ryland agreed, his voice dropping back down into that low, quiet register. He gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you toward the lab doors. "We should probably go verify that his modifications to the security system are fully functional."

"Very clinical of you, Dr. Grace."

"Extremely," he murmured, a completely smitten smile on his face as he led you out into the blue-lit corridor.

The walk down the corridor was a study in sensory overload.

After months of navigating the Hail Mary with careful, professional distance, the simple act of holding his hand felt completely grounding. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, his long fingers interwoven tightly with yours. The ship’s night cycle bathed the narrow hallway in a deep, sapphire glow, and the only sound was the steady, heavy thrum of the centrifuge and the quiet scuff of your shoes against the floor grating.

When you reached the door to your quarters, the keypad glowed a soft green. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and you stepped inside, the door automatically sealing shut behind you.

The sleeping quarters were not designed for romance. They were small, utilitarian, and dominated by the narrow bunk built securely into the bulkhead. The air in here always felt a little cooler, stripped of the residual heat from the laboratory equipment.

But as the door clicked into its lock, isolating the two of you completely from the rest of the ship - and from the universe at large - the sterile room suddenly felt incredibly small, and incredibly charged.

Ryland let go of your hand, only to reach up and gently cup your face again. In the dim light of the cabin, without his glasses slipping or his scientific brain frantically trying to categorize his emotions, he looked incredibly soft. The adorkable, frantic microbiologist was still there, but beneath it was a man who was looking at you with a reverence that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. It wasn't a question of hesitation, but a statement of pure, unadulterated awe. "I've spent the last months terrified that if I looked at you for too long, you'd figure it out."

"Figure what out?" you asked softly, leaning into his touch.

"That you are the absolute center of my gravity right now," he breathed, his voice rough and incredibly earnest. "And we are currently in a one-g spin."

You let out a shaky, quiet laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. "That was a terrible physics pun, Dr. Grace."

"I'm a desperate man," he murmured, a smile curving against your lips just before he kissed you.

The gentle, tentative exploration from the lab vanished, replaced by a deep, aching certainty. He stepped fully into your space, backing you slowly until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. His hands slid down from your face, moving with a careful, deliberate focus to the heavy, industrial zipper at the collar of your standard-issue jumpsuit.

His fingers worked the zipper down, the metal teeth separating with a soft, rhythmic rasp. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the small cabin, punctuated only by the low thrum of the centrifuge and the quick, shallow rhythm of his breathing.

You could feel him trembling - just slightly - as he pushed the jumpsuit off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps along your arms, but the heat radiating off his body, pressed so close to yours, quickly chased the chill away.

"You're shaking," you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his bare forearms.

"I know." He didn't deny it. His eyes met yours, dark and earnest in the dim blue light, his glasses slightly askew. "I know I'm not- I haven't- It's been a very long time, and I want this to be good for you. I want you."

You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the zipper of his own jumpsuit now. "So stop trying to hypothesize and just ask me what I like."

A shaky exhale escaped him. "What do you like?"

"This," you said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And this." Another kiss, softer, to his jaw. "And when you're confident. When you stop second-guessing and just take what you want."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts beneath the thin tank top you wore underneath your jumpsuit.

He reached for the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against your stomach as he bunched the fabric in his hands. You lifted your arms, and he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. His breath caught audibly as his eyes traveled over you - your bare skin, the way your chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, the flush spreading across your collarbone.

"God," he breathed, the word barely audible. "You're so beautiful. I've imagined this - l've tried not to imagine this, because it felt invasive, but-" He swallowed hard, his hands hovering just above your hips, not quite touching. "Can I-"

"Yes," you said, pulling him closer. "Ryland, yes."

His hands finally made contact, sliding around your waist, spanning the curve of your hips. His palms were warm, slightly rough, and they left trails of fire in their wake as they traveled upward, tracing the sides of your ribs, the underside of your breasts. He was looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

You reached up, your fingers gently removing his glasses and folding them carefully, setting them on the small shelf beside the bunk before tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down to yours.

The kiss was deeper now, hungrier. His tongue slid against yours, and you tasted the desperation there, the months of suppressed longing finally unleashed. His hands grew bolder, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch, and he made a low, rough sound in response.

"Bed," he managed, his voice wrecked.

"We should - the bed is right there-"

You nodded, letting him guide you backward until your knees hit the edge of the narrow bunk. You sat down on the thin mattress, looking up at him as he stood over you, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide.

"You're wearing too many clothes," you observed.

A shaky laugh escaped him. "Working on it."

He reached for the zipper or his jumpsuit, pulling it down with a steady hand that belied his nervousness. The fabric parted, and he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt-and across the front, in block letters, it read:

I had potential.

You burst out laughing. "You wore that. Under your uniform. On a mission to save humanity."

His cheeks flushed crimson, but he was grinning. "It was a gift from my students. It's lucky."

"It's terrible."

"And yet," he said, tugging the hem of the shirt, "you're smiling."

He pulled the t-shirt over his head, and the laughter died in your throat.

Because beneath the nerdy exterior, Ryland Grace was jacked.

There was no other word for it. His chest was broad and sculpted, pectorals so defined they looked carved from stone. His shoulders were massive, capped with muscle. His arms were thick, biceps straining against nothing, veins tracing along his forearms.

His abdominal muscles were a ridged, symmetrical washboard, the kind you saw on fitness magazines, not on microbiologists. And trailing down from his navel was a dark line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing your gaze exactly where he clearly wanted it to go.

You stared. You couldn't help it.

He caught you looking and his flush deepened, but something else flickered in his eyes. Confidence. Heat. He flexed slightly - unconsciously, or maybe not - and his pecs shifted.

"See something you like?" he asked, his voice lower now.

"You've been hiding that under a baggy jumpsuit for months?"

He shrugged, and the movement made his shoulders roll impressively. "Didn't seem professional to walk around shirtless."

You reached out, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, tracing the line between his pectorals, then down each ridge of his abs. He shivered under your touch, his breath catching.

"Definitely not professional," you murmured. "Definitely a problem."

"I can put the shirt back on-"

"Don't you dare."

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down, stepping out of them with an awkward haste that made you smile. He was hard - clearly, obviously hard - and the sight of him, completely bare and utterly vulnerable in the dim blue light, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

"Your turn," he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that made your stomach flip. He knelt in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear.

"Can I-"

"Yes. Please."

He tugged them down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves. He paused when you were bare, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.

"You have no idea," he whispered, "how many times I've thought about this. About you. About what you would sound like. What you would taste like."

"Then stop thinking," you said softly, reaching down to cup his face, tilting his chin up so his eyes met yours. "And find out."

He needed no further encouragement.

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them gently. You let your knees fall open, making space for him, and he settled between them with a quiet sigh of relief - like he'd finally found where he belonged.

His first kiss was pressed to the inside of your knee. Then higher, to your thigh. Then higher still, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp against you. You shivered, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a low hum of approval.

"You're so responsive," he murmured against your skin. "I love that. I love that I can feel you react to every single thing I do."

His mouth found you - finally, finally - and your head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. His tongue was tentative at first, exploratory, the same careful, methodical attention he gave to every experiment. But he learned fast. He always did.

He learned exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to focus, exactly when to circle his tongue and when to suck gently. He learned the sounds you made - the little whimpers, the sharp intakes of breath, the way you moaned his name when he did something particularly devastating. And every time he discovered something that made you gasp, he did it again, and again, until you were trembling beneath him, your thighs shaking around his shoulders.

"Ryland," you breathed, tugging at his hair.

"Ryland, I'm close-"

He didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as his tongue worked you through the rising tide of sensation. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry escaping your lips as the wave crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body shuddering through the release.

He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, the curve of your stomach. When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with an expression of pure, unguarded wonder.

"That," he said, his voice rough and raw, "was the single most incredible thing I have ever experienced. And l've seen a supernova."

A breathless laugh escaped you. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm honest." He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, his forearms planted on either side of your head. His hair was a disaster, his lips were slick, and his eyes were burning with a heat that made your heart stutter. "I want to be inside you," he said quietly, no stammer, no hesitation.

"Is that okay?"

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down so your foreheads touched. "Yes. Ryland, yes."

He reached down between your bodies, positioning himself at your entrance. You could feel him there - hot, hard, pressing against you - and the anticipation alone made your thighs clench around his hips.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said. "Tell me if you want to stop."

"I want this." You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I want you, Ryland. Every overthinking, beautiful, brilliant inch of you. Now stop talking and fuck me."

The word hit him like a physical blow. His hips jerked against you, and a sound escaped him - half laugh, half moan - that vibrated through your chest.

"Yes ma'am," he breathed. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he rocked against you, teasing, letting the friction build until you were arching up beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Ryland, please-"

He pushed inside you slowly - agonizingly slowly - inch by inch, his jaw clenched, a low groan vibrating through his chest. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made your eyes flutter shut and your nails dig into his shoulders.

"You're so tight," he breathed, his voice cracking. "God, you feel- I can't- fuck-"

"More," you demanded.

He gave you more. Another inch, then another, until he was buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

You clenched around him experimentally, and he swore - a sharp, bitten-off curse that would have made his academic colleagues blush.

"Move," you whispered against his ear.

He did.

The first thrust was tentative, almost shy.

The second was deeper, harder. By the third, he had found a rhythm - slow and deep, each stroke dragging against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"That's it," you breathed, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Right there. Don't stop."

He didn't stop.

His hips snapped against yours, the rhythm deepening, quickening, each thrust driving him impossibly farther inside you.

"Like that?" he gasped, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and trembling. "Is this- fuck- is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," you managed, your voice breaking on the word. Your hands clawed at his back, nails raking across his shoulder blades, and he groaned - a raw, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.

His hips never stopped moving, but the frantic edge softened into something deeper, more deliberate. He was making love to you now, not just fucking, and the shift made your chest ache.

"I'm not going to last," he admitted, his voice muffled against your skin. "You feel- God, you feel incredible- and l've been imagining this for so long, and I can't-" His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. His forehead pressed hard against yours, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless but firm. Your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "I'm close too. Don't you dare stop."

His eyes flew open. "You're-"

"Yes. So close. Please, Ryland-"

Something shifted in his expression. The desperate scramble for his own release transformed into fierce, focused determination. He wanted this for you.

Needed it.

"Okay," he breathed, adjusting his angle.

"Okay, tell me what you need."

"Harder. Right there-"

He obeyed. His hips snapped against yours with renewed purpose, each thrust deliberate, aimed, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His breathing turned ragged, his control clearly fraying, but he held on. For you.

"That's it," you gasped, your nails raking down his back. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't-"

The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding toward its breaking point. He was trembling above you, sweat dripping from his temple, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping.

"I can feel you," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so close-"

And then his voice dropped. Lower. Darker.

That tone - the one that had started this whole thing back in the control room.

"Come for me," he murmured against your ear, his hips never slowing. "That's it. Be a good girl and come for me."

There.

The words hit you like a live wire. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashed through you - white, hot and all-consuming, radiating from your core to your fingertips. Your inner walls clenched around him in pulsing waves, and the sensation of you coming undone around him, triggered by those two words, was the final thread holding his control together.

"God-" he choked out.

His hips snapped twice more, three times, and then he buried himself to the hilt and shattered. A raw, broken sound escaped him - half your name, half a sob-as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering through wave after wave of release. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his entire weight pressing you into the thin mattress, and he gasped against your skin like a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The ship hummed around you. The centrifuge spun. Somewhere in the engineering bay, an alien politely pretended not to have heard any of this.

Ryland's breathing slowly steadied. His heart hammered against your chest, wild and out of sync with your own. You could feel the dampness of sweat on his back, the fine tremor still running through his thighs.

"That was..." He lifted his head, looking down at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen. He looked utterly wrecked. And utterly happy.

"Clinical?" you offered, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

He snorted, burying his face in the crook of your neck again. "If I ever use that word to describe this, you have my permission to space me."

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his sweat-damp back.

"Noted."

He shifted, pulling out of you with a gentle slowness that made you both wince. The loss of him left you feeling strangely empty, but he didn't go far. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, rearranging your bodies until you were curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.

"We should probably clean up," he murmured, his hand stroking up and down your spine.

"Probably," you agreed, making no move to get up.

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. Then, softly, almost hesitantly: "I meant what I said. About you being the center of my gravity. That wasn't- I wasn't just trying to be clever."

You tilted your head back, looking up at him. In the dim blue light, his face was open, vulnerable.

"I know," you said softly. "You're terrible at lying, Ryland. It's one of the things I like about you."

His lips twitched. "One of the things?"

"There are many things," you allowed. "We have a long flight to Tau Ceti. I'm sure I'II discover more."

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "We have a few years," he said quietly. "Give or take."

"Plenty of time for research."

A laugh rumbled through his chest. "Is that what we're calling it now? Research?"

"Very rigorous research," you confirmed, your hand splaying across his heart. It was still beating fast, a steady thrum beneath your palm. "Peer-reviewed, even."

He propped himself on an elbow to look down at you, his nose brushing affectionately against yours. In the dim blue light, the earlier panic was completely gone, replaced by something steady, warm, and profoundly certain.

"Well, as a man of science," he whispered, a bright, hopelessly fond smile breaking across his face, "I'm going to need to replicate the results. Multiple times. Just to be absolutely sure the data is sound."

"Get some rest, Dr. Grace," you murmured against his lips. "We will still be here tomorrow."

He let out a soft, contented sigh, settling his weight back down beside you and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing finally falling into a slow, even rhythm.

Living in a tin can hurtling through the dark abyss of space meant that personal boundaries were a luxury you had both abandoned long ago. You had learned to navigate around each other in the cramped, utilitarian quarters of the ship, sharing unappetizing nutrient paste rations, recalibrating the atmospheric controls shoulder-to-shoulder, and existing in a constant, comfortable proximity that would have felt suffocating back on Earth.

But out here, with only each other - and an incredibly intelligent, five-legged alien space spider - for company, that proximity was the only thing keeping you sane. Ryland was brilliant, relentlessly optimistic, and possessed a deeply ingrained, nerdy charm that made the crushing weight of the mission feel survivable. He was a good man.

Lately, however, that comfortable proximity had started to feel a lot heavier. The accidental brushes of his arm against yours in the laboratory, the way he looked at you when you managed to decipher a new string of Eridanian vocabulary, the warmth of his presence when you were both exhausted and staring out at the uncaring void - it was all beginning to build a quiet, simmering tension in the pit of your stomach.

Currently, that tension was being tested as you sat strapped securely into the pilot’s seat in the main control room, running manual astrogation drills.

The ship’s automated systems were robust, but Eva Stratt’s paranoia had dictated that every single crew member know how to fly the Hail Mary in the event of a catastrophic computer failure. Well, except the two of you. You were scientists, not pilots. The dizzying arrays of vectors, velocities, and orbital mechanics were entirely outside your wheelhouse. But Ryland, ever the patient educator, had taken it upon himself to teach you - in theory, that was. You liked to consider the both of you as clueless as any other human down on Earth.

"Okay, let's run through the parameters one more time," Ryland said.

He was hovering just over your left shoulder, anchored to the hard plastic back of your pilot's chair in the zero-gravity environment of the control cabin. Because there was no 'up' or 'down' without the centrifuge spinning, he was floating at a slight angle, perfectly relaxed in the weightlessness.

"If I want to adjust our attitude to point exactly at that specific star cluster in the Tau Ceti system," you murmured, keeping your eyes locked strictly on the glowing telemetry screen in front of you. You raised your hands, hovering them over the manual thruster controls. "I can't just fire the port thruster like I'm turning a steering wheel."

"Right. Why?" Ryland prompted. His voice was close. Close enough that you could feel the ambient heat radiating off his standard-issue jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the slightly chilly, sterile air of the cabin.

"Because of Newton's First Law," you replied, reciting the lessons he had been drilling into your head for the past three weeks. "An object in motion stays in motion. In the vacuum of space, there is zero atmospheric friction to slow down the spin. If I fire the port thruster, the ship will just keep spinning along that axis forever, or until we make ourselves incredibly dizzy."

"Exactly," Ryland beamed. The pride in his voice was palpable, vibrating right near your ear. "You are your own friction. You have to be your own brakes."

You swallowed hard, forcing your focus away from the warmth of his arm, which was currently hovering a mere millimeter away from the shoulder of your flight suit, and forced your brain back to the math. "So, I fire the port thruster to initiate the turn, let the momentum carry our mass, and then I have to counter-fire the starboard thruster at the exact right millisecond to arrest the momentum and lock us into the new trajectory."

"That's the theory. Now let's see the application," Ryland encouraged softly. He was watching your hands over the console, entirely focused on your progress.

You let out a slow, steadying breath. You disabled the autopilot interlocks, the console flashing a brief yellow warning before yielding full manual control to your joysticks.

"Alright. Manual control engaged. Firing port attitude thruster for zero-point-two seconds... now."

You tapped the left control stick. The ship didn't shudder - the attitude thrusters were too small to feel inside the massive hull - but the starfield out the reinforced viewport slowly, lazily began to drift to the right. It was a dizzying sensation, watching the universe spin around you while you sat perfectly still.

You glued your eyes to the digital degree marker on the main astrogation display. It ticked up with agonizing slowness. Ten degrees. Fifteen degrees. Twenty degrees.

"Wait for it," Ryland coaxed.

He leaned in a fraction closer to check the monitor over your shoulder. You could faintly smell the sterile, unscented ship soap they provided in the washroom, mixed with the distinct, warm scent that was just fundamentally him. It was intoxicating in a way it had absolutely no right to be. His presence was a massive, grounding anchor in the middle of nowhere.

"Twenty-eight... thirty-two..." you counted aloud, your fingers tensing over the starboard control stick. Your heart was thumping a rapid rhythm against your ribs. If you overshot the counter-burn, you'd have to waste precious fuel correcting the wobble.

"Thirty-eight, thirty-nine... counter-firing now."

You tapped the starboard control with as much precision as you could muster.

Out the viewport, the spinning starfield instantly stopped drifting. The sudden halt was almost jarring to the eyes. The nose of the Hail Mary locked into absolute stillness. You checked the telemetry screen. The digital crosshairs were sitting exactly on top of the coordinates you had calculated. Dead center. Zero drift. Zero wobble.

"Yes!" Ryland cheered.

In a completely natural, unfiltered burst of scientific triumph and pride, he shifted his grip.

His large hand moved from the hard plastic back of the pilot's chair to rest warmly and firmly on the curve of your shoulder. His thumb pressed right into the dip of your collarbone through the fabric of your jumpsuit, an anchoring, heavy weight in the zero gravity. He leaned down, his face dipping into your peripheral vision, his cheek almost brushing yours as he grinned at the perfect alignment on the screen.

"Perfect pitch and yaw," he praised.

The sheer, relieved approval stripped away his usual nervous, rapid-fire energy. His voice dropped an octave, settling into a low, breathless rumble that vibrated right through the shell of your ear.

"Textbook execution. Good girl."

The ambient, ever-present hum of the ship’s life support systems seemed to vanish entirely from your awareness.

The praise had slipped out of him on pure, unadulterated instinct. It was a leftover relic from his previous life, from his days of leaning over lab tables, grading middle school science fair projects, and offering gentle, authoritative encouragement to students who finally figured out how to balance a chemical equation.

But floating in a tiny cabin in the dark abyss of space, millions of miles away from any school or civilization... it didn't sound like a teacher.

Delivered with the heavy, possessive weight of his hand on your collarbone, the close proximity of his body, and the low, rough timbre of his voice, it sounded like something else entirely.

It sent a searing, electric jolt straight down your spine, pooling hot and heavy in your stomach. Your breath hitched audibly in the dead quiet of the cabin. Your hands froze over the manual controls, your fingers curling inward. Every single nerve ending in your shoulder seemed to hyper-focus on the exact shape and heat of his hand gripping you.

It took Ryland Grace exactly one and a half seconds to hear the echo of his own words replay in his brilliant, analytical brain.

"Oh, my gosh," he gasped.

He yanked his hand off your shoulder as if your flight suit had just been doused in liquid nitrogen. In his sudden, blind, overwhelming panic, the man completely forgot the very laws of physics he had just spent half an hour teaching you.

He pushed back away from you with entirely too much force. Without any gravity to anchor him, the violent push launched him backward across the control room. He flailed wildly, his arms windmilling in the air as he sailed across the cabin, completely out of control, until his back slammed into the main science console with a loud, painful thump.

You spun around in your chair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, entirely unsure if you should be concerned for his safety or absolutely entirely amused by his panic.

The brilliant, world-saving biologist - the man who had figured out how to harness alien microbes for interstellar travel - was currently tangled in his own zero-G socks, gripping the edge of the metal console for dear life. A furious, agonizing, painfully bright red blush was crawling so fast up his neck that his ears practically looked radioactive.

"I- I didn't mean-" Ryland stammered.

His eyes were wide, round, and completely horrified behind the lenses of his glasses. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air in front of him, fingers twitching, as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs anymore.

"My brain just- it cross-wired!" he blurted out, his voice cracking horribly. "I was looking at the telemetry and I was just so proud of the math, and my brain just reverted to grading eighth-grade science fairs! I swear on my life, I swear to gosh, I do not think of you as a seventh grader! That was incredibly inappropriate, I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean it like- I didn't mean to sound-"

He was rambling at the speed of light, his chest heaving under his jumpsuit as he hyperventilated.

But despite his absolute mortification, despite his frantic attempts to rationalize the slip of the tongue as a simple, harmless pedagogical error... the tension in the room had irreversibly shifted.

It was thick. It was electric. You could practically cut it with a scalpel.

He was panicking precisely because he was suddenly, acutely, and overwhelmingly aware of the fact that you were definitely not one of his students. The realization was hitting him like a freight train, crashing through the comfortable, platonic barriers he had built around himself for the duration of this mission. As he stared at you from across the room, his eyes darted nervously from your gaze, down to your slightly parted lips, down to the curve of your throat, and quickly back up to the ceiling ceiling panels, swallowing hard enough that you could see the apple of his throat bob from across the room.

You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile that was threatening to break across your face. Your own cheeks were burning hot, a flush that you knew matched his completely. You could still feel the physical ghost of his thumb pressing into your collarbone.

"Ryland, breathe," you managed to say. You tried to sound reassuring, but your voice came out a little softer, a little huskier than usual, betraying the fact that the slip-up had affected you just as much as it had horrified him. "It's fine. Really. I know what you meant-"

Thump.

A soft, hollow impact echoed in the cabin, cutting off your reassurance.

A large, perfectly clear, pressurized sphere of xenonite drifted lazily through the open doorway of the control room, gently bumping against the upper doorframe before floating into the space between you and Ryland.

Rocky was inside his custom-built bubble. The Eridanian engineer had likely been in his workshop, heard the loud crash of Ryland slamming into the science console, and pushed himself down the zero-gravity corridor to investigate the commotion.

"Observation. Human female face is red. Internal temperature elevated."

The deadpan, entirely emotionless robotic monotone of Ryland’s custom translation program filled the room instantly. Because the software was completely hardwired to intercept Rocky’s frequencies and translate them in real-time, there were no musical chords to soften the blow - just the immediate, blunt observation echoing from the laptop speakers strapped to the console.

Ryland groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. He let go of the console and pressed both hands over his flaming face, hiding behind his fingers.

"Oh, heck," Ryland muffled into his palms. "Please. Kill me now. Just vent the airlock and put me out of my misery."

Inside the floating sphere, Rocky shifted. His carapace scraped slightly against the xenonite, his five little articulated legs tapping a rapid, curious rhythm against the clear wall of his bubble. He was a scientist at heart, and a new, unexplained biological phenomenon was entirely too fascinating to ignore.

The laptop speakers instantly spoke again, delivering the translation with zero tact.

"Query. Grace also turning red. Heart rates for both humans are currently fast. Biometric sensors indicate endocrine systems are actively producing large amounts of adrenaline, cortisol, and oxytocin."

Rocky’s bubble slowly rotated in the zero gravity, his eyeless carapace seemingly tracking between the two of you.

"Are humans in physical danger, question? Or is this typical Earth mating behavior, question? Please explain."

"It's not mating behavior!" Ryland yelped, dropping his hands from his face.

His voice was an octave higher than normal, bordering on hysterical. He pointed an accusatory finger at the floating glass ball, looking like a man who was fighting for his life against his own ship's computer.

"It was a linguistic error! A vocabulary slip! I used a colloquial phrase in the wrong context and triggered an inappropriate psychological response! Rocky, I swear to gosh, turn off the biological monitors right now! Stop looking at our oxytocin levels!"

Inside the sphere, Rocky tapped a few more times.

"Linguistic error causes mating response, question?" the robotic voice stated deadpan. The xenonite ball slowly bounced off a wall panel, lazily drifting back toward the center of the room. "Earth biology remains highly confusing. I will take notes for future reference."

You finally let out a shaky laugh. You couldn't hold it in anymore. The sheer absurdity of the situation - arguing about mating responses and oxytocin levels with a highly intelligent, incredibly blunt alien space spider who was rolling around in a hamster ball - was exactly what you needed to break the suffocating, heavy sexual tension that had gripped the room.

You unbuckled your complex pilot's harness, the straps floating away from your shoulders. With a gentle, practiced push against the footrests, you floated up and out of the pilot's seat, letting the zero gravity carry your momentum smoothly across the small room.

Ryland watched you approach. He looked entirely paralyzed, his back pressed flat against the science console. His eyes tracked your every movement, the dark rings around his pupils blown wide, the furious blush on his face stubbornly refusing to fade.

You reached out and caught the edge of the science console, arresting your momentum and stopping just a few inches away from where Ryland was currently trying to merge his molecular structure with the bulkhead. Up this close, you could see the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. You could feel the heat radiating off him again.

He looked up at you, his breath catching audibly in his chest for a second time.

"I'm going to go to the galley and get a drink of water," you said softly, holding his panicked, entirely captivated gaze.

You let a slow, deliberate, teasing smirk tug at the corner of your mouth. You didn't back down from the proximity. Instead, you let the silence stretch for just a second longer than necessary, letting him sweat it out.

"But you know..." you added, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, dropping your voice. "My astrogation is getting pretty good."

Ryland swallowed, his eyes darting to your lips. "It... it is. Yes."

"So," you whispered, pushing off the console to slowly float backward toward the open doorway, "I expect you to keep up the positive reinforcement, Dr. Grace."

Ryland made a sound that was half-choke, half-squeak. His hands gripped the metal edge of the console so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.

Satisfied, you turned in the air and floated gracefully out of the control room, heading down the corridor toward the galley. You left the brilliant, awkward microbiologist completely flustered, entirely speechless, and very, very red as Rocky’s clear glass bubble lazily drifted past his head, the laptop speakers chiming one last time.

But now he's got his fingers shoved in your mouth and his cock buried deep in your pussy in the damn guest bathroom while your parents barbeque goes on outside. Saliva drips down your chin as you give him hint about what your mouth would feel like on his cock.

Your hands are holding tightly onto his arm as he has you pinned to the bathroom counter. His other hand pulling tightly at your scalp, not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel it. To feel his pure raw strength.

"So naughty aren't ya sweetheart." He purrs in your ear.

His chest was heaving as he puts his effort into railing you into next week. His cock hitting every right spot deep in your poor cunt which was still bruised from his animalistic fucking just a day or two ago. But Logan didn't believe in mercy. He saw that sweet look in your eyes, that hunger buried beneath a false innocence.

"Letting your daddy's best friend have his way with you hm?" You bite your lip as you try and muffle the noises that beg to break free.

Only the softest whines and quiet moans escape past your lips and while Logan wishes he could hear just how good he's making you feel, the last thing he needs is getting caught.

He knows he shouldn't be bending you over the counter in his best friends house, he shouldn't be tearing you apart on his fat cock and he definitely shouldn't be getting off on the sweet noises he's punching out of you with every brutally wonderful thrust.

But he can't help it. He's a weak man and your hook up left him craving more. Shame does linger in the back of his mind but he then glances up at the mirror. His eyes go wide as he sees just how sinfully hot you look and honestly, how he looks too. You're digging your fingernails into his arm, eyes fluttering closed with every movement.

He watches the way your mouth sucks in his fingers like its cock. The way your whole body jerks as he slams his hips against your ass. He can see the pleasure ripple through your body. He smirks as he sees his cock disappear inside of you over and over, taking him so perfectly like you were made for this.

And him, he's almost unrecognizable.

He's got this wild feral look in his eyes. One of determination and lust that has taken over his body. His arms flexing tightly as he never lets up his punishing pace.

"So fucking pretty." Logan mumbles as he takes his fingers out of your mouth, a trail of saliva connecting your sweet lips with his rough hand.

"You alright sweets?" He asks softly as his hand disappears down and starts to rub circles on your clit. His thrusts slowing just a little but enough to make you groan in frustration.

"Fuck, don't stop please." You beg as you grab the edge of the bathroom counter. You look back at him completely ruined. Tears welling in your eyes from the pleasure, lips puffy by his doing and fuck, you're just so desperate it sparks a fire under him.

"Please Logan." You whine and that's all he needs.

He shoves your face to look at the mirror, making eye contact as he grabs your hips with both hands and slams your hips back into him. Pummeling his cock into you without mercy.

"Don't fucking look away from me." Logan growls quietly in your ear. His body covering yours as he pounds into.

A scream begs to rip from your throat but you know it'll get you caught. A part of you doesn't fucking care as Logan roughly grabs your ass. So what if someone finds you bent over taking it from a man with the biggest cock you've ever seen. So what if you ruin your parents perfect little stupid party. Logan slips his hand over your mouth as if he could hear your thoughts.

"I know you're a slut sweetheart, but I'm not trying to let anyone else see the face you're about to make." He hums.

No, this is a moment reserved for him and him only.

You let out a muffled gasp as he drags you back so you're bent over even further. Pushing your legs together and groaning at the tighter feeling. How you feel this fucking good is unknown to him but he's incredibly thankful he's the one getting to fuck this cunt. You swear he's even deeper than before, the tip of his fat cock nudging its way even deeper.

Your legs shake as your body is overcome with a tidal wave of pleasure. Logan can feel your orgasm crash over you, another time and he'd admire how pretty you look when you come but he for now he has to cover your lips with his hand so you don't give anyone else a hint about what's going on.

It's cute really, how much you need him. But you could argue that he needs you more. Any longer and the man doesn't think he'd be able to pull out of your tight warm cunt. So he doesn't.

You sigh softly as you feel his hot cum fill you up. His hips stilling at the hilt as he throws his head back. His lips parted as he lets out a quiet groan. He uncovers your mouth and rests his big hands on your hips. You rest your elbows on the counter as you try and steady your breathing. He gently massages your hips, a satisfied smile on his lips.

You look up into the mirror and cringe slightly. Logan had utterly ruined you and it showed. He smirks as catches you staring at your face in the mirror.

"It's alright sweetheart, I think you look great." He pats your ass gently as he pulls his cock out.

You groan at the feeling, wishing he never had to leave. Logan bends down to grab your panties that were pooled around your ankles. You yelp as he nips at your ass on his way back up. He pulls your underwear up tightly. Tapping your cunt and smiling.

"Be good for me and don't spill a drop." He says as he tucks his cock back into his pants.

It's not fair that all he has to do is comb his fingers through his hair and he looks completely fine while he leaves you ruined. You scowl at him through the mirror and he chuckles.

"Don't laugh, you did this to me." You say with a huff.

"Yes I did." He says proudly. To your shock he leans down and kisses your cheek. It's gentle, one could almost call it loving if this was a different situation.

"Don't take too long, your daddy is probably wondering where you went." He says with a wink as he leaves the bathroom.

Asshole.

You sigh as you start to put yourself back together. This was a mistake, another stupid hook up. Maybe you just needed another go, one more fuck and you'd be fine until you go back home and never have to see him again. Truth be told you didn't put up much of a fight when Logan pulled you to the side.

If you were smarter you wouldn't have followed him into the house, you wouldn't have let him kiss you and carry you to the bathroom. But fuck you wanted it. You want him. But you can't have him, not really. He's just out of your reach.

A forbidden fruit that you cannot indulge in...again.

You head out of the bathroom hoping you look put together enough that no one questions your absence. Thankfully your parents are too preoccupied bragging to their friends to have really noticed you had been gone for so long. As you sit down with a lemonade you swear to yourself that Logan is off limits.

That was it, that was the final time. No more.

Then you catch his gaze and see that stupidly handsome smile and you feel your heart flutter too fast and a smile grow on your face. He winks and you want nothing more than to kiss that stupid look off his face.

—

Sid: Are u gonna come visit before I leave for Italy or are u gonna break my heart?

And like always, you answered the way he expected.

You: Lmk what dates, Crosby. I’ll check my schedule.

But the truth was you’d already been looking at flights.

It wasn’t that Boston to Pittsburgh was a long trip. It wasn’t even inconvenient. You were overdue anyway. You’d left a sweatshirt there last time on purpose, and your toothbrush had been living in his bathroom drawer for at least a year. That wasn’t new. What was new was the feeling. The one that had been gnawing at you for months.

And maybe—maybe—he was feeling it too.

You told yourself he probably just wanted to see you before he left. Like always. You were his person, right? His best girl. The one he called when he was tired of press and all the bullshit. The one he sends the shitty things he finds at two in the morning.

But this time felt different.

You stepped off the plane half-expecting to Uber like usual, but there he was, leaning against a pillar at arrivals in a backwards cap and brown hoodie. He didn’t even say anything when he saw you. Just smirked and opened his arms.

“Hi,” you said softly, buried in the warmth of him.

“Hey, sweetheart. Missed your face.”

“You saw my face on FaceTime two nights ago.”

“Yeah, well, FaceTime doesn’t smell like you,” he muttered, already grabbing your suitcase.

He didn’t even pretend to put your bag in the guest bedroom when you got to his house. He just rolled it right into his room like he’s been doing for longer than you can remember.

“Uh… do I live here now?” you joked, following behind him, but your voice cracked a little.

He didn’t miss it. “Pretty sure you always have, babe. You’ve got more stuff here than I do.”

You opened the closet he meant, and there it was. Your shampoo. Your socks. The hoodie you swore you’d take home last time but somehow didn’t. A couple tampons in the back because—well, yeah. That’s the kind of friendship it was.

Still, you’d expected the same old routine. That polite little song-and-dance where he tried to act normal. This wasn’t that.

“I thought you had to finish packing,” you said, tossing your purse onto the bed.

He shrugged. “I thought I did too. But then I thought about how I’d rather do this—” he grabbed your hand and yanked you down onto the mattress, making you shriek-laugh— “than fold socks.”

“You’re the worst,” you said, breathless.

“You love it.”

You did. You fucking did. That was the problem.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped up like he was about to start something serious. “So, dinner. I figured I’d order pizza unless you’re planning to cook.”

You gave him a flat look. “So you didn’t even think about cooking for me?”

“I did!” he said, mock defensive. “I thought about it. Then I remembered how good I look holding a pizza box.”

You smacked his chest. “You’re actually insufferable.”

“I’m hot, though,” he grinned.

“Debatable.”

“Babe, you literally cried the last time I shaved my playoff beard. Don’t lie.”

“That’s because you looked like a thumb.”

He burst out laughing. You couldn’t help but grin. God, he was so easy to love when he was like this.

Later, when you nudged him to pack—just because he really did have a flight coming up—he waved you off like you were talking about taxes.

“I’ll do it after.”

“After what?”

“You. Showering. I don’t know. Come on, we’ve got time.”

And sure enough, while you were in the shower, he packed like a damn maniac. Which just confirmed what you’d already started to suspect: he wanted all of his attention on you. As much of it as possible. While he still could.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, you’d barely made it five steps out before he groaned like you’d just hurt him.

“Are you serious right now?” he muttered from the bed, eyes looking you up and down. His voice was full of betrayal. “Pajama pants?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He flopped his head back dramatically against the pillow, arms spread out like you’d just ruined his life. “Fucking pajama pants, babe? What the hell happened to you?”

You snorted. “I just took a scalding hot shower after a full travel day, Crosby. What do you want from me?”

“I wanted to see some thigh,” he grumbled. “You used to show thigh.”

“I used to be twenty-five and stupid,” you said, laughing as you crossed the room. “Now I’m pushing thirty and care about being warm and comfortable.”

“Disgusting.”

“Sorry, I left all my lingerie at home. Guess you’ll have to suffer.”

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“Okay, relax. You’ve seen me in grosser things.”

“Yeah, but that was before I realized I wanted to fuck you,” he said into the mattress, muffled and ridiculous.

You smirked as you crawled into his bed, relishing in how soft and cold the sheets were. His bed had always been objectively better than yours. Bigger, comfier, fluffier pillows. He slept like a spoiled dog in a luxury crate and you were the one benefiting. You dropped onto your back and stretched with a happy sigh.

“Don’t worry,” you added, eyes closed. “My panties are ugly anyway.”

That made him lift his head. “Wait, what?”

“I said,” you peeked at him through one eye, “you’re not missing anything. It’s the ugly pair. Like, so ugly. I should’ve thrown them out. There’s a bleach stain on the waistband and everything.”

Sid choked on a laugh. “You think I give a fuck about that?”

You raised a brow. “You don’t care that I’m wearing the cotton briefs of someone who’s given up on life?”

He shrugged. “Babe, if you were naked under a Snuggie I’d still be into it.”

“That is so foul.”

“That’s love,” he corrected, pointing at you with a lazy grin.

“You don’t love me,” you teased.

“Don’t say stuff you can’t take back.”

You laughed again, half-wanting to pull the blankets over your head to hide from the way he was looking at you. But you didn’t. Instead, you got cozy, burrowing into the bed as he got back up and moved around the room, picking through clothes and trying to look productive.

“You gonna finish packing or are we just winging it?” you asked, watching him half-heartedly fold a t-shirt before tossing it into the suitcase with zero finesse.

Sid waved you off. “I’ll finish in the morning.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

“And now I mean it. Come on, it’s bedtime.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as he turned out the big light and tugged off his shirt in the lamplight, tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed before collapsing face-down onto the mattress beside you with a grunt. He didn’t even pretend to be graceful about it.

“I’m dying,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Don’t look at me.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being old.”

You turned your head on the pillow to look at him. His shoulders were all muscle and tension. You let your eyes wander for a moment before your mouth moved.

“Your hair’s gotten greyer,” you said softly.

His head turned slightly, just enough for one eye to peek at you over the pillow. “Jesus Christ. Don’t remind me, yeah?”

You laughed. “I like it.”

“Don’t say that either.”

“Why?”

“Because you saying shit like that is how people end up pregnant.”

You snorted so hard you almost choked. “Sidney!”

“I’m serious,” he grinned, voice muffled by the bed. “You can’t be saying stuff like that when I’m vulnerable and half-naked. It’s a dangerous game.”

“You’re a dangerous game,” you shot back.

“You’re not denying the pregnancy thing though.”

“Okay, relax, Dilf. I said I liked your hair, not that I want to trap you.”

“That’s worse,” he muttered.

You reached out and placed your hand on his bare back. You hadn’t meant to, really. It just felt… right. His skin is warm and incredibly smooth under your palm. He’s great at moisturizing. You ran your thumb over the curve of his shoulder blade without thinking.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

“What?” he asked.

“Why are you built like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like… your muscles have muscles,” you murmured. “It’s disgusting. I forgot how dense you are.”

He made a pleased little sound. “You checking me out?”

“I always check you out,” you said before you could stop yourself.

“Good,” he said, pleased.

Your hand stayed on his back, fingertips dragging down the slope of his spine without a purpose. Just feeling him. Being near him. Remembering what it was like to be here. In this bed. In this space between almost and what if.

He sighed.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Really.”

“Me too.”

“You sure?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Yeah,” you said, quieter now. “I wanted to see you.”

He was still lying on his stomach, but he tilted his face toward yours in the dark. You could just make out the curve of his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I have grey hair?”

“I’d still do you.”

His whole body shook with laughter. “Yeah. You would.”

“I’m just saying. The hair’s working for you. You should lean into it.”

“You’re saying I should stop coloring it.”

“You color it?” you teased.

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow again. “Oh my god.”

Your hand stays on his back, lazy in its path, just trailing nonsense patterns over warm skin. He doesn’t move much—just sinks deeper into the mattress, completely starfished on his stomach like a grown man who never learned how to share space.

You’re about to close your eyes when your phone buzzes against the nightstand. It’s instinct, really. You don’t even think. You just reach for it, the screen lighting up your face in a faint blue light.

You barely even unlock it before—

“Who’s texting you?”

You freeze for a second, then look over.

He didn’t move. Still face-planted into the pillow, cheek smushed, hair messy, voice sleep-heavy and slow. But his eyebrow is up.

You grinned. “Jesus. I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. Until you started texting your little boyfriend.”

You snort. “You are so dramatic.”

“Am I wrong?”

“It’s a coworker,” you said, thumbing through the short message before locking the phone. “He was asking about Monday.”

“That’s a weird way to spell boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes and set your phone on the nightstand.

“Better?” you ask.

Sid doesn’t answer. He just moves. He rolls onto his side, slings an arm around your waist, and pulls you so fast your skin burns against the comforter a little. He presses himself against your side, he’s heavy and absolutely shameless. His arm goes around your middle. His thigh finds yours. His face burrows into your neck.

“Sid.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “You started it.”

“I literally didn’t.”

“Texting other men in my bed?”

You laughed, squirming a little, but not actually trying to get away. “You’re out of your mind.”

“You’re mine. That’s what you are.”

You stilled. Just for a second. Because you could tell he didn’t even realize what he’d said.

So instead of panicking, you joked.

“Careful,” you whispered against his hair. “This is how people get pregnant.”

“Good,” he murmured, adjusting himself so his whole body covered more of yours now, half draped over you like a weighted blanket. “Then your boyfriend’ll leave you alone.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re insane.”

“He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“You jealous, Crosby?”

“Of your imaginary office romance? Babe, I’d dust him.”

You tilted your head just enough to catch his eyes. “You’d dust him?”

“Yeah,” he said, chin tucked against your collarbone now. “Make him cry.”

You laughed so hard you snorted. “God, you’re such a little shit.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

“You. Repeatedly. Usually right before you steal my stuff.”

“Don’t be jealous of my work boyfriend,” you teased, half-asleep yourself now, voice low and sassy.

Sid let out an actual gag. “Oh my God, don’t call him that.”

“What? He’s sweet.”

“Don’t make me throw up on you.”

“He brings me coffee sometimes.”

“I’ll bring you a lifetime supply of coffee if you stop talking.”

“Compliments me at the copier…”

Sid pushed up just enough to glare at you. “Say one more thing about this fucking copier loser and I’m making you sleep on the couch.”

You grinned. “Wow. Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

“Jealousy looks incredible on me. It makes my arms look bigger.”

You ran your hand along one of them. The bicep, the slope of his tricep. Just let your hand wander because there wasn’t a reason not to. Because fuck, he was all muscle and heat and he wasn’t making any effort to stop you. Why would he?

“I think your arms already look big, baby,” you said softly.

He blinked. Just once. Then dipped his head and brushed his nose against yours. You grinned, then flinched when he bumped his nose against yours. A gentle nudge. Eskimo kiss. You scrunched your face and wrinkled your nose, your favorite way to annoy him.

He did it again.

“Stop,” you whispered, laughing.

“No,” he said. “I’m claiming you.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“It is now.”

You shook your head, nose still touching his. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m in love with you.”

He didn’t mean to say that.

You could tell from the way he immediately froze, the way he watches you, unblinking. And then… he smiles. Like he’s not about to ruin everything.

“It's true,” he says with a tiny shrug. “I am. In love with you, I mean.”

You stare at him. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. So you close it. Then try again.

“Why the fuck would you say that?”

He tilts his head a little, still so calm. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because,” you whisper, panic crawling up your chest, “because that’s not—fuck, that’s not normal, Sid. That’s gonna make things weird.”

“Why?” he asks again. “Why does it make it weird? You don’t love me back?”

You freeze. Eyes locked with his. That question should’ve been simple.

But it’s not.

Because he’s looking at you like he knows the answer already. Like he’s waited for this moment and doesn’t care that you’re losing your mind. Like he’s already decided what he wants and he’s not scared of it.

You’re the terrified one.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quietly, trying to shift your hips and slide out from beneath him. “Just—just let me go, okay?”

He doesn’t move.

“Babe,” he says, more serious now. “Answer me.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter, Sid.”

“It does.”

“No, it fucking doesn’t,” you snap, voice higher now, embarrassed and angry at yourself for letting it come to this.

His hand tightens a little on your hip.

“It does,” he repeats, softer this time. “You don’t get to say it doesn’t.”

You roll your eyes. It’s stupid, but it’s the only move you’ve got left.

He sees it. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Then don’t say stupid shit.”

He exhales through his nose, visibly trying to stay patient. “Tell me what you think I’m doing, then. Because from where I am, it feels like I’m being honest with you for the first time in years.”

You push at his chest, not hard. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“I want the truth,” he says. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve ever fucking wanted from you.”

You swallow. Hard.

“It wouldn’t work,” you mumblr. “Even if I felt the same—which I’m not saying I do—it just… it wouldn’t work, okay? It’s not realistic.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not, Sid.”

“Bull. Shit.”

He’s louder now. Not angry, just emphatic.

“Do you know how far I’ve traveled for fucking training camps?” he says, voice pitching up. “Do you know how many goddamn time zones I’ve slept through just to make a face-time meeting with my sports psychologist?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It means that I don’t give a shit about the distance. I never have.”

God, he looks so serious. Like he means every word. Like this wasn’t just some flirty moment. Like this isn’t about sex or the fact that you’re in his bed again.

“You could be all the way in goddamn Norway,” he said. “And I’d still make it work for you. I’d fucking move to Norway if that’s what it took.”

You open your mouth. Then shut it again.

Because what do you even say to that?

He sees your hesitation. Sees it and still doesn’t look away.

“So tell me,” he says, voice soft again. “Tell me if you don’t feel the same. But don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. Because it to me does.”

And you know. You know what you want to say. You know what’s been eating at you since the minute he picked you up from the airport and carried your suitcase into his room like it was second nature. Since he kissed your nose. Since he made fun of your ugly-ass underwear and curled his whole body around yours like you were his favorite place in the world.

But your mouth won’t say it.

Instead, all you manage is: “I don’t know.”

His brow twitches, like maybe that stung. But he recovers and nods.

“I know,” he says. “I figured.”

You furrow your brows, confused. “Then why—”

“Because I do know,” he says simply. “I’m a thousand percent sure. About you. About this. I’ve known for a long fucking time.”

You feel like your heart’s trying to climb into your throat.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I’m not saying it to pressure you,” he adds. “I’m not even asking you to say it back. I just… I needed you to know.”

Then he kisses your cheek so gently it barely registers as anything other than warmth, then rolls off of you with a long sigh. His arm brushes yours in the process. His body shifts the blankets as he flips onto his back for a second, then onto his other side, facing away from you.

Logically, you knew he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t getting up to slam doors or huffing under his breath. He wasn’t pulling away in anger—he was giving you space, being thoughtful, like he always has been. But still. Still. That one part of your brain, the part that liked to self-destruct at the worst possible times, whispered he’s pissed.

It started with the tight feeling in your stomach, the heat in your chest, the ache behind your eyes like you were suddenly five years old and just got scolded. You stared at the ceiling. Listened to the way he exhaled. Maybe it was fine. Maybe he was fine. It wasn’t rejection. You knew that. But your heart didn’t. And you hated that about yourself.

You rolled over to him as gently as you could, pulling the comforter with you, curling into the shape of his back. Your chest pressed to his spine, your knee nudging behind his thigh. Then you leaned in and kissed his bare shoulder.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant.

He didn’t move. Just breathed for a second, then answered calmly.

“No, babe.”

“You sure?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

You nodded too, lips brushing his skin again. “Okay.”

You weren’t even sure why you asked. It was obvious in the way his body didn’t tense, the way he didn’t shrug you off. The way his breathing stayed the same. But you needed to hear it anyway. You stayed like that for a moment. Just breathing together.

“I just…” You pause, your breath a little shaky. “I don’t know how it would work.”

This time, he moved. He reached for your hand, slid his fingers between yours, then pulled your arm around his torso until your palm rested flat on his stomach. His big hand covered yours.

He didn’t hesitate.

“You stay in Boston,” he said softly. “I stay here. In Pittsburgh.”

You didn’t answer. Just listened to the cadence of his voice, the certainty in it.

“We keep doing what we’ve already been doing,” he went on. “Calls. Visits. Games. All of it. Just… with the bonus that I get to show you off as mine now.”

You let out a soft laugh against his back. “That’s the bonus?”

He squeezed your hand. “One of them.”

“And the other?”

“We get to tell each other that we love each other,” he said, voice dropping lower, “and mean it.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were a little too busy blinking fast, your chest feeling all weird. Emotional whiplash. Too many years of pretending you didn’t want exactly this.

“I’ve always meant it,” you finally whispered.

He smiled, even though you could barely see it. You imagined his cheeks were rosy too.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

You kissed his shoulder again. This time, you let your lips linger.

“I hate that you’re good at this,” you murmured.

He laughed under his breath. “Being in love with you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s fucking annoying.”

He shifted so he could roll onto his back again, dragging you with him until your head was tucked under his chin, your body now draped half on top of his. His hand slid under the hem of your shirt, rubbing slow circles into your lower back.

“You’ve been in love with me for years,” he teased. “Don’t act like this is new.”

“I’m gonna throw you off the bed.”

“You’d miss me.”

“Only a little.”

“Liar.”

You buried your face in his neck, hiding the grin you couldn’t stop if you tried. His skin smelled exactly like the body wash you’d claimed for yourself months ago.

You kissed his neck, then sighed dramatically. “God. You’re gonna make me soft.”

“You are soft,” he said, cupping your ass like a goddamn… well, boyfriend… your boyfriend. “Right here. Jesus, babe. This what you wear to bed around your work boyfriend?”

“Oh my god—Sid.”

“What? I’m just saying. If I was him, I’d fall in love with you too.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a freak.”

He nuzzled his nose into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Only for you.”

Goddamn it. You were so fucked.

Because that night, Bruce saw an elegant, sweet, and composed woman. A gentle smile, a calm voice, an almost ethereal presence that unsettled him more than any armed criminal; nothing about her screamed danger.

But over time he discovered that that innocent look hid something deeper, something that made the sweetest woman in Gotham the greatest test of self-control Bruce had ever faced.

he was even surprised that, given their active sex life, you only had one baby. Because you were… insatiable.

That woman who seemed made of silk and light, that woman who inspired tenderness in anyone… you could wake him at midnight with a single caress and make him feel like he'd been training for a marathon the next morning. Sometimes Bruce would just watch you as you played with their daughter in the garden, looking more angelic than ever, so gentle, so maternal, so perfectly innocent…

If only they knew that beneath that celestial exterior lay a determination bordering on the voracious. That when you looked at him with a certain glint in her eyes, he knew he was doomed. That that same body that seemed made to embrace and protect was capable of cornering him with an ease that made all his years of training look ridiculous.

But he wouldn't deny at all that he loved that initiative on your part, that brazen confidence to seek him out when you wanted, that you liked to explore your sexuality to the fullest, especially if it was with him. He didn't mind at all waking up with his wife's soft lips around his cock in the morning or a quickie before heading out to the city for his nightly work, still feeling her on his sensitive cock.

Bruce was almost ready. Suit on, belt secured, hood in hand. That moment before going out, where his mind became cold, methodical, strategic.

Until he heard your footsteps.

When he looked up, you were leaning against the doorframe, your silk robe barely knotted at the waist. The kind of sight that would make you do a double take to make sure it was real.

"Are you leaving already?" you asked with feigned innocence.

Bruce let out that sigh that only you could elicit from him. "Gotham doesn't take care of itself " he replied dryly, although his eyes had already slipped to the opening of his robe.

You walked toward him with a slow, undulating, almost cruel gait. You circled him from behind, without touching him first. You let the silence do the work. .

And then, with all the calm in the world, you put your hands under the suit, touching her waist, the line of the taut muscles, the warm skin of his back.

Bruce closed his eyes. For a moment. Just long enough for you to realize you had him.

"You have time for a kiss, don't you?" you whispered against his neck.

He knew you weren't talking about a kiss. You never talked about a kiss when you said it like that.

Before he could answer, you gently tugged on his tactical belt to pull him closer to you. Your mouth barely grazed his ear.

"I don't want you to leave without remembering me," you murmured. "At least... for a little while."

Bruce swallowed, that involuntary reaction you loved to provoke in him. You smiled against his skin.

Your hands traveled down his abdomen, tracing each muscle as if you were the one taking a tactical inventory. And he, that man disciplined to the extreme, remained rigid, tense, trying to preserve a last shred of self-control.

"You shouldn't..." he whispered.

"So you're arresting me? " you asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

Silence

Bruce didn't move.

And you, subtle, victorious, untied the knot of your robe with a small gesture. The silk fell away barely, just enough for him to see skin. So much skin that he could feel through his suit.

"Don't be long," you said, with that dangerous smile. "I just need... the bare minimum."

Bruce laid his hood on the table.

Complete surrender "One minute" he conceded, although they both knew it would be longer.

You gently pushed him against the wall with confidence. Your lips met his with an intensity that was anything but sweet.

Your hands traveled straight to where you knew you could break him: the base of his abdomen, under his suit, warming his skin as he placed one hand on your waist and the other closed into a fist, trying not to lose himself completely.

"God..." he murmured against your mouth. "You don't do this right before you leave..."

Bruce let out a low, deep moan, one he never let out with anyone else. And you smiled, because he was yours. Because you could be.

A couple of minutes later—perhaps more than he had promised—Bruce rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily, trying to compose himself while you retrieved the robe, which he had let fall to the floor with malicious slowness.

"Go," you whispered. "Be good. Or at least... come back in one piece."

Bruce looked at her as if he owed her his whole life. "I always come back," he said, touching her waist one last time. "I have my reasons."

And you smiled at him, triumphant, satisfied, perfectly aware that you had just left him marked before he even came out of the cave's hiding place.

But he also remembered nights when he came home exhausted, his body aching, his knuckles split, his mind reeling. You would be waiting for him, awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing that silk robe he swore she only wore to torture him. You said nothing; you just looked at him, tilted your head, and smiled as if you knew exactly what to do to make him feel better.

Bruce pushed open the bedroom door with a heavy sigh, the last effort he would make before the day ended. The silence of the mansion enveloped him immediately, as always, but every night he knew that beyond the bedroom door you would be there, waiting for him.

Sitting on the bed, in that silk robe he loved so much, the way you wore it was a masterpiece, the way the fabric draped over you, the way it felt beneath his rough hands. But this time, your legs were crossed, your hands resting on your knees, and your gaze was so warm that Bruce felt all his weariness wash over him at once.

"Are you hurt?" you murmured as soon as you saw him.

Bruce looked down at his bandaged knuckles. "Just a little."

You smiled, that small, forgiving smile that he never deserved, but that was his anyway.

"Come here" you said, opening your arms with a gentleness that melted any armor Bruce tried to maintain.

He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, letting himself be led as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And when he sat on the edge of the bed, you slid behind him and, wrapping your arms around him, hugged him from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. Your fingers began to caress his shoulders, moving down his neck, along the rigid line of his jaw. Bruce closed his eyes and placed his hands on your arms, holding them as if he needed that contact to keep from falling apart.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," he murmured.

"Of course," you replied, as if it were obvious. "I don't like it when you're alone when you get back."

There was a comfortable silence as you rested your head on his shoulder, and he tilted his head to brush his forehead against yours. The connection between you was palpable, that safe space you shared without needing to say much.

"It was a difficult night," Bruce finally admitted, in a low voice, almost a whisper meant only for her.

You didn't ask what happened, you didn't pressure him. You just kept letting your fingers continue down his chest, tracing every tense muscle with slow, steady caresses.

"I'm here" you said simply.

Bruce rested his forehead against your chest, letting the sound of your heartbeat help bring him calm. You held him, one hand stroking his hair, the other tracing circles on his bare back.

"I hope you know that everything you do is great, you're a great man" you whispered, almost like a secret that you didn't want to break the peace of the room.

He put an arm around you, holding on to you, taking his first deep breath all night.

"I know "Bruce replied, and something in his voice cracked slightly, in a way only you could hear. "You tell me that every night, darling."

You smiled against his temple, and hugged him a little tighter. Bruce let his weight rest completely on you, allowing himself, for a moment, to stop being Batman.

He was just Bruce, the man who loved his wife, who loved his children. The man who found refuge in your arms.

And you stayed there, holding him, caressing him, giving him that space where he could let go. Where he could be vulnerable without fear. Where he could simply breathe.

"I love you," Bruce finally said, barely audible.

You placed a soft kiss on her head before speaking . "I love you too, my love. "

And so you both stayed, embraced, without haste, without demands, without needing anything more. Just two people who met in the middle of the night, as always.

Because no matter how dominant he was in everything else, when it came to you, when it came to his wife, he simply let himself go. He willingly surrendered to every kiss, every demand, every whim she tried to wrest from him.

Bruce didn't know how long they had been like that, enveloped in silence, in caresses, in that tranquility that only you could give him. But at some point, he felt your fingers move toward his chin, gently guiding him to look at you.

Your eyes were filled with a tenderness that even he, who had seen everything, couldn't fully understand. "I want you to rest, Bruce," you whispered. "You've more than earned it."

He let out a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. And for the first time all night, a genuine, warm smile crossed his face.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing in your air, finding peace in that small gesture. His hands slid to your waist, drawing you in with an almost reverent care, as if you were the most precious thing he had… and you were.

"Thank you for waiting for me," he said, this time firmly, as if those words carried special weight. "Thank you for never leaving me alone... ever."

"I never will," you promised in a soft, sincere murmur. "I'll always be here, Bruce."

And he closed his eyes, letting those words be etched into his chest like a silent oath.

You settled down next to him in bed, and Bruce followed you instantly. He stretched out beside you, resting his head on your chest again as your fingers began to stroke his hair once more, with slow, relaxed movements.

"I slept "you said softly. " I'm with you."

There was plenty of evidence to help you understand how he was feeling. It was in the heaviness of his breath; the stomp of his feet against the floor; the scowl that had frozen his warm smile over; the deep, deep trouble behind his usually calm eyes. It could have been any of that. But truly, what it was, was the dust particles floating through the air, catching in the light that slipped through the garage’s single window. They only flew with each thud of his bare fist against the punching bag, the one that had sat, untouched, for years now. 

When you married him, he had suggested to just throw it away or donate it—no need to have a visual reminder of the violence he was so desperate to leave behind. He had found God, and He had helped him find you. The new Reverend was not interested in letting his sinful, hateful past thread between the fibers of his new life. You, however, had insisted he keep it. Let it take up space. Let it be there, ‘just in case.’ And today, years, later, case there was.

He could feel your presence in the doorway. You knew it, too, that your presence, leaning against the doorway, filled his peripherals with each grunt that escaped him. You didn’t dare speak, though. Not out of fear, but out of respect for him, his emotions, and his commitment to his calling. He wouldn’t share with you. He couldn’t. The sacramental seal was the last thing he would betray. But still, you’d wait for him to say anything. And as the first, slow tear trickled down from his eye, mingling with the sweat that had dripped into the collar he had yet to remove, his mouth finally opened.

“I can’t tell y—”

“I know.”

He finally stopped punching, his head sagging forward against the bag. You stepped into the garage, stopping just in front of him, and erached toward his throat. With sharp, efficient care, you undid the small, brass clasp. The damp, rigid plastic of the Roman collar came away, peeling off his neck like a useless bandage. You let it drop. It made a tacky, pathetic sound hitting the floor.

“Monsignor Wicks, isn’t it?” you ask slowly, your voice quiet before you meet his eyes. “It’s obvious how much he doesn’t want you there.”

Jud sighs, going to go sit on the workbench on the side of the garage. Your wedding ring catches the sunlight as you follow him. 

“Every week, it’s the same shit that he forces me to listen to,” Jud breathes, letting his head fall to his hands. “I am happy to take his confession. It’s my job to help him reconcile with God. It’s my job to be the shepherd. But they expect the shepherd to be a silent, stainless vessel. And they forget that sometimes, the vessel can crack.”

“You’re shaking,” you remark, catching the tremble of his hands. 

“I’m still angry,” he replies, clenching his fists. “And I wouldn’t have to be here if I had just been less hateful in the first place.” 

“The deacon deserved it,” you quickly retort, rolling your eyes. “He sucked. He got what he had coming.” You reach for one of his clenched fists, forcing it open to place your hand in it. He finally lifts his head, meeting your eyes. “You don’t have to be the Reverend, or the shepherd, or the father, right now,” you say quietly. “You can just be Jud, if you want.” Your fingers thread between his. 

The instant those words leave your mouth, his eyes flash. Not quite hope, but certainly bent in that direction by the strength of his tension. “Your husband,” he breathes. “Just Jud.”

You nod, a thin smile on your face. 

Marriage had saved Jud. You two were young when you made your vows, barely 20 years old. Somehow, though, wise enough beyond your years to have married as soulmates. Plenty of time had passed, and still, those vows rang as true as the day they had been spoken before the lord. 

“Your husband,” he breathes once more, before letting his lips crash to yours. “It’s everywhere,” he pants between desperate kisses, leaning over you. “His words. They’re everywhere. In my head. In my mouth. I can taste his hatred. I need to make it stop. It needs to stop.”

He moves with the practiced, coiled speed of a boxer, seizing you. The bench you sat on was forgotten. He maneuvers you against the cold concrete wall, his body caging yours, blocking the humiliating light of the overhead utility strip.

His hands, thick and strong, go to his own clothing first. Once he rips his shirt off, he throws it. The motion is an aggressive rejection of the spiritual uniform, a physical act of defiance against the man who misused the collar's authority.

He doesn’t remove your clothes so much as he simply displaced them, urgently creating skin-to-skin contact. His movements are rough, driven by the frantic need to replace the vile, lingering residue of Wicks's presence with something pure, honest, and real—the reality of his wife, the reality of his marriage.

His lips fall to yours once more, his hands sliding anywhere they can, desperate to anchor himself to his greatest salvation: you. With a ragged gasp, he pulls back, but immediately brings his kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and to your waiting breasts. 

“Is this what you need from me?” you softly pant, your eyes wide with both want and concern. 

“I need to feel you,” he replies. “I’m so mad.” His hands travel between your parted thighs, rubbing at the growing wetness of your pussy, eager to get you ready for him. “I need you,” he hisses again, tongue swirling around your peaking nipple.

“Bed,” you reply. The snap in your tone makes him look up. “It’s cold in here!” you sheepishly reply. He can’t help the whisper of a smile that takes over his lips at that moment. He lifts you against his naked body, leaving the pile of both of your clothes behind as he treks to the bedroom.

He wastes no time when he places you down, spreading yout legs wide open to slide one finger into your waiting heat. A short gasp escapes you, your hands finding his toned chest, sliding down to his rippling abs. 

“Lean down,” you huff as he slides the second finger in. “Let me kiss you.”

He smiles, endeared, as he brings his face closer to yours, his fingers thrusting at an angry pace. Your lips flutter over his neck, tracing the lines of his tattoo and down his throat. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he pants, thumb rolling your clit, now. “I need to be inside you, but I’m so upset. I don’t think I can be nice.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you’re quick to reply. “And you don’t have to confess anything to me. I want you to feel better. I want to help you feel better.”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” he practically whines. “I can’t hold it back.”

“I couldn’t be mad if I tried.”

One final look of assurance is all it takes before Jud is sliding his hands to your hips, his thick, wide cock thrusting into you with the anger and speed of a man truly scorned. 

“He shouldn’t be allowed,” Jud grunts out, though you can barely hear him over your own moans and the slap of his skin against yours. “He shouldn’t be allowed to run a church. He’s so selfish. He’s terrible. He’s—he’s scum.”

It’s hard to focus on Jud’s emotional rant when you’re already close to seeing stars, but you try your best. “Mhm,” you manage to whine out. “He’s a poor excuse for a priest. I’m so sorry—oh my goodness—!”

The cries that you’re unable to contain bring him back to what’s in front of him: his loving, caring wife, who’s inches from a mind-boggling orgasm.

“Don’t even think about him right now, Jud,” you gasp out. “Just focus on this. And yourself. Does it feel good?”

“So good,” he mutters, his eyes relaxing as he hears you. “You feel so good. You’re everything. You’re perfect.” He pulls out slowly, chest heaving, before slamming back into you, hard enough to steal your breath. His eyes lock on yours as he begins to drive himself even harder than before. "You," he gasps out with every thrust. "I need you. This is the truth. This is the only truth."

The rage was now completely subsumed by desire. The roughness wasn't about pain, but about absolute, uncontrolled passion—the kind of messy, glorious, release that only a deeply bonded couple could share. His face was a mask of sweat and agony and intense satisfaction, his back muscles pulling tight with the strain.

You felt the tension coiling impossibly tight inside you. You were seconds away from breaking, propelled by his furious devotion.

“So close,” he groans, his head falling to your neck, hot pants escaping onto your skin. “You’re so good. You feel so good.” His eyes are shut in bliss and concentration as his hips grow impossibly faster, both of you inches from your release. 

Finally, it hits him. The sound that tears from his chest is a deep, ragged groan of pure relief, a primal sound that has nothing to do with collars or churches, and everything to do with being twenty-something, furious, and utterly loved. He trembles as he releases, his fingers rubbing over your clit with intent and devotion.

“Please give it to me,” he begs. “Let me have this from you. I know you can do it, I know you—”

“Jud!” you gasp out, back arching, toes curling. “J-Jud, Jud—yes!” Your orgams crashes over you, and his fingers drag those waves of pleasure through you until your hips are beginning to twitch from the overstimulation. Slowly, he removes his hand, his body lowering onto yours. 

The room is silent for several minutes, the sound of both of your breaths mingling with the descending sunlight that filters through the window. Finally, when your heart rate has slowed enough for your eyes to open, you speak. 

“So we can both agree that I was right about keeping the punching bag, right?”

He snorts at your remark, his eyes fluttering open as he tilts his head slightly to meet your gaze. “You can be right about whatever you want. You’re right about everything, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too.” Your voice is quiet once again, your smile small yet warm.

— 1. The Public Moment

The studio lights felt warmer than usual for Alfie.

They hum faintly above him, casting a soft glow over the table and the tangled wires beneath it. The Fellas decorations sit bold on the walls, and there's the familiar, low-level buzz in the room — laughter waiting to happen, jokes half-formed before anyone even speaks.

Alfie settles back into his chair like he belongs there. One arm draped over the side, ankle resting casually over his knee. He looks relaxed, easy. The version of him people recognise.

Chip leans forward first, elbows on his knees, a grin tugging at his mouth. "So," he says, glancing briefly as the camera before looking back at Alfie, "you've been busy lately. Proper busy."

Cal hums in agreement. "Everywhere we look, it's Alfie this, Alfie that."

Alfie chuckles, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Can't complain."

Chip's eyes flicker with interest. "Busy with work, though? Or... other stuff?"

There it is.

Alfie doesn't answer straight away. Not long enough for it to be obvious — just a beat. Long enough for his foot to start tapping against the floor in front of him.

"Just work," he says finally. "That's the focus."

Cal tilts his head. "No distractions at all?"

Alfie scoffs, light and dismissive. "Nah."

Chip laughs. "That's mad. No one ever believes that answer."

"Because people like to make things up," Alfie replies, shrugging. "Gives them something to talk about."

Cal smirks. "Funny you say that, because I've definitely heard a few things. And I think the viewers at home have seen a couple things." He emphasised a particular word.

Alfie's smile sharpens, automatic. Defensive, if anyone were paying close enough attention.

"Yeah?" he says. "Like what? From who?"

Cal lifts his hands. "I'm not naming sources."

The room laughs. Alfie joins in, leaning back further, spreading his shoulders like the topic barely registers.

"Look," he says, glancing between them, "I don't do labels. Im, like, twenty-two, got my whole life to live. Too much stress for nothing when you start throwing labels into the mix."

Chip gasps dramatically. "So you're saying you're single."

"I'm saying," Alfie replies, eyes flicking to the camera, "I'm not tied down."

Cal nods approvingly. "Man of freedom."

"Exactly," Alfie says, pointing to him. "Someone gets it."

The conversation moves on quickly after that. Like it always does when the boys clickbait Alfie's relationship status. Night out debates. A story from Cal that goes on too long. Chip interrupting with a joke that makes everyone laugh again.

Alfie plays his part perfectly — nodding, laughing at the right moments, adding comments that get clipped for TikTok later. He looks comfortable. Confident. Unbothered.

No one notices the way his phone sits face down beside him. No one notices how he checks it the second there's a pause in conversation — just a glance, quick and subtle.

Nothing.

When the episode finally drops, the clip spreads fast.

"Not tied down."

"He doesn't care."

"Cold."

You see it too.

You watch the way he smiles when they joke about it. The way he doesn't correct them. Doesn't soften it. Doesn't even hesitate long enough for anyone to wonder if there's more to the story. If anything, he lead it on.

So you don't text him.

And Alfie doesn't realise how quiet his phone is until the studio lights are off, the jokes are over, and the room feels too empty for his laughter to echo back.

You see the clip by accident.

It's halfway down your feed, sandwiched between something funny and something you don't care about, and you almost scroll past it. Alfie's name catches your eye first. Then his voice.

"I'm not tied down."

You watch it once.

Then again, even though you already know you shouldn't.

He looks relaxed. Leaned back, smiling like the question barely matters. Like there isn't anyone sitting anywhere else, replaying his words over and over, wondering which part of them stings the most.

You lock your phone and toss it onto the bed beside you.

For a moment, you tell yourself it doesn't mean anything. Podcasts are jokes. Clips are edited. People exaggerate.

The comments definitely didn't help.

You wonder if he reads them. If he laughs at them the way he laughed in the studio.

Your phone feels like a brick in your hand.

Usually, after something like this, you'd be the one to text first. Something light. A joke. An excuse to keep the peace.

This time, you don't.

You see that he's reposted it. You reply with a question mark, leaving the next decision to him.

Hours pass. Evening slips into night. The quiet starts to feel deliberate, like a decision instead of an accident.

You go out with friends. You laugh when you're meant to. You let yourself be present, even when the conversation drifts an you catch yourself checking your phone without meaning to.

Nothing.

Back home, you sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself think it through.

You think about all the almost-conversations. The moments where it felt like he was about to say something real, only to turn it into a joke instead. About how confident he is everywhere else — just not with you.

You don't want to be something he pretends doesn't exist.

So you leave your phone face down on the desk and turn off the light.

The silence lasts longer than expected.

Long enough that it stops feeling dramatic and starts feeling real.

You're about to fall asleep then your phone buzzes against the oak.

Alfie: u busy?

No apology.

No explanation.

Just him, testing the water like he hasn't already said too much to a room full of people.

You stare at the message longer than you should.

Then—

You:depends.

Typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears agin.

Alfie:can I see you?

You hesitate.

This is the part that always gets you—the way he shows up only once the distance feels permanent. The way you want to say no just to prove you can.

Instead you send him your location.

He's there quicker than you expect.

Alfie doesn't joke when he sees you. Doesn't lean in the doorway or pretend this is casual. He just stands there for a second, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense like he's bracing himself.

"You didnt text," he says finally.

"You didn't give me much to reply to."

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. "It was a podcast."

"And I was... what?" You ask, immediately on the defence. "A distraction? A rumour?"

That lands.

Alfie looks away, then back at you, eyes darker than usual. "I didn't mean it like that."

"But you had no problem saying it like that."

Silence stretches between you. Both of your anger rising.

"I don't like people knowing my stuff," he admits, tone filled with annoyance. "I don't like giving them something they can twist."

"So you twist it first?" you argue. "You pretend like I don't exist so no one can use it against you?"

He doesn't answer straight away, hand rubbing between his eyebrows like he's trying to hold himself together.

"You don't get it," Alfie says finally. "A clip. A joke. I say one thing wrong and it's everywhere."

You let out a sharp laugh. "You already said the wrong thing."

His head snaps up. "I didn't say I didn't care about you."

"You didn't have to," you shoot back. "You let everyone else say it for you."

The words hang heavy between you.

"You think this is easy for me?" he asks, voice raised. "You think I like looking like the bad guy?"

"I think you like not having to explain yourself," you say. "I think you like being able to walk away and pretend it doesn't matter."

"That is not fair."

"Neither is being something you only acknowledge when it's convenient."

Alfie steps closer, frustration written all over his face. "I came here, didn't I?"

"After I stopped chasing," you reply. "That's the problem."

That stops him.

For a second, neither of you speak.

The air feels unbearable, thick with everything you've thrown at each other and everything you haven't said. Your eyes lock, neither of you willing to look away, both of you breathing too fast like you've already lost control.

Then it breaks.

Alfie moves first — not gently, not carefully. He steps forward, forcing you back until the door is behind him, shutting it with a sharp sound that cuts through the silence. The kiss comes immediately, sudden and desperate, like he's afraid that if he waits another second you'll disappear.

It's all frustration and feeling, no space to think. Your hands twist into his hair, grounding yourself, clinging just as much as pushing back. His grip tightens at your waist, steady nut urgent, like this is the only way he knows how to say what he couldn't out loud.

It's not soft.

It's not calm.

It's two people who are angry and hurt, and still choosing each other anyway.

— 2. The Jealousy Moment

The Sidemen shoot runs longer than planned.

It always does.

By the time the camera finally stops rolling, everyone's restless —laughing louder, talking over each other, already half-thinking about where the night's heading next. Someone suggests the pub. Someone else agrees before anyone can object. It becomes a plan without really becoming one.

Alfie's leaning against a table when it happens.

He's tired in that loose, end-of-day way, hoodie pushed up his arms, attention drifting in and out of conversations. That's when she steps closer—someone from the wider group, confident, comfortable, clearly not worried where she stands.

She laugh at something he says. Touches his arm when she does.

It's harmless. Mostly.

But she stays close. Too close. Leaning in when she talks, brushing past him like it's accidental even when it isn't.

Alfie doesn't shut it down.

He doesn't encourage it either— not really— but he lets it happen. Lets the attention sit there, easy and flattering. Lets himself smile a little wider than necessary.

He doesn't see you at first.

You're on the edge of the room, talking to someone you came with, drink untouched in your hand. You notice it imediately— the way she stands angled toward him, the way his body doesn't move away.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter.

You're not exclusive. Not officially. Not something he's ever been brave enough to define.

Still, something twists in your chest.

When the group moves to the pub, the feeling follows you there.

The place is loud and warm, packed with people who all seem to know each other somehow. Everyone spills inside together, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. Alfie ends up at the bar, and so does she.

You watch as she leans in again, saying something you can't hear. Alfie laughs, head tipping back briefly, and that's when your jaw tightens.

You look away.

That's when someone else fills the space beside you.

He's easy to talk to. Funny. Clearly interested. He asks what you're drinking, and you let him. Let the conversation stretch longer than it needs to. Let yourself lean in, mirror his smile.

Across the pub, Alfie sees it.

he doesn't mean to stare, but he does. Notices the way you tilt your head when you laugh, the way your attention is fully on someone who isn't hum. Something sharp flares in his chest, sudden and unwelcome.

He turns back to the bar, downs his drink too quickly.

The girl beside him keeps talking. He nods, distracted noe, eyes drifting back to you even when he tries to stop them. Every time he looks, you're still there—still engaged, still smiling.

So he leans closer to her.

Let his hand rest on the bar near hers. Lets the space between then close just a little more.

You see it.

You smile wider at the guy you laugh louder, let your hand brush his arm when you respond. You know exactly what you’re doing.

So does Alfie.

The night turns into a quiet standoff.

You don’t talk to each other.

You don’t need to.

Every glance is a challenge. Every laugh feels pointed. You both carry on like you’re proving something — to the room, to yourselves, to each other.

And underneath it all is the same unspoken truth: No matter how this looks, you both know how it ends.

By the time you step outside for air, the tension feels unbearable.

The noise from inside muffles behind the door, replaced by cool night air and the distant hum of traffic. You barely make it two steps before you hear him.

“Really?” Alfie says.

You turn. He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“Really what?” you reply.

He lets out a short laugh. “You know exactly what.”

“Do I?” You cross your arms. “Because you seemed pretty busy yourself.”

“That didn’t mean anything.”

“Neither did mine.”

The words come fast now.

“You were flirting,” he says.

“So were you.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you cut in. “And you made sure I saw it.”

He takes a step closer. “You didn’t have to do that back.”

“And you didn’t have to let her hang all over you.”

Silence snaps between you, thick and heavy.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” Alfie says finally. “Not when you won’t even say what we are.”

You laugh, sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“You’re the one who started talking to someone else.”

“You’re the one who acts like I don’t exist when it suits you.”

His expression shifts then — frustration giving way to something closer to hurt.

“I knew you’d end up with me anyway,” he says quietly. “You always do.”

The words sting.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t act like I’m predictable just because I don’t want to walk away.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

You step closer now, anger buzzing just under your skin. “You think you can flirt with whoever you want, and I’ll still be here at the end of the night?”

Alfie exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I think we both knew where this was going.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you didn’t stop either.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat from him, to hear the edge in his breathing.

“Say it,” you challenge quietly.

“Say what?”

“That you care.”

He hesitates. Just for a second.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is sudden — angry and familiar, like a release neither of you managed to stop. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s everything the argument couldn’t settle.

— 3. The Rumour Moment

Alfie doesn't hear it from you.

He hears it mid-stream.

It's one of those relaxed ones—nothing planned, chat moving fast, jokes flying, the mood easy. He's leaning back in his chair, half-reading messages, half-listening to Chip and George on call.

Then someone in chat says it.

At first he ignores it. Just another comment flying past too quickly to matter. But it pops up again. And again.

Seen her new vlog?

Who was the guy in the background

Alfie leans forward slightly, scanning now.

"What guy?" he asks, distracted, like he doesn't really care.

Chip reads it outlaid before he can scroll past it.

"People are saying there was a bloke in her vlog. Walked past a door or something."

The words hit sharper than he expects.

He laughs, quick and dismissive. "You lot see one shadow and start writing fan fiction."

Chat explodes.

Didn't look like nothing

Door was wide open

man was deffo there

"Relax," Alfie says, still smiling, calm on the surface. "She can vlog with whoever she wants."

George hums like he's unconvinced.

"Could be her new thing," He smirks to himself, having his camera off and hidden from Alfie and his stream.

Alfie's smile tightens.

He doesn't ask for the clip.

Doesn't pause the stream to check.

Doesn't say anything else about it.

He carries on like normal —jokes, laughter, easy confidence— but something in him shifts. Settles somewhere uncomfortable.

Because he doesn't know it was him.

He doesn't know that earlier that week, he'd walked past your slight;y open bedroom door without thinking twice. Hoodie on, phone in hand, halfway through a white monster and a conversation. He doesn't know the camera caught the briefest glimpse— barely more than a blur.

All he knows is that people saw someone.

And for once, he lets them.

By the time you text him later that night, his replies are already different.

Shorter.

Slower.

Polite in a way that feels unfamiliar.

You notice it immediately.

You tell yourself not to jump to conclusions, but the space between messages grows anyway. When you ask what he's up to, he keeps it vague, then he doesn't respond at all.

The next time you see him is days after.

You're standing outside a cafe, vlogging, when he spots you. He hesitates—just enough to sting — before walking over.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you reply, turning the camera off, watching him carefully.

Something's off. Not angry. Not cold.

Just...distant.

You walk together without really deciding to. Side by side, quiet. Him occasionally stealing sips out of your sugary drink. The silent stretches long than usual.

"So," you say eventually, "you gonna tell me what I've done, or should I guess?"

Alfie exhales through his nose. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like you don't know."

You stop walking. He turns back to face you.

"I genuinely don't," you say. "That's the problem."

He studies your face, like he trying to find something there. "Your vlog."

"What about it?"

"The one where a guy walks past your door."

Your expression shifts instantly— confusion first, then understanding. You should've known he would've wanted that part cut, you should've just rerecorded what you were saying if it was that important.

"That?" you ask. "That's what this is about?" You're bout to say you can cut that part out if it bothered him so much, until. he started running his mouth...again.

"So there was a guy," he says irritation creeping into hi voice.

You could've laughed at how stupid the misunderstanding was.

"Yes," you reply. "You."

He blinks.

"What?"

"You," you repeat. "Alfie. You walked past my room. You were literally on the phone, drinking monster. Who else that comes over drinks white monster?"

Silence.

He processes it slowly, jaw tightening—not with relief, but embarrassment.

"I didn't see the clip," he admits.

"You didn't ask either."

He looks away. "People said—"

"I don't care what people said," you cut in. "I care that you believed it."

"I didn't believe it," he argues.

"You acted like you did."

That lands.

"You went quiet," you continue. "You pulled back. All because you heard something and decided not to check."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't want to make it a thing."

"So you made it worse."

He sighs. “You don’t get how it looks.”

“And you don’t get how it feels,” you reply. “Being treated like I owe you an explanation when you won’t even talk to me.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Then what were you doing?” you ask. “Because from where I’m standing, you heard a rumour and punished me for it.”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t punishing you.”

“Then why does it feel like you were?”

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The street noise fills the gap — cars passing, people talking, life going on around you while the tension sits heavy between you.

“I didn’t like the idea of someone else being there,” he admits finally.

You let out a short laugh. “So you got jealous.”

“I got annoyed.”

“Same thing.”

He looks at you then, properly. “You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve asked.”

Another pause.

“You always assume the worst,” you say quietly.

“And you always assume I’ll be fine,” he shoots back.

The words hang there, messy and unresolved.

You step closer, frustration buzzing under your skin. “I don’t want to do this every time someone says something.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then stop letting everyone else into it.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. “You don’t make it easy.”

“You don’t either.”

You’re standing too close now. Close enough to feel the tension shift, soften into something familiar and dangerous. He tucks a string of hair behind your ear, his hand then cupping your cheek.

“You annoyed me,” he says.

“You annoyed me more,” you reply.

He huffs a laugh despite himself.

And then, without really deciding to, he leans in.

The kiss is sharp and annoyed and unmistakably you two — not gentle, not soft, but not breaking anything either. Just enough to say this still matters, even if neither of you wants to admit how much.

When you pull back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“This doesn’t mean you were right,” you say.

“I know,” he replies.

“And next time,” you add, “ask.”

He nods. “Next time.”

You don’t know if you believe him.

But you let him stay anyway.

— 4. The Almost-Confession

The elevator ride up feels longer than it should.

Alfie leans against the wall, jacket half-unzipped, hair messy, a faint scent of cologne mixed with the lingering beer from the night. He looks exhausted, like every laugh and joke earlier had taken more out of him than anyone knew.

"Want to crash at mine?" you offer casually as you reach your floor, fumbling for your keys. The words come out easier than they probably should, soft, almost careless, but his face stiffens slightly.

"I mean...if that's cool," he says after a pause, trying to sound nonchalant. He's clearly thinking it over, and you can see it in the way he avoids meeting your eyes.

You shrug, unlocking the door. "Of course. Wouldn't be the first time." You try to make it sound light, casual, but the way he shifts, half-smile, half-distracted, tells you he's not really thinking about sleeping.

Inside, the apartment is quiet. Lights low. The remanding energy of being out lingers. It's peaceful, too peaceful after the chaos outside, and it almost hurts that Alfie is here. Not because he shouldn’t be, but because being this close feels dangerous.

You follow him into your bedroom, him immediately stripping to his joggers and tucks himself in. You follow behind, clad in your own pyjamas.

You lay on his arm, seeing him up close now. He's biting his lips are eyes are darting across the room.