“Andy, we have a one-year-old who loves to make a mess with all of her toys and food. This morning, before Deran picked her up, she squeezed her applesauce packet so hard that it splattered all over the dining room light fixture. I had to clean it up while you were at Home Depot. So now that it’s clean, with no Gerber all over the place, I would like to savor a clean home,” you tell him, and grab the wet cloth in this hand that smells like his body wash and hair products. His sweat rag. You put it in your back pocket, then return your eyes to his. “That includes your dripping body. Even though it is a very appetizing sight.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” he whines and, in one swift pull, presses you against his chest. “It’s hot out there, and I need a break.” 

“I’ll bring a fan over with a cup of sweet tea,” you say, and keep waddling over the barrier between your cold wood floor and the warm summer concrete. 

He shakes his head and bites down on his lip. “Not that kinda break.” 

You raise a brow and jut your lips out. He kisses you again, and you can taste the saltiness of the sweat coating his face. “You can’t wait until you’re not soaking anymore?” 

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.” 

“Then maybe –” you continue, leading him to the playmat you set out for Cami’s eighth month, which she stopped caring for when her cousin, Nick, spent the majority of her first birthday party sitting on it – “We can spend your break right here.” 

Once you’re both standing on the large mat, you reach down and unbutton your jean shorts. You pull them down and step through them, and toss the fabric onto the lounge chair a few feet away. You then sink to your knees and fiddle with the buttons of your tight button-up shirt. You can pull it over your head, but you’re aiming for dramatics and sexiness. You’ve found a way to lose a bit of baby weight – taking long walks on the beach and helping Andrew with home renovations – but your boobs have begun sagging due to breastfeeding, and there remains a pudge of loose skin from pregnancy. You haven’t felt as attractive as you’d like, so fingering each button loose and unsheating your tits from the warm fabric has your panties dampening. 

Andrew’s chest rises and falls dramatically as you do this. He looks down at you with a blossoming boner and a face you only get when you’re turning him on: widened pupils that absorb his hazel irises, and pursed lips he futily hides his smirk with. 

You extend your hand and grab his index and middle finger. “Get down here, Andrew.” 

He doesn’t wait another second. With his right hand, he unbuttons his tight black jeans and pulls them down. He’s left in his boxer briefs and drops to his knees so you’re facing one another. “You look so beautiful,” he murmurs, as though the entire world can hear him – even though your house is isolated; even though your neighbor is a mile away, and no one really passes by this road. He grabs your boob and fondles it. He twists your nipple, and you gasp, just as you did when he tracked sweat into your home. 

“Do I?” you say between moans. He nods and now wraps each hand around each boob, kneading them as though they were dough. He pulls your flesh towards him. “Come here, let’s have sex. Ride me, beautiful, please.” 

You follow his requests and slowly push him onto the blue mat. You pull his boxer briefs down his legs, letting his hardened, red cock strike his stomach, dripping pre-cum into his happy-trail. You climb over his legs, your cunt already contracting for him. 

You sink onto his lower belly, his cock pressed between your lips. You grind on him, and he groans – the sound coming out from deep in his throat, sounding like agony fading into pleasure. You grab his hand and place it over your breasts, placing his index finger and thumb over your nipple, showing him exactly how you want to be touched. It’s been this way ever since you stepped into the sexual territory of your relationship a few years ago. He would ask you to show him exactly how you wanted to be touched, beg you to tell him what to do, and let you throw him around however you pleased. He was never the one twisting and turning you around, telling you to get on your knees and suck him off, or wait for him in little-to-nothing once he got back from a job. He never enjoyed taking the dominant role, and upon learning that, you gladly took the reins — guided by his critique, of course. 

You grind onto his cock through your panties for a few minutes, fondling his sweaty pecs while he fondles your breasts. You stop once Andrew shuts his eyes and turns his head onto the now-hot mat. 

“Want me to ride you now, Andy?” you ask. 

He nods, opens his eyes and mouth to moan, “Yes.” 

You pull your panties to the side and drag his cock down to your dripping hole. You slowly sit down, and you both moan into the sweltering air as you begin rocking your hips back and forth. You don’t fuck him harshly or beg him to lift you and do all the work of hammering into your pussy. It’s also rarely like that with Andrew. When you’re intimate, you opt for passion and depth – both literally and mentally. You understand that he’s had traumatizing experiences with sex due to his mom and Baz, sometimes his younger brother, Craig. His mother would pay hookers to come to her house and fuck him. Baz would pay strippers insane amounts of cash to seduce him into fucking them. And he’d always do it. He felt forced; he felt as though he had to prove something. Masculinity? Sexuality? That he was mature enough to handle anything thrown his way? He fought each situation with force because that’s who he was: strong and fucking insane, according to Smurf. 

It took you a while to understand Andrew. You didn’t have sex until three months into speaking to one another, and it was exactly like losing your virginity to someone who was also a virgin. Even if you kept stopping to chuckle, or hum ‘uhhh’s’ every ten seconds, or teaching him how to have sex rather than fuck, it was amazing. You spent this time understanding his wants and needs in an extremely vulnerable position, and it dramatically transformed your relationship. You had gone from seeing one another to being with one another until the end of time after that moment. 

Andrew only grabs your hips, bends his knees, and slowly strokes into you when your entire body is soaking in sweat from fucking him. He pushes in and out of you as deep as he can – and you both come seconds later, when his cock hits the most sensitive spot inside of you over and over again. 

Once your orgasms wash over you, you drop your body over his like a weighted blanket. Andrew wraps his arms around your back and holds you, his cock still buried inside of you, while cum leaks out of your cunt. 

“Stay here,” he whispers into your ear. “I like this – how you feel around me.” 

“You sure that’s what it is, or you just want another baby with me?” 

The frame shakes a little, and you reach out and balance it. Ever since she got here thirty minutes ago, you’ve been trying to adjust to her bluntness. You’re not struggling, per se, but her personality differs from the friends you’ve had before. Everyone has always been introverted, so even asking for an extra side of ranch or assistance in the supermarket's intimacy aisle turned into a debate over who had to do it. Trinity is very much not that kind of person; you’re able to tell with the shrug of her shoulders and the way she keeps tapping on the frame, asking ‘who is that?’ without saying it aloud. 

“He’s your boss, though.” 

“He’s not really my boss. Only when I pick up a night shift – which will never happen after the dumbest people came in when I covered last time,” she tells you, adding a scoff a second later, as if all the memories of said dumb people are scurrying to the front of her mind. “Also, who is this?” 

“My editor,” you tell her, and place your hand on your shoulder again, moving her over an inch or two so you can move the frame over an inch or two, as well. “Maybe he’ll tell Robby.” 

“Tell Robby what?” she chuckles. “That I’m curious? He loves when I have questions. Also, is she gay, by chance?” 

“Yeah. They’re hanging out tonight – Jack and Robby.” 

“Fun. Is she single?” 

“I’d have to ask; we only ever talk about my book. She likes it that way.” 

You move again and straighten the photo booth print of Jack, who’s smiling, wearing sunglasses, looking serious, and opening his mouth in surprise with a lipstick stain on his cheek. You have to smile, too, just looking at it. You remember the date clearly: you went to the city for the coffee shop with the photo booth inside and pleaded with him to make one funny face. He obviously didn’t listen, because the only ‘funny’ face he made was after you popped into the booth and kissed him with your berry lipstick. When you got home, you dug out a frame from your closet, grabbed the crossword puzzle he scribbled on the morning after your first date, and perfectly arranged it on the white cardboard inside. 

“Please do,” she says, nearly begging. She moves over to the next photo on your wall, and the abundance of funky crosses despite you not going to church. She touches the edge of one and pulls her finger back like she was pricked by a thorn. “I wonder what old men talk about when they hang out.” 

Jack steps out of your bedroom, smelling of musk and your laundry detergent and donned in black boots, dark wash jeans, a plaid button-up, and a white shirt peeking out of its three open buttons. “Not about you, Santos, that’s for sure,” he scoffs. He reaches you, fingers busy enough with his shirt not to hug you, but mouth free to peck at the side of your head. 

“Oh, please. I wouldn’t want men talking about me anyway. I have Whitaker talking to everyone about how I’m always out late, the way my mom always did. I don’t need any more of that.” 

“Good,” he confirms, and presses his lips together in a way that says he would continue talking, but he doesn’t know how to strike up a conversation with this resident just yet. He makes sure Trinity doesn’t realize this by turning and walking down the hall to the kitchen. You follow behind him while Trinity continues glossing over your memorabilia. Jack digs into his back pocket and grabs his wallet. He yanks it out and takes out two fifty-dollar bills. He sets them on the counter and taps one bill. “For wine,” he says, then taps the other one and adds, “For the food you’ll be getting tonight.” 

You push back the bill for the food and say, “For you,” then take the bill for the wine and stuff it into your front pocket. “Thank you. I hope you guys have fun. What’s on the itinerary?” 

“We’ll be experimenting with some drinks, and then Robby is going to try to cook.” 

You chuckle. “Is he that bad?” 

Jack shrugs. “I mean…” he says, his voice high-pitched towards the end. “Yes. Kind of. The last time he cooked for me was five months ago, though, so maybe he’s gotten better.” 

“I can give you the fifty back in case it doesn’t go well,” you tell him, and make a move towards your pocket. 

He shakes his head and holds a hand up. “That’s for you and Santos. Plus, you gave me the fifty back. So if anything goes wrong, I’ll be using it. Thank you, though,” he says, and steps up to you, pressing the tip of his nose against your hairline. He inhales the scent of your hair care, then lowers his lips onto your forehead. “I hope you have fun tonight. Make a friend, maybe a few more if you ask her about Whitaker and the other younglings on the day shift.” 

You nod and grab his arms that lay awkwardly at his side. You wrap them around your waist and yours around his, and hug him tightly as though he might slip away. You hope he doesn’t after speaking with Robby later tonight. You’re sure the man doesn’t hate you, but you’re still worried after the multitude of questions he had for you when you broke your wrist. 

How old are you? What do you do for a living? You know he works night shifts, right? Are you okay with him spending the majority of his time in a hospital? You know he has a lot of baggage, right? You’re twenty-five; you should consider all of that before stepping into a relationship with an old man. 

This set of questions has been asked not only by Robby, but by others as well, once you told them you were seeing a much older man. For example, your parents, who took turns asking something when you finally told them whose car was always parked outside your house. You splurted the answer while your dad was replacing your old showerhead. You were going to get Jack to do it for you, but he had stepped in to help with the morning shift and would spend his free time afterwards snoring into his bedsheets. 

You were explaining who he was at first – “His name is Jack, he’s an attending at PTMC’s emergency department…” – and they seemed enamoured without even having to meet him. Then your mom audibly gasped, and your dad dropped his tools when you said, “And he’s forty-five.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Your mom swatted your dad’s arm and reminded him not to use the Lord’s name in vain. He muttered, “We haven’t gone to church in years… I think it’s okay this time,” and picked up his tools with shaky hands. 

“That’s twenty years older than you, and fifteen years younger than us,” your mom said, still covering her mouth, as though every bodily fluid inside her might come up. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you said, and began backing up against the bathroom door. You wanted a way out if they were going to persuade you to leave him.

Your mom made a face at you: eyebrows drawn, and now both hands were feathering her shoulder like you had said the most vile thing to her. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. I am sure he’s a good guy, but I do think he has lived a long life… and experienced a lot that you have yet to go through. You can’t offer advice if you’re still a kid,” she laughed, and you looked at your dad, who shrugged and turned around to properly align the shower head. 

“Dad?” you asked, like a little girl who’d just gotten berated and needed the comfort of her other guardian, though he wouldn’t offer more than an “You know how she is.” 

“I don’t know, sweetheart. But if he really makes you happy, I guess it doesn’t matter.” 

You nodded, backed away into your living room, and waited for them to finish. Then you hugged them goodbye, shut the door, and cried once it was double-locked. You questioned your ability to care for Jack because of your age after they’d said that. Robby was one thing – he was a friend of Jack’s, not your parent. When your mom looked as though she’d been electrocuted and your dad had to turn away from you, it was worse than embarrassment. It felt like they had disowned you. 

You should have talked to Jack about it, but you didn’t push it. You actually haven’t pushed it at all since then, though age has been brought up. It’s usually during extremely intimate moments, like when he has you deep into the mattress, hand over your throat while he pumps into you. You’ll call him your old man and seductively comment on the grays that are beginning to take over his auburn curls. He comes faster that way. But confessing about your insecure thoughts mid-fuck feels weird, so you’ve tucked it into one of your brain folds until it naturally comes to the surface. 

Trinity pauses your spiral into insecure madness by grunting near your china cabinet and saying, “I don’t know whether to be happy that my half-boss is in L-word or annoyed that I’m witnessing a public display of affection.” 

“This isn’t in public, Doctor Santos. You’re in the private comfort of this lovely lady’s home,” he murmurs against your forehead. He grabs your hands and slowly and sadly places them at your sides. He still holds your hand while he turns around and faces a very amused Trinity. “And you can feel whatever you usually feel whenever you’re at work.”  

She raises a brow. “Dread?” 

Jack shrugs. “Yeah sure, though I don’t know if I love that you hate being at work. I feel like your job should be something you're passionate about and excited to do.”  

“Are you always passionate about and excited to do your job?”  

“That’s my cue to leave,” he huffs and reaches out to pat Trinity’s shoulder. She nods and waves goodbye before he’s even stepped closer to the door. 

“I’m about to be really gross and mushy with your half-boss right now; you might want to move to the living room,” you tell Triniy, and she rushes past you to your backyard without a word. 

Jack chuckles as he grabs your waist and steps backwards towards the entryway. He rotates his body and holds you closer to him, then presses himself against the minuscule free space on your wall. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispers, and moves a hand from your waist to the back of your head, pulling you towards his lips. 

He kisses you hard. You kiss him harder – tongue darting into his mouth and your hands grabbing onto the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He keeps up with your fast pace for a minute, but stills his movements shortly after, humming against your mouth with what sounds like, “Company.” 

“What?” you ask, and slowly contain your fervor. 

Jack’s thumbs appear on your mouth, trying to flatten out the wrinkles from your frown. “Although I’d love to continue this steamy moment, you have company, and” – he looks at his watch peeking from his button-up – “it’s 5:30, and I told him I’d be at his place by now.” 

You nod and take his hands in yours, pulling them away and carefully setting them by his sides. “Have fun,” you tell him. “And come back tonight, alright?” 

“Why would I not?” he asks, confused and curious. 

You shrug and quickly face away from him, grabbing the doorknob and fiddling with the lock to avoid looking at his puppy-dog eyes. You hate how easy he can pry most things out of you because of them – always so glossy and full of desperation. 

“I don’t know. I guess I just feel like Robby doesn’t like me, and he might try to persuade you not to come back?” 

Jack pulls you away from the door and stands in front of it, his thumb now fiddling with the warm lock instead of yours. “He just doesn’t know you, is all. And even if he doesn’t like you, it wouldn’t matter because I –” He grunts, like a thorn has magically appeared in his throat and blocked any word from coming out. “I like you a lot. There is nothing his miserable ass can say to me that will stop me from coming back to you. You understand?” 

You interlock your hands behind your back and let them fight one another, though they each fail from the sweat leaking from your palms. You look up at him – his face contorted into worry and sympathy for your aching thoughts – and shake your head up and down. “I understand.” 

“Do you want to recap our days when I get back? Over some tea on your porch?” 

You nod again. “Yes, please.” 

Jack unlocks the door and pulls it open, his body moving with the widened door and walking right into your bubble. He leans down and pecks your lips. “Then we will. I’ll see you before midnight.” 

“Bye-bye. Be safe.” You grab his unevenly folded collar and fix it for him before he backs into your porch. “And don’t let anyone flirt with you.” 

“The only person that might flirt with me is Robby… and I don’t think I’m his type.” 

“And who would be?” you chuckle. 

He points at the cracked back door he can see from the front. “Ask your friend; she might know.” 

You push him out and kiss, tell, and wave him goodbye. You keep saying ‘bye’ until he’s in his car and down the street. Then you shut the door and scratch your head, wondering what the hell he meant by ‘Ask your friend.’ 

The doorbell rings the second the smoke detector begins screaming into Robby’s questionably large studio apartment. 

“Who is it?” he screams from the open patio door. 

Jack heads to the door, scratching the back of his head as he tries to find a way to explain that he knew the food would turn out terrible, so he ordered wings nearly an hour ago. “Just, y’know, food,” he says, though he knows Robby can’t hear him over the beeping. He opens the door and takes the stack of wings, fries, and a tall bottle of soda from the worried delivery guy. He furrows his brows at the sound, nonverbally asking if the place is on fire. “He sucks at cooking,” he tells him, and hands him a fifty-dollar bill. The tip is more than the order itself, but the guy currently inhaling a burnt beef Wellington, and Jack is worried he might lose a lung because of it. 

“You sure, man?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope your other deliveries aren’t as … hectic.” 

“It’s all good. Thanks. Have a good night.” 

Jack shuts the door and walks back into the kitchen. He sets the food down and grabs the burnt beef Wellington beside it, dumping it directly into the trash. “Food’s ready,” he shouts, right as the smoke detector shuts up. He smiles to himself as if he’s the reason it stopped, even if Robby did spend the past five minutes treating fanning with a rag like an arm workout. 

“When did you order food?” Robby asks, sweaty and tired and smelling of burnt beef and caramelized onions. 

Jack scratches his head again while the other picks up a fry from its steaming box. “Like an hour ago.” 

Robby snatches the fry from his hand and shoves it into his mouth in annoyance. “An hour ago?” he exclaims. “This wasn’t a disaster an hour ago.” 

“Well, I had a feeling this would turn into one the second you said you didn’t get a food thermometer. Oh! And when you kept replaying the same thirty seconds of the tutorial over and over again.” 

Robby doesn’t argue despite being slightly offended and heads to the cupboards to grab plates and four large glasses – two for the soda and two for the drinks he’s going to make. It's stressful trying to whip up a dish that only skilled cooks can make when you can't even get pancake batter to the right consistency.

“What do you want to drink?” he asks, setting the glasses down to return for ice and his small bar cart. 

“What do you have?” 

“I have more alcohol and things to make alcoholic beverages with than food, so I can make you anything in the world.” 

Jack chuckles and wipes his wing-stained mouth. “I think I actually have a drink or two I want to try in my notes app,” he tells him, and picks up his phone, unlocking it to open the shared note he has with you. 

Robby peers over his shoulder and scoffs at the list of fruity cocktails, mojitos, and margaritas – some with your name on it, others with Jack’s, along with a multitude of exclamation marks and emojis. “You guys seem very together for a couple who is yet to be official,” he says with a laugh. 

Jack rolls his eyes at his chuckles, then pushes his phone over and taps on a drink that sounds appealing for the evening heat. “She read about this drink in some newspaper at an antique shop. She wrote it down for herself, then read it to me in bed a couple of weeks ago. I thought it’d be delicious, so I made her put my name on it instead.” 

“Cool,” is all Robby says for a solid minute while he grabs the ingredients from his fridge: grenadine, pineapple juice, limes, and more ice from the freezer. Once he has them laid out on the counter, with his wings getting colder by the second, he adds, “I like how you won’t say anything about my little remark.” 

“What’s there to say? ‘I know’ is all.” 

“Well, tell me about her. All I know is that you’re completely whipped, she’s an author, and she still has a broken wrist.” 

Jack stumbles over a train of unorganized thoughts. He doesn’t know what to say because every corner of his mind is filled with you, and choosing a single thought feels like searching for the perfect gold nugget in a mine already overflowing with clones. He thinks about everything: your laugh when you scroll on social media with him at night, your arts and crafts dates in your backyard, your cute smile, and the way your nose crinkles. He thinks about the massages you give him after long shifts that start at his shoulders and end at both his stump and his feet – the kind that always draw tears out of him. He also thinks about the work lunches you make for him and the hectic mornings when he helps you after begging you not to do it alone. Even with all of this in mind, he can only think of one thing. 

“I almost said I love you today.” 

Robby chokes on his own spit and has to suck in as much air as he can before his lungs give out. “You almost said it?” he asks. “What stopped you?” 

“The fact that we’re not together.” 

He groans and doesn’t stop while he shakes the Planter’s Punch he’s making for Jack. “Waiting is overrated, you know?” 

“Overrated?” Jack asks, baffled at the words coming out of his old friend’s mouth. The old friend that’s supposed to be miserable and have an incredibly negative outlook on relationships. 

“Yeah. Why wait to be in a relationship to express how you feel? I can tell all that love is building up inside of you,” he says, then mumbles, “You might explode.” 

Jack pushes his plate of food to the side and grabs the drink as soon as Robby is done pouring the liquid into the glass. A few droplets splash onto the counter when he takes a sip. “Who have you turned into? Has Whitaker turned you into a sap?” 

“Shut the hell up,” Robby spits. “Maybe I was like this all along, and he just brought it out of me.” 

Jack shrugs with an amused grin on his face. “I mean, good for you, man. As long as he makes you happy and you’re less of a grumpy asshole at work, I’m happy.” 

“I am not a grumpy asshole at work.” 

“Y/n thinks you hate her after your little spiel the night she came into the Pitt.” 

“Really?” he asks, taken aback. “Well, shit. Now I have to turn into a good cook so I can make it up to her.” 

“Or you can just take us out to dinner. That option sounds way better.” 

“Deal,” he says, and takes the tray of fries from the center of the table. 

He makes himself a plate and two drinks and begins eating. It’s quiet for a solid ten minutes – filled with quiet chewing and compliments from Jack about Robby’s bartending skills. This is how it usually is when Robby and Jack hang out: comfortable silence with food and drinks between them – sometimes while a movie or sports game blurs by in front of them. They make conversation, but for the longest time, it was just about annoying patients and nagging staff who hold onto them like toddlers. Now they have a lot to talk about; they just don’t know how to bring it up. 

Robby speaks up while Jack does the most un-guest thing and washes the dishes. “I don’t hate her, you know. She seems really nice, and she’s making you glow like the fucking sun. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.” 

Jack cocks his eyebrows and gives him the most cruel side eye. “Hurt again?” 

“You know…” Robby tends to tiptoe around this subject. He always has, ever since he got close with Jack so many years ago. He never brings up his ex-wife Hannah, nor his complicated relationship with his family. It’s easier not to, because Jack quickly brushes it off and says, “It’s cool, don’t worry about it; I’m not worrying about it,” and it ends up making him feel like a jerk for bringing it up in the first place. “Your wife, your parents,” he mumbles once he’s got the courage to keep going. 

Jack turns off the faucet and grabs the rag Robby used to fan the smoke detector. He dries his hands over and over again, then throws them onto the counter and pivots to face his overly worried friend. “Look, man, I have spent a long time by myself and in therapy understanding how these relationships have affected me. I have hiked up hills and mountains, and I’ve sat on cliffs and roofs trying to understand why my parents decided they didn’t want me once I lost my leg. I’ve questioned myself – my time in the military, in war, in med school – because if I had just listened to them and their requests for me to go to law school, I would still have my family. But once I realized our relationship wasn’t about love but about control, I decided it was best not to speak to them anymore. They’d just complain, tell me I fucked my life up because of my own stupid choices.” Jack laughs at himself as he remembers his parents crying to him about his decision to enlist, and when they asked him to find somewhere else to live once he got out of the combat hospital with one less limb. “As for Hannah, I was mourning her and our relationship while she was still alive, years before she even got sick. By the time she was gone, some part of me was already used to her absence.” 

Robby grabs his Planter’s Punch he forgot to finish and downs the rest of it. He doesn’t know what to say, but before he can think of something good to say, his mouth has already opened and released the words bouncing off the walls of his brain. 

“I don’t know what to say, man. Fuck.”

“I bare my soul to you, and all you say is, “I don’t know what to say?”” 

Robby throws his hands up and drops his head. “I was caught off-guard, Abbot! You don’t talk about your feelings all that much. You talk about the sports you’ve gotten into, the random jobs you want to take up, but you’ve never once gone so in-depth about your family. You’ve never even said that about Hannah, either.” 

“Yeah, well, today is the day, I guess. You added too much rum in those drinks, and I don’t drink that often, so…” 

Robby chuckles and reaches forward to grab Jack’s shoulder. He shakes him around and says, “I’m proud of you. Not only for opening up to me, but for loving someone new and not being scared of it.” 

“I don’t think I have ever felt this loved before,” Jack confesses. He looks straight into Robby’s eyes, making sure he knows he’s telling the truth. 

“Not even by … ” 

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t think she loved me the way I loved her. I think she hated my ass towards the end, actually. She’d get mad at me about everything: the food I’d make her for work, the way I folded our clothes, or the way I’d sometimes get the wrong percentage of ground beef from the grocery store. Nothing I did made her content.” 

“And now you’re happy,” Robby states. 

“Now I don’t have that feeling in my chest that something will go wrong.” 

“Is Robby gay?” you ask Trinity, who’s busy handling one of the bottles of wine she spent nearly an hour reading about. 

“Something like that. I think he’s bisexual. I’m not sure.” 

“What’s his type?” 

She opens the bottle and pours a hefty amount of white wine into your glass. “Why are you asking? Is Abbot not doing it for you? I didn’t take you for a homie-hopper.” 

You roll your eyes and grab the wine glass from the table. “Jack is doing it very well for me, thank you very much. I’m just asking because he said this funny thing before he left, and I wanted to ask you once we were settled and not in public.” 

She raises a brow and slowly pours wine into her own glass. “You don’t want to talk about gay people in public?” 

“I am not homophobic!” you exclaim and sip a large amount of wine before continuing your sentence. “I didn’t want to talk about it because what if someone knew who Robby was, overheard our conversation about his queerness, and spread it around. We don’t even know if he wants people to know.” 

“I know that he doesn’t care if people know,” Trinity states. 

“He’s told you?” 

“Not exactly.” 

You shake your head and lean over the table, your face now a few inches away from hers. “Then…” 

“Dennis and Robby have been seeing – and sleeping – with each other since he started at the Pitt!” 

“WHAT?” 

“YEAH,” Trinity shouts along with you. “I live with Dennis, so not only do I hear about the man constantly, but I hear them going at it like fucking animals every other night. It’s driving me mad.” 

“Doesn’t he have his own place?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Trinity shouts again. It’s times like these when you’re happy you live in a house rather than an apartment. You’re sure gossiping over Robby’s love life at an alarmingly loud volume would’ve gotten you a noise complaint now. “I guess he just likes rubbing it in everyone’s face that his … y’know … still works.” 

You slap your hands over your face and groan. “Please don’t talk about his y’know ever again. That is your boss.” 

“And he’s having sex with my roommate – his resident, by the way – in my apartment. I think I can talk crudely about him.” 

“Fair,” you say, shrugging while you take another sip of wine. “This is good, by the way. I usually just choose what looks the best. Or whatever my dad tells me is good – which is always a red wine.” 

“Thanks,” she replies, and grabs an egg roll from the center of your living room coffee table. After finding your wine of choice, you sat in the liquor store parking lot naming a variety of cuisines to choose from: Chinese, Thai, Italian, Mexican, Vietnamese, Indian, and Mediterranean. You settled on cheap Chinese takeout from your favorite spot a few minutes outside of the city. “When I started med school, I was drinking a lot. Usually tequila or vodka, but it would always turn me into a monster. I would make out with women I didn’t know, stay out late, and wake up with the worst hangovers known to man. I also looked like a drinker… And after a while, my body couldn’t take it, but I still needed something to calm me down after extremely stressful weeks. So I started learning about wine.” 

“It’s paying off,” you tell her, then narrow your eyes as she chomps down on a fat piece of broccoli. “And speaking of women, have you been seeing anyone lately?” 

“I was. But she would only use me for sex and my fancy ramen. I cut her off once she started coming over smelling like other women.” 

“You don’t do casual?” you ask. 

“I tell myself I can.” 

You scoot closer to Trinity, though she doesn’t look completely enamored by the idea. She looks like she wants to move, but she sits still on her heart-shaped pillow. “I think my editor would really like you. I can set you guys up, seriously.” 

“You have to show me pictures.” 

“Do looks matter that much? You can’t take my word for it that she’s a complete babe?” 

“Nah, I just want to know if she’s a top, bottom, or switch.” 

After two bottles of wine and four fortune cookies later, you’re back to talking about love because of a romance movie playing in front of you. Apparently, it was a country-wide hit, but Trinity stopped paying attention once an abundance of sex scenes played back to back. 

Half an hour ago, you spent the majority of your first bottle Insta-stalking your editor, Mae, where you ended up making Trinity follow her on her account. Mae followed her shortly after, and Trinity begged you to stop talking about their potential date so you could make pom-pom garlands. 

You spent the second bottle and third hour of your friend date watching tutorials and making copious amounts of garlands that will have to fight one another for every single spot in your house. They were just so fun to make, and you were occupied by Trinity’s book ideas. She ended up making two, one for herself, with the colors of the lesbian flag, and one for Dennis. His was just a bunch of random colors. 

Now you’re surrounded by pom poms and string while nursing the smallest amount of wine in your glass. 

“Dating apps aren’t for me,” Trinity groans, pausing the movie. “That might be the most realistic part of this movie.” 

You throw your head back and laugh. While you might not relate to one another on many levels, dating apps are one thing you can certainly bond over. “I don’t think they’re for the majority of the universe. Sometimes I even wonder if the people who met on dating apps and are now in happy, loving relationships are just robots created in factories to try and spike the number of relationships that come from them.” 

“Really?” she gushes and sits up on the couch. Her eyes are no longer seconds from shutting – they’re wide open and ready for you to explain this silly thought. “Why do you think so?” 

You shrug and poke at a cold egg roll. “I rarely see couples who are happily married after meeting on dating apps. And every time someone shows me a picture of their friend and says, “My friend met her husband on a dating app,” it looks so fake! The proposal pictures, wedding pictures, and them in general! Maybe my brain isn’t letting me believe it after having such a shit experience with them, but I just don’t think it’s possible.” 

"What do you think is more likely: finding the love of your life on a dating app or through a meet-cute?"

“Finding the love of your life through a meet-cute,” you exclaim. “Duh…” 

Trinity hums and leans forward, way closer to you. “Why are you saying duh?” 

You chuckle awkwardly and slap your hand against the back of your neck. The lingering coolness of the wine glass settles against your flushed skin, and you savor it until the heat overpowers it again. You realize now, in the moment where you’re breaking out into a cold sweat, that you haven’t told Trinity how you met Jack. She just knows that you’re together without a label yet, and he took your virginity – though that part was just a spot-on assumption without validation. 

“‘Cause me and Jack had a meet-cute,” you tell her. “Sort of. I think.”

“How do you think? You’re a romance author; you should know what a meet-cute is,” she laughs. 

“Yeah, well, now that I’m admitting that it was a meet-cute, I’m starting to second-guess myself.” 

“Tell me how you met, and I’ll tell you if it’s one.” 

You’re sure she’ll see you and her half-boss differently by the time you end the story, but she’s clearly begging to hear it. “So I was at a coffee shop writing my novel – well, trying to. I was actually struggling while writing the first sex scene because I was extremely inexperienced.” 

“YOU WERE A VIRGIN?” 

You shush loudly and lift your finger to your mouth. “The neighbors will hear!” you exclaim. “And yes, I was a virgin at the time. Anyways, I’m super stressed out while having my hundredth cup of coffee, and all of a sudden, Jack pops up in front of me. He’s like, “Can I ask why you’re so stressed out?” you say, mimicking his voice. “And at first, I don’t want to tell him, but he so kindly asks, so I do. Y’know, I’m struggling to write the first sex scene because I don’t know jack shit about how sex is supposed to really go down. And then he offers to help me get over my writer's block.” 

“You’re joking,” she laughs. Well, snorts. This is confusingly humorous to her. “That is a meet-cute… but in a Fifty Shades of Grey universe.” 

“Fuck you!” you say, laughing along with her. “I know if this were any other person, I would have told them to get the fuck away from me, but from the jump I knew Jack was a sweet guy.” 

“So your relationship started with sex?” she asks. 

“Yes.” 

“And how’s it going now? Are you guys going at it like animals too? Is it only sex, or –” 

“I think I love him.” 

“Oh. You think?” 

You keep scooting further into Trinity’s bubble. You grab her hands, though she jumps a little at the foreign act. She quickly settles and rubs your slightly trembling knuckles with her thumb. “I know I love him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And I know it might sound crazy because it’s only been three months, but I feel it so deep in my bones that this is the man for me. He will be it for the rest of my life.” 

“Honestly, girl,” Trinity starts, her face going from painfully serious to cracking a big smirk. “I’ve said I love you by month two. It depends on the person and the relationship. If you feel it, you feel it. And you should definitely say it. Who knows, he might love you too.” 

“I think he does…” 

“Really?” 

“I think he almost said it today, right before he left. I was being insecure – worried Robby would somehow persuade him to dump me – and he told me nothing he said would make him do that to me because he really likes me. But when he said ‘like,’ he stuttered a little. Like he was going to say ‘I love you.’” 

“He was definitely going to say it,” Trinity tells you, and drops your hands to stand up. She grabs your glasses and empty wine bottles and runs to the kitchen. “We have to celebrate now. You have to have some liquor around here. Right?” 

“I thought you hated liquor.” 

“Not tonight. You’re in love – it’s necessary.” 

Dennis picks Trinity up half an hour later. She had too much tequila and Chinese and ended up barfing in your spare bathroom. 

When you settle her into the old sedan they share, Jack’s car pulls into your driveway. You and Trinity share a look, though hers is drunk while yours is nearly sober. “Are you going to tell him?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Tell him what?” Dennis asks.

You both immediately answer, “Nothing,” at the same time before bursting into laughter and playfully smacking each other’s limbs.

Dennis notices the exchange and chuckles with you. Then, a little awkwardly, yet confidently, he adds, “Would you want to come over next week and talk about it over drinks?”

“Deal.” 

“Maybe we can go out for drinks. Go to a bar… Dance … You can even bring your lover.” 

You roll your eyes and say, “Maybe,” then look at Dennis with a bit of concern coating both of your faces. “Please make sure she doesn’t vomit in her sleep or something. And once she’s up and fine, ask her for my number. We can set up a date and time.” 

“Cool. Have a good night! Thanks for hanging out with her; she was really excited.” 

You stand back and nod. “I was, too,” you say as Dennis rolls up Trinity’s window and slowly drives away from your house. It’s funny thinking about how worried you were that she wouldn’t want to spend time with you. That the second she stepped into your home and spoke to you for longer than an hour – under zero pain medication – she would realize you weren’t as cool as she thought. But after tonight, every negative thought has been yanked out and buried six feet under. 

You slowly walk back to the porch while Jack gets out of his car. You don’t notice him holding a bouquet until you turn around and face him. You can’t contain your smile even if you tried. The remnants of the sips of tequila you took along with the wine aren’t going to let you lie – or stuff those three words away in the back of your mind. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” Jack says, holding the bouquet against his heart. 

“Hi, handsome. How’d it go?” 

He skips onto your porch and backs you up into the screen door. “Good. I tried one of those drinks you put down in our shared note.” 

“Was it good?” 

He bites down on his lip, nods, and then leans in and kisses you. “Very. Can you taste it?” 

“Mhm,” you say, then laugh. “And a bit of lemon pepper. What did you guys have to eat?” 

“Well, he failed at making Chef Ramsey bullshit, so I ordered wings before the place burnt down.” 

You chuckle and bring your hand up to your mouth. “What Chef Ramsey bullshit did he try to make?” 

“Beef Wellington.” 

“Not even I would dare to make that.” 

“Me neither,” he says in a low tone, and then lifts the bouquet. He brings it up to his face, sheathing his nose and lips. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling. “These are for you, by the way.” 

“Oh! Why, thank you. I thought Robby had gifted them to you.” 

“He would buy me a drink, dinner, maybe cigarettes if I were desperate for one – but never flowers,” he jokes, shaking his head at the thought, like it’s too far from his reach. Though after their deep conversation tonight, it might be closer than he thinks. 

You stare at the bundle of flowers: pink peonies mixed with baby's breath and a few green stems you can’t put a name to. “They’re beautiful. But it’s late; how’d you find such a pretty bouquet?” 

“I have my people.”

You pull the bouquet away from his face and give him another round of kisses. Even though you taste of wine, tequila, and whatever you scarfed down while tipsy, it’s amazing – his soft lips that taste of cherry lip balm the more you take him into your mouth, and the peppered scruff that pricks at your cheeks and chin. 

“I love them,” you whisper. You look down suddenly, between kisses, and stare at them a little longer. His lips land on your forehead, and his scruff once again glides along your skin. You’ve never once had a favorite flower. You choose a different one to favor each month – lavender, tulips, gardenias, or orchids – and this month you so happened to land on peonies. Specifically, pink peonies. 

You said this to him a couple of nights ago over a cup of tea. “I know it’s mid-June, but I decided my favorite flower this month is pink peonies,” you told him while he was shutting an eye and drifting to sleep. You didn’t think he would remember, but he must have only shut his eyes, not his ears. 

“You do?” he asks, even if he knows the answer. You’re spending more time looking at the arrangement than anything else, not even the mosquito hovering near your shoulder that wants a taste of you, too. 

You look up at him and give a flirtatious incline of the head. “I love …” The last word catches in your throat, aching to be uttered. It feels like the perfect time to confess. He’slooking at you as if you’ve just hung the damn moon, and he came back when you were terrified he wouldn’t. He's also holding a bouquet of the exact flowers you love, as if every detail you’ve ever shared with him is permanently engraved in his brain. You want to tell him how he makes you feel – how effortlessly he calms every anxiety-ridden thought in your mind before it can swallow you whole. How he’s always patient with you, even when you’re bombarding him with medical questions you know will go in one ear and out the other. You want him to know that somewhere between his infinite reassurances and silent thoughtfulness, you fell completely in love with him. 

Those three words sit on the tip of your tongue, pricking your taste buds as if you had just kissed a cactus. But you bite them back and swallow each spine. 

You’ve had too much to drink, even if the alcohol is no longer numbing your limbs and prohibiting you from thinking straight. You’ll say those three words at one point, but only when you’re completely clear-headed. He deserves to hear them when they’re not warmed by wine and tequila. 

“I love them,” you say instead. “Now c’mon, let’s put these in a cute little vase and debrief over a cup of tea.” 

taglist: @pinksabotageveil