lucifer

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.

There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.

Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.

You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.

You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”

That had been the end of it.

No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.

The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.

So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”

So here you were.

A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.

There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“Liar.”

You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.

“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”

From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”

“It won’t.”

“It already kind of is.”

“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”

You barked out a real laugh at that.

“There she is,” Lena said softly.

You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”

“Of course you’re still upset.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“And?”

“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”

Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”

That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.

Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.

Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”

Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”

“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”

From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”

“And I’m starving,” Tori added.

“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”

Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second, then took it.

The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.

Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.

Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.

By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.

By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.

“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”

“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.

Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”

You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”

“Renewed annually,” Mia said.

“With references,” Jess added.

“And an essay portion,” Tori said.

You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”

The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.

Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.

It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.

You set your glass down too carefully.

Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”

Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”

You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.

The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.

This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.

“Not your night either, huh?”

The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.

You turned.

He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.

Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.

Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.

But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.

Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”

“Escaping?”

A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”

He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”

You stared at him.

Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.

“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”

There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.

You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.

He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”

You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”

His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.

It should not have affected you as much as it did.

“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”

You should have lied.

You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.

Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.

“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.

“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”

For one beat, he said nothing.

Then: “He’s an idiot.”

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.

You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”

“Smart women.”

“They are.”

He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”

You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”

There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.

That, more than anything, disarmed you.

“You always this honest?” you asked.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“That your plan?”

“Wasn’t, originally.”

“And now?”

His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”

Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.

You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”

“Not a very polished one.”

“No.”

“I can do worse, if it helps.”

You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.

Lord. It changed him completely.

The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.

Dangerous thought.

You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”

“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”

He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.

Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.

The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.

And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”

“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”

“Fair point.”

The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.

You should probably go back inside.

That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.

Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”

“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”

His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”

“Very observant.”

“Could ask you to dance.”

You blinked.

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.

Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.

“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”

There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.

It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.

“Would you let me have this dance?”

Oh.

That was unfair too.

You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.

But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.

He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.

Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked up.

He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.

The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.

The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.

You hadn’t expected that either.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Dancing?”

“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”

Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”

Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.

“Bucky.”

“Too much?”

You should’ve said yes.

Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.

His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.

At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.

You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.

“What?”

“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”

He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”

“They mean well.”

“I know.”

“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”

“That so?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”

“Got good answers for most of that.”

“Most?”

He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.

You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.

Your breath slowed.

His did too.

He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.

Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

That landed.

He went very still, his eyes on yours.

From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.

But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.

It made your chest ache in a whole new way.

“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”

“Were you?”

“Tryin’ to be.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.

Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.

Hope, maybe.

Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.

You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”

The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.

Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.

It didn’t.

“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.

“I probably should.”

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.

The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.

You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”

You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”

One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”

The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.

You smiled. “Yes.”

By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.

Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”

Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”

Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”

You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.

Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you demanded, already defensive.

“You like him.”

“Shut up.”

“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.

“It was one dance.”

“One very charged dance,” Tori said.

Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”

The question quieted everything.

You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.

And then you looked back up at your friends.

For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.

“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first thing you became aware of was the light.

Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.

Aggressive light.

Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.

You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.

Something crinkled beneath your cheek.

You opened one eye.

A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.

Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.

This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.

You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.

Then the memories began filtering in.

Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.

Bucky.

Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.

Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.

Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

You squinted at the screen.

9:47 a.m.

Three notifications from your group chat.

One missed photo drop from Mia.

One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.

No text from Bucky.

Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.

It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.

Still.

Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.

Nothing.

You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.

From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her.

Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.

“You look incredible,” you croaked.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”

Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.

“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.

“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.

Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”

The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.

“Alive?” she asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.

You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”

“There are no updates.”

That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.

Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.

Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”

You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”

Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”

“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”

You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”

“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”

“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.

“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.

“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.

You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”

You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”

“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.

You hated that you cared.

That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.

It was caring at all.

After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.

And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.

Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now.

You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”

Jess was quiet for once.

Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.

Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”

That hit too close.

You looked away.

Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”

The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.

“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.

It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.

Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”

You gave her a look.

“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”

“I missed so much.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”

Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”

“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.

“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”

“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.

“Exactly.”

You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”

“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”

“Balance,” Jess said.

“Healthy,” Tori agreed.

A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.

“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.

“No,” Jess yelled.

The door opened anyway.

Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.

She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.

“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.

Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.

Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”

Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”

You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”

“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”

Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”

“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”

Your phone lit up.

All five heads turned toward it.

You froze.

The screen showed only a weather alert.

Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”

You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”

Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.

The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.

You tried not to check your phone.

You failed six times.

No text.

By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.

Almost.

The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.

You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.

Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”

“I need eggs,” Tori said.

“I need silence,” Jess muttered.

“You need toast,” Lena told her.

“I need justice.”

You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

A real buzz this time.

Not a weather alert.

Not the group chat.

A single notification slid across the screen.

Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.

Your entire body went still.

Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.

Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.

“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”

You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.

Lena leaned in. “Read it.”

“No.”

Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”

“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”

“Try me.”

You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.

There was a collective pause.

Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”

Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”

“I’m analyzing the enemy.”

You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.

Bucky had texted.

Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.

Possibly both.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.

You stared at it.

“Too much?” you asked.

Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”

Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”

“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”

“Anytime.”

You hit send before you could lose your nerve.

The reply came faster than expected.

Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.

Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.

You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.

You: That’s a bold confession before noon.

Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.

You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.

Lena’s face softened when you showed them.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?” Tori demanded.

“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.

“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”

You huffed a laugh and typed back.

You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.

Bucky: Little of both, probably.

You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.

Bucky: Worked last night.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.

“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.

“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.

Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”

Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”

The waiter smiled politely and fled.

You looked back at your phone.

You: Did it?

A few seconds passed. Then:

Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?

Your cheeks went warm.

Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”

Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”

“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.

You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.

You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.

Bucky: I was getting there.

You: Were you?

Bucky: Eventually.

You: Very smooth.

Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.

Oh. There went your pulse again.

You stared at the words for too long. Interested.

Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.

Lena studied your face. “Good text?”

You handed her the phone without speaking.

She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.

Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”

Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jess.”

She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Tori beamed. “Progress!”

You were about to reply when another message came through.

Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.

The table went quiet.

For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.

Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap.

Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.

“You okay?” she murmured.

You nodded.

Then you typed carefully.

You: I liked talking to you too.

You hesitated, then added:

You: And dancing with you.

His reply came a moment later.

Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Then another:

Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.

You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.

Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.

Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.

You slowly lowered the phone.

Four faces stared back at you.

“What?” Mia asked.

“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”

There was an immediate eruption.

“Us?” Tori squealed.

“All of us?” Lena asked.

Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.

Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”

Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”

“Strategic,” Jess said.

“Respectful,” Lena countered.

“Could be both.”

Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”

You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”

All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.

“Excuse me?” Tori said.

“I mean, we just met them.”

“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”

You typed.

You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?

Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.

You showed them.

Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”

Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.

“Statistically.”

“Less reassuring.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”

Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”

The question quieted the table again.

You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.

Did you want to go?

Yes.

That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.

You wanted to hear his laugh again.

You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.

You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.

And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.

“I don’t know,” you said softly.

Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, staring at the table.

Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”

Tori’s whole face melted.

Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”

Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”

Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”

Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”

Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”

You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.

“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.

They all drank to that.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.

His reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.

Your chest squeezed again.

A second message followed.

Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.

You smiled down at your phone.

You: Should I be worried?

Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.

You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.

Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.

You: Mostly?

Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.

You read the last two words three times.

Pretty women.

Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”

You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”

“Not on this trip,” Tori said.

You typed:

You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Bucky: Woman. Singular.

Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.

The girls exploded.

“What?” Lena demanded.

“What did he say?”

“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”

“That’s illegal.”

You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said. 

Tori actually squeaked.

Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”

Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”

“No, you don’t,” Tori said.

“I hate that one might be doing well.”

Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.

There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.

“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”

“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.

“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”

“I am sitting right here,” you said.

“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.

Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”

You grimaced. “Agreed.”

“Black?” Mia suggested.

“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”

“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”

“Too soon?” Tori asked.

You considered it.

Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”

Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.

It felt good.

That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.

After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.

Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.

Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.

You laughed out loud in the dressing area.

Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”

You nodded, reading the text aloud.

Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”

You typed:

You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.

Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.

You: She is. Fear her.

Bucky: Noted.

Then, after a beat:

Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.

You snorted.

You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.

Bucky: Bullied?

You: Affectionately.

Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.

Your smile went soft before you could stop it.

You: You think you could?

Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.

You: Against my friends?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

That one you showed the group.

Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”

“He knows his limits,” Lena said.

“Green flag?” Tori asked.

“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.

In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.

You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.

But the deep blue one made you pause.

It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.

It just felt like you.

When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.

Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”

Lena’s expression softened. “No.”

Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”

Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”

Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”

You looked back at the mirror.

For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.

Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.

Pretty.

Interested.

Maybe even beginning again.

You bought the dress.

The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.

You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.

He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.

At 2:13 p.m.:

Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.

You: Please tell me you said no.

Bucky: I said hell no.

You: Strong leadership.

Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.

You: Did you?

Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.

At 3:02 p.m.:

You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?

Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.

You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.

Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Then, a moment later:

Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.

You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.

You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.

The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.

A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.

But Bucky had said it like he remembered.

Like he had thought about you after you left.

You typed back slowly.

You: Thank you.

That felt too small, so you added:

You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.

His response took thirty seconds.

Bucky: That was smooth.

You: I’m capable of growth.

Bucky: Proud of you.

The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.

Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s disgusting.”

“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”

Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”

Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

Careful, but happy for you.

By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.

Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.

Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”

Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”

“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.

“Exactly. Respect your elders.”

The room became chaos again.

Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters. 

Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.

“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You looked down at your hands.

That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.

Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.

Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.

Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.

Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll look spontaneous.”

You laughed, then your phone buzzed.

Lena’s eyebrows rose.

You picked it up.

Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?

Your smile came before you could stop it.

You: You can tell me.

Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.

A second message came right after.

Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.

Your pulse warmed.

You: That was almost smooth again.

Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.

You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.

Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.

You laughed.

You: Please don’t.

Bucky: I won’t.

The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.

You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

You did.

In. Out.

The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.

She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.

Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.

But not empty.

Not defeated.

By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.

“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.

“Phone charger.”

“Mini sunscreen.”

“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.

“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”

“That is not science.”

“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.

Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”

Lena paused.

Everyone stared at her.

She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.

“Leadership,” Tori whispered.

You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.

It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.

You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.

Not because she was proving a point.

Not because she was running from pain.

Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.

That was all.

That could be enough for tonight.

Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

You thought about it.

“Both.”

“That’s allowed.”

Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”

“Noted.”

Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”

Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.

But it was yours.

The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.

All of it.

Yours.

Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.

Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.

You bit your lip against a smile.

You: We’re leaving now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Bucky: Good.

Then, after a few seconds:

Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.

You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.

“Well?” Jess asked.

You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”

Tori made an ungodly noise.

Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”

The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.

The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.

Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.

But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.

You crested the wooden path toward the beach.

A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.

You kept thinking about the fucking carafe. 

You kept thinking if you told him, if when he came in that you had to hold the thing down, he’d put his hand over yours and it would become a thing. A small, but real thing. You'd been living on smaller ones lately. The other night he'd touched the back of your neck when he passed you in the hallway and you'd thought about it for two days.

The coffee finished. You let go of the carafe. You poured two mugs—his first, the one with the chip on the rim that he insisted he liked because it made the coffee taste better, which wasn't true but was the kind of thing he said sometimes, the kind of thing that used to make you laugh—and then yours, the one your sister had given you for your twenty-eighth birthday, the one with the hairline crack that had been there so long you'd stopped worrying it would split. You put two sugars in his. You put nothing in yours. You stood at the counter holding both mugs by their handles and you waited.

You’d been putting two sugars in Jack’s coffee for almost three years that you’d started doing it without thinking. You thought, briefly, about not putting sugar in his, about making his coffee wrong. You thought about whether he’d notice. You wanted him to notice. No, you didn’t want him to notice. You put the two sugars in, and stirred them with the small spoon you always used. The wrong coffee would have been a test, you realized, and you weren’t ready to give a test you already knew the answer to. 

6:53.

You set the mugs down. You picked them up. You set them down again. You went to the window and looked out at the parking lot like you were sixteen and waiting for a boy to pull up, except you were thirty-one and you lived with him and there was no reason to be standing at the window except that you couldn't sit down. Sitting down would mean admitting you were waiting. Standing was a thing you happened to be doing in the kitchen near the window. It wasn't the same.

You heard the key jangle at 7:04. 

Your body reacted the same way it had been reacting for three years now. There was an involuntary lift in your chest, this small gladness, and the fleeting, euphoric thought of oh good, Jack’s here. It happened milliseconds before you could decide whether you were allowed to feel it anymore; it happened in the half-second between the key turning and the door opening. You hated that it still happened. You hated that you were unsure whether you hated it. 

He came in. He looked at you. He eyed the mugs on the counter. He looked back at you.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you said. 

He left his jacket on and held onto his bag. He stood in the doorway like a man who’d come into the wrong apartment and was figuring out how to exit without being mean about it. His hair was flat on one side from where he’d been pushing his locks through it. There was something on the cuff of his scrubs, a dried, dark spot. He—like always—smelled like the hospital, and underneath that he smelled like himself, and underneath that, faintly, he smelled like coffee that wasn’t yours.

He’d stopped somewhere on his way home.

You filed that thought away into this ever-growing compartment of Jack your subconscious mind had started months ago, and your conscious mind was just catching on. You were getting good at filing things away. You had a whole drawer of them now, in your head, organized chronologically: the night he hadn't come to bed; the morning he'd left without saying goodbye; the Tuesday he'd told you he was too tired to talk and then you'd heard him on the phone in the bathroom, laughing, low, at something somebody else had said. You didn't open the drawer. You just kept putting things in it. You'd open it later. You'd open it when you were ready.

“I made coffee,” you said, because that was how it was supposed to go. That was how it always went. 

“I had some,” he said.

“Okay.”

He was looking past you, at the cabinet behind your head, at nothing, you realized. He’d hadn’t met your eyes since he came in, and you were realizing you had stopped considering it avoiding, because to avoid would mean he was putting in the effort to. When had this become the nature of it all? You couldn’t remember the last time he looked at you. You were going to remember the not remembering later. When had you become a thing his eyes had learned to skip over?

“Long night?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

You waited with bated breath. There used to be a ‘yeah,’ then a story. There used to be a ‘yeah, this guy came in, you won’t believe what he did to his hand.’ He’d sit at the counter and tell you, gesturing with his coffee, and you’d put your chin on your palm and listen with both ears. Sometimes you’d laugh and sometimes you wouldn’t and once you’d cried. He’d reached across the counter and put his thumb under your eye and say, “Hey. Hey. Come here.” And then you’d go around the corner and he’d hold you for a long time without saying anything. 

You waited.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said. 

“Okay.” 

He moved past you without touching you. There was a moment—a half-second, less, the time it took for him to pass behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the table—when you felt the air shift. The possible moment he could have put a hand on your hip, on the small of your back, on the top of your head; when he could have done any of the small unthinking touches he used to do without thinking. But he moved through the space like you were a piece of furniture he was navigating around. You heard the bathroom door close. You heard the shower turn on.

You stood at the counter for a while.

You picked up his mug, the one with the chipped rim, and you held it with both hands. It was still warm. The two sugars hadn't dissolved all the way; you could feel the grit at the bottom when you tilted it. You thought about pouring it out. You thought about drinking it yourself. You thought about a lot of things.

You set it down.

You sat at the table. You hadn't sat down all morning. Your hands were colder than they should've been. You put them between your thighs to warm them up. You looked at the chip on the rim of his mug, the small white triangle of it where the ceramic had broken away two years ago—you'd done it, actually, you'd been washing dishes and you'd knocked it against the faucet and you'd stood there holding it and almost cried because it was his favorite, and he'd come up behind you and looked at it and laughed and said ‘Baby, it's a mug, it's fine, I like it better now,’ and he'd kissed the top of your head and taken it out of your hands and put it back in the cabinet—and a thought came unbidden to you, one of those with clarity that came in the morning after a night of no sleep. 

He doesn’t love me anymore. 

You hadn’t decided the thought. It arrived, came through the kitchen window like a weak-tea light and the scent of burnt coffee. The thought sat across the table from you with folded arms as it waited for you to say something back.

You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower run, and somewhere far away you could hear a car door slamming and a dog barking and the building above you starting to wake up, all of it the wrong sounds for this hour, all of it the sounds of a day beginning, and you sat at your kitchen table in your sleep shorts with your cold feet on the tile and you thought, okay.

The shower kept running. You got up to hold the carafe down for the second pot.

It was for you because the act of making coffee was the only thing your hands knew how to do at the moment, and your hands needed something to do or you were going to start crying at the kitchen table, and you weren't going to start crying at the kitchen table because if he came out of the shower and found you crying you would have to explain it, and you didn't have an explanation that would fit in the space he was willing to give you.

‘You don’t love me anymore,’ it’s not a sentence you could say out loud to Jack. It was a sentence you could barely say to yourself. You'd thought it once and now it was in the room and you needed to do something with your hands.

You filled the carafe at the sink. The water ran cold over your wrist and you watched the little bones move under your skin and you thought about how he used to take your hand sometimes and turn it over and press his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and hold it, like he was checking and making sure. You used to ask him what he was doing and he’d always say, ‘Nothing.’ Then, he’d add, ‘I just like knowing.’

You hadn't felt his thumb on your wrist in—you didn't know. You couldn't remember the last time. That was the thing about the things he used to do. They stopped happening and you didn't notice on the day they stopped, you noticed three weeks later when you reached for the memory of the last time and it wasn't where you'd left it.

You poured the water into the machine. You pressed the button. You held the carafe down.

The shower was still running. The shower had been running for twenty-two minutes.

The coffee maker beeped.

You let go of the carafe. You poured. You added milk—too much, your hand slipped, you didn't bother to fix it—and you took the mug to the table and sat down and you didn't drink it, you just put your hands around it and held on.

You thought about your sister.

You thought about your sister, the phone call you’d had with her four months ago in October. You’d been on a walk and she’d asked how Jack was and you’d said he was good.

She’d been quiet on the other line for a second too long, which meant she'd already heard the answer in your voice and was just giving you the chance to say it out loud. You’d told her you were fine, you were fine. You’d meant it. You were fine in October. You'd been worried about him but you'd been fine. And she'd let it go, because she was good like that, because she didn't push, and you'd gotten off the phone and kept walking and not thought about it again.

You were thinking about it now because you realized she knew before you did. 

You were thinking about how lonely had been a slow leak. How you couldn't point to a day. How if someone asked you, later, about when it started, you wouldn’t have an answer that would satisfy them, you'd just have a list of small things and the dawning understanding that the small things had been a shape that had been apparent to everyone but you. 

The shower stopped.

You looked up.

The silence after the shower was always loud, for the apartment adjusted, the pipes ticked, the bathroom fan still spun. You heard him moving around in there. The squeak of his palm on the foggy mirror. The click of the cabinet. The small domestic sounds of a man getting ready to come out and face his life. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug and you thought, very clearly, very calmly to not ask him.

Don't ask him what's wrong. Don't ask him if he's okay. Don't ask him if he still wants this. Don't ask him anything. If you ask him he will tell you and you cannot un-hear what he tells you and you are not ready, you are not ready, you are not ready.

He came out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, toweling his hair, as he balanced on his crutches. The steam came out with him in a soft cloud, and for one half-second—the half-second before he saw you sitting there—his face was open. Tired. Wrecked. Human. You saw him. You saw the man you'd loved for almost three years, the man who'd stood at this counter in October and pressed his mouth to the top of your head and asked, rhetorically, what he would do without you. The man who you were pretty sure you would have married if he'd asked, the man you'd been so quietly, stupidly, completely sure of that you'd never even let yourself worry he might not be sure of you.

He saw you and his face closed.

It was the smallest thing. It was a thing you'd seen happen maybe a hundred times in the last few months and never quite let yourself name. It was like a door shut behind his eyes. The towel kept moving in his hand but something in his shoulders went still, the way an animal goes still when it sees you coming.

He stood there with the towel around his neck. He was looking at the floor between you. He had a tan line on the back of his neck from his work badge lanyard, you'd noticed it last week, a small pale stripe. You'd thought about pointing it out to him and you hadn't, because you weren't sure anymore which kinds of small noticings were welcome.

You opened your mouth.

You were sitting at the table with your hands around your mug and you'd made yourself a promise eleven seconds ago and you opened your mouth anyway because some part of you was already past being careful, some part of you was already at the bottom of the hill and rolling, some part of you had decided it would rather know than keep not-knowing, and you opened your mouth and you spoke, “Jack.”

His gaze was still fixed to the floor. “What?”

“Are we okay?”

The towel stopped moving. The kitchen got very quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears in the slow heavy way it did when you were about to be told something that was going to rearrange you, and you sat very still at the table with your hands around your mug and you watched him decide.

He took a long time to decide, enough that you understood what the answer was going to be. He was giving you mercy, you supposed, to prepare your body. You felt your shoulders settle. You felt your jaw loosen. You felt the very small private animal of yourself curl up tight somewhere behind your ribs and go quiet, the way it did before bad news, the way it had done in the doctor's office when you were nineteen, the way it had done at your grandfather's bedside, the way it had done—once, years ago, in a different life—when a different man had told you a different version of the same thing. You knew this feeling. Your body knew this feeling. Your body was already mourning.

He pulled the towel off of his neck and held it beside the crutches.

“I don’t know.”

You waited, eyes fixated on him. 

“I don’t—” He started, then stopped. “I’m tired. I’m really tired. Can we not do this right now?”

“Okay,” you said. 

“I just got off a fourteen-hour—”

“Okay.” 

“Don’t—Please don’t ‘okay’ me that way.”

“What way?”

“Like that. Like you’re—” He lifted his free hand up from the hold on his crutch and gestured vaguely in your direction. “Like you’ve decided what I’m gonna say.”

“Have you?”

“What?”

“Decided.”

He looked at you for the first time since he’d come home. His eyes were on your face as opposed to something past it, and you almost flinched, because you'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen by him and the remembering hurt worse than the forgetting had. His eyes were red. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, even though he'd slept yesterday, you'd watched him sleep yesterday, you'd brought the blackout curtain closed all the way like you always did and you'd put a glass of water on his nightstand like you always did and he'd slept for six hours and woken up and gone to work and now he was standing in your kitchen looking like he hadn't slept in a year.

“Don’t,” he said, voice quiet. “Don’t push this on me right now. Not right this second.”

“When, then? Tomorrow? Next week? March?” Your voice was very even, you were almost impressed by it. “Just tell me when, Jack. I’ll write it down. I’ll wait.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head as he turned away. He was going to walk out. He was going to walk into the bedroom and close the door and you were going to sit at this table for another hour and then go to work and come home and find him gone again and the whole thing would go on, the whole thing would keep going, the slow leak, the quiet drawer, the small white triangle on the rim of the mug.

“I just—” he started, stopping at the threshold of the bedroom. He had his back to you. “I just don’t know how to do this anymore.”

You did not move an inch. You did not move and you did not move and you did not move. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug, watching the back of his head, for he had said it without facing you. He’d hadn’t been brave enough to say it to your face, even though that was the truest sentence he’d said in a month, he’d said it to a doorframe.

You set your mug down on the table.

The sound it made was very small. A soft tock. You'd set it down a thousand times before. You'd set it down this morning. The mug didn't know anything had changed. The mug was a mug. You looked at it. You looked at the small ring of moisture it had left on the wood. You looked at your hands on either side of it, palms-up, empty.

“Okay,” you said.

You went to work that day. You weren’t sure what happened, what you wore, who you talked to, whether you ate lunch, and you won’t be able to. The day will be a white space in your head. A fugue state boiled down to its lowest, least harmful level. Your body had gone to work and answered emails and sat in a meeting and microwaved something for lunch and your mind had been at the kitchen table in your apartment, hands around a mug, listening to Jack’s words like a bruise that keeps being a bruise even after you stop pressing it.

You'd sat in the parking lot of your building for eleven minutes before you'd made yourself get out of the car. You'd looked up at your window—third floor, second from the left, the one with the plant on the sill that you'd bought him for his birthday last year, a stupid little succulent he'd named Gerald for reasons he'd never adequately explained—and you'd seen that the blackout curtain was still closed, which meant he was still asleep. You had maybe forty minutes before he got up for his shift, and you'd thought about driving away. You'd actually thought about it. You'd thought about driving to your sister's, two hours north, and walking into her kitchen and sitting down at her table and letting her ask you what was wrong. You'd thought about it long enough that your hands had moved to the gear shift. And then you hadn't done it, because some part of you was still hoping, standing at the kitchen counter at six-forty-seven in the morning holding two mugs of coffee. Some part of you was going to keep standing there until he told you, in plain words, to stop.

His mug from the morning was still on the counter. The coffee in it had a film on top now, a dull skin you could break with the tip of your finger. 

You sat on the couch in the living room and he got up at six-fifteen. You heard the alarm first—the soft one he'd set when you started staying over because the regular one had made you flinch—and then the rustle of the sheets and the soft thud of his feet on the floor and the particular small sound he made every morning when he stood up, a half-grunt, the huh of a man whose body had been disagreeing with him for years and who'd made peace with it. You'd loved that sound. You'd loved being the only person who knew it. 

He came out.

He was dressed for work — black t-shirt, scrubs slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from the shower he must have just taken, the second one in twelve hours — and he stopped when he saw you on the couch.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“You’re home.”

“Yeah.”

He stood there for a second like he was going to say something. You watched him consider it, as though there were random english words bouncing in his mind he was trying to piece together to get what he wanted. You didn’t know what. Or you did know what. You weren’t sure. 

“You want me to turn on the light?” he asked.

“It’s okay.”

“Okay.”

He went into the kitchen. You heard him open the fridge. You heard him close it without taking anything out. You heard him fill a glass of water at the sink and drink it and set the glass down on the counter—on the counter, where you'd find it later and wash it and put it away—and then he came back into the living room and he stood in the doorway and he looked at you.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said.

You looked at him, trying to force your lips to not turn downwards from the corner. “Are you?”

Your question came out sharper than you wanted it to. The edge had been put on it by the part of you that had been awake for more than a day and had realized, in its wake, that Jack had unlearned how to meet your eyes.

A muscle moved in his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry—yeah.”

“What are you sorry for, Jack?” Your voice still had that even thing in it, that surprising calm thing, like someone else was operating you from inside. “What part are you sorry for?”

“I don’t—” he said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You shrugged stiffly. “What you’re sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I was short with you. I was tired. I shouldn’t have—”

“You told me you didn’t know how to do this anymore.” 

He closed his eyes, and you could see the way his face twisted at the action. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t think straight when I haven’t slept and you’re—” 

You cleared your throat. “Did you mean it?”

He didn't answer for long enough that you understood he was going to lie about it, and he understood that you understood, and you both sat in that mutual understanding for a second, in the gray light, in the quiet apartment, and you watched him choose.

“I meant I was tired.”

It was the worst possible answer. It was the answer of a man who knew that yes would end the conversation and no would be a lie he couldn't make himself tell, and so he'd found a third door and walked through it, and you stood on the other side of the door and you looked at it and you thought, oh.

Oh. He’s a coward.

This was not a thought you had ever had about him. You had thought he was a lot of things. You had thought he was guarded and tired and weighed down and difficult; you had thought he was kind, in a private way, in a way most people didn't get to see; you had thought he was the smartest person in most rooms and you had thought he knew it and didn't care; you had thought, sometimes, when he was sleeping with his hand on your stomach, that he was the love of your life. You had never thought he was a coward. You had never thought he was the kind of man who would refuse to answer a yes-or-no question from a woman who had loved him because answering would cost him something he wasn't willing to pay.

You were thinking it and you were watching your face not show it and you were watching him relax, fractionally, because he thought he'd gotten away with it, because you hadn't pushed and he thought the conversation was ending in the same manner the conversations had been ending for months now, with both of you agreeing not to look directly at the thing in the middle of the room. And some terrible new part of you—a part that had been born this morning at the kitchen table, a part you didn't recognize and weren't sure you liked—wanted to let him think it. You wanted to let him walk out the door thinking he'd managed it. You wanted to give him this one last small dishonest peace before you took everything else away. 

“Okay.”

He looked mildly surprised, but he hardly showed it. “Are you okay? Are we good?”

“Yeah, Jack.”

He looked at you for a long second and you held his gaze, and his face flickered—a part of him that knew that your yes was one with a stone in it—and he chose, once again, to not ask. He chose, again, to be tired.

“Okay,” he said. “I gotta go. I’m gonna be late.” Then, he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You nodded. 

He started coming towards the couch. You hadn’t expected that. You'd been bracing for him to just leave, to grab his bag and go, and instead he came over to the couch and he stood in front of you and he leaned down and he kissed the top of your head—like he was your father, like he was your friend, like he was anyone but the man who used to kiss you on the mouth at any opportunity he received—nd his hand brushed the back of your neck, briefly, and he smelled like soap and like him and like the faint trace of the antiseptic that never really came off him.

He said into your hair, quietly, “Get some rest, baby.”

He hadn’t called you that in seven weeks. You had not meant to keep count. You had become aware, somewhere around the fifth week, that you were keeping count in the back of your head, the small ruthless math of being unloved by someone who used to love you. You were certain he was saying goodbye.

He didn't know he was saying it. He thought he was being kind. He thought he was patching it. He thought he was leaving for his shift and he'd come home in the morning and the two of you would keep doing what you'd been doing, the slow leak and the quiet drawer.

He had no idea, but your body knew. Your body had known since the kitchen this morning. Your body had been ahead of you all day. Your body was, even now, in the small private dark of itself, already at the door, already in the car, already three exits down the freeway with one suitcase and the mug from your sister already gone, already gone, already gone. 

“You too, Jack.”

He pulled back and looked at you. You saw the whole man, you saw the version of him that loved you and the version of him that didn't know how to and the version of him that was about to lose you and didn't know it yet, all of him stacked up in one face for one stupid second in the gray February light of your living room, and you almost said it.

Don’t go. I’m going to leave you. I’m going to leave you tonight, while you’re at work. I’m going to be gone when you come home. This is our last chance. Look at me. Tell me to stay. 

You let him go. 

He picked up his bag from the chair by the door. He picked up his keys from the bowl. He paused, very briefly, with his hand on the doorknob—you knew you would lie awake and replay that pause and try to decide if it had meant anything, if he had almost turned around, if he had felt the thing you were feeling and chosen against it the way he chose against everything now— and then he opened the door and he went out and he closed it behind him.

It came up through your stomach. It came up through your chest. It came out of your eyes without your permission and without any of the sounds you'd been expecting, like a quiet steady leaking, the way a faucet leaked, the way a roof leaked, a small humiliating involuntary grief of a body that had been holding still for fourteen hours and couldn't hold still anymore. You sat on the couch and you cried and you didn't wipe your face, because there was no one to see, because the apartment was empty

Because the man who used to put his thumb under your eye and say ‘Hey. Hey. Come here’ was on the freeway going to the hospital and he was never going to do that again.

When you stood up. Your legs were stiff. You went to the bathroom and you washed your face with cold water and you looked at yourself in the mirror —your eyes were red, your mouth was doing a thing—and you decided to go to the closet. 

You grabbed the suitcase and set it on the bed. It still had the tag from the August trip on the handle. Some hotel in Vermont. You'd gone for a long weekend. He'd held your hand on the walk to dinner the first night and you'd thought this was it, the thing you wanted for the rest of your life. 

The tag had your handwriting on it, with his name and the hotel address as the contact—you'd filled it out for him at the airport because he'd been on the phone with the hospital—and you stood looking at the tag with your own handwriting saying JACK ABBOTT in your slightly-too-loopy capitals. 

You took the tag off the handle. You set it on the dresser. You did not throw it away. You weren't ready to throw things away yet. You were ready to take things out of the closet and put them in a suitcase. You'd worry about throwing things away later.

The kid wouldn’t stop crying. Jack didn’t blame the kid. The kid was four and he had a piece of LEGO lodged so far up his left nostril that it was going to need a procedure room, and the mother was crying when she came in, and he knew she’d have to explain to everyone later it was only ninety seconds on the phone. Jack put his hand on her shoulder to stop her from crying, and she didn’t. So, for about thirty minutes, the kid and his mother were like a background noise that nobody had asked for. 

He was washing his hands now. He'd gotten the LEGO out—it had been a small red one, a 1x2, and he’d held it up in the forceps so the kid could see, and joked that he’d grown a LEGO, and the kid had laughed once through the snot and then started crying again, and Jack had handed the LEGO to the mother in a specimen cup and told her she could keep it as a souvenir, which had been a joke, which she had taken seriously, and she had thanked him three times on the way out. He was thinking about whether he could get away with eating the second half of his sandwich before the next chart hit.

It was 10:47. The board was light for a Tuesday, which meant the q-word wasn't allowed out loud, which meant he was thinking it in his head, which counted, which meant somewhere in the city right now someone was about to do something dumb with a ladder. He'd been doing this long enough to know better. He kept thinking about it anyway. The board was light. He was going to eat his sandwich.

“You owe me twenty bucks.”

Dana, who’d decided this was her twice-in-a-blue-moon night shift, behind him.

“For what?”

“LEGO. I had a LEGO.”

“You bet on a LEGO? In a four-year-old’s nose?”

“Mateo had a marble. Shen took penny. Ellis took battery.” 

He dried his hands. He turned around. 

“Eat the sandwich,” Dana said.

“Mhm.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna eat it, Dana.” 

He went to the break room. The sandwich was where he'd left it on top of his locker—turkey on rye, the rye going a little stale at the edges, made by him—and he took it back out to the desk and ate it standing up.

He got two bites in before Ellis called from the desk, “Abbott.”

“Hm?”

“Pittsburgh General called. They’ve got a transfer they want to send us.”

“Why?”

“They’re full.”

“Liars.”

“They say they’re full.”

“Tell ‘em to go cry about it.”

“I told them you said that.”

“Really,” Jack drawled.

“I told them we had capacity. Female, early-thirties, came in two hours ago with shortness of breath, chest pain, hemoptysis. Clots in her lungs. Both sides. PE. She passed out in triage. They had to put a tube in to help her breathe and they started her on blood thinners but she's getting worse, not better. They want her transferred.”

Jack chewed. “How bad?”

“They’re scared her heart can’t keep up. They don't know if they need to push the clot-busters or just keep her supported and pray. They want a second set of eyes before they pull the trigger, and we’ve got the beds.”

He swallowed. “Fine. ETA?”

“Twenty minutes. They’re loading her now.”

“Bay?”

“Two.”

“Tell Mateo to set up. I want the ultrasound at the bedside before she rolls in, not after.”

“Already did.”

“You’re showing off.”

“I’m always showing off, Doctor.”

He took another bite of his sandwich. He set the sandwich down. He knew the sandwich would go unfinished. He knew it moment Ellis had opened her mouth, which was a thing he should have learned by now and somehow kept not learning. He looked at it for a second. He picked it up. He took one more bite for the road. He chewed it on the way to bay 2.

Bay 2 was ready. Mateo had the ultrasound at the head of the bed and a tray of intubation supplies on the side table and a runner had hung two bags of saline on the IV pole and the monitor was on, blank and waiting, and the overhead was at the low setting, which Jack liked, which he had asked for once two years ago and which had become a thing that just happened now when he was running the bay, the kind of small institutional accommodation a department made for an attending it had decided to keep.

“You good?” he said to Mateo.

“Always.”

Jack pulled a gown off the rack and shrugged it on over his scrubs. He pulled gloves out of the box on the wall and he stood at the head of the bed and he waited.

He liked the waiting.

This was something he had figured out about himself a long time ago, in a different uniform, in a different country. He liked the minute before. The minute when you knew something was coming and didn't yet know what it was going to ask of you. Other people hated that minute. Other people filled it with chatter or with checking their phones or with the small fidgeting of a body that didn't know what to do with itself. He liked it. He stood very still and he let his hands hang at his sides and he ran the algorithm in his head—bilateral PEs, borderline pressures, tachy to the one-thirties, possible RV strain—and he felt the small clean focus of his brain narrowing down to the work, and underneath the focus, almost imperceptible, the thing he wasn't going to look at directly, the small persistent low-grade hum that lived in his chest now and that he had stopped trying to name.

“Two minutes out,” Ellis called from the desk.

“Copy.”

He pulled his mask up over his nose. He flexed his fingers in the gloves. He looked at the empty gurney space at the foot of the bed and he waited.

The doors banged open at 11:04.

EMS came through first, two of them. The gurney they were pushing had a person on it and the person had a tube coming out of her mouth and her chest was rising in the small mechanical way of a chest being ventilated by someone else, and Jack stepped forward to the head of the bed and he said, ‘gimme the report,’ and the medic at the head said, “Thirty-three-year-old female, history per General is unremarkable, presented to them at twenty-one hundred with two hours of progressive shortness of breath, syncopal episode in triage—”

Jack was examining her chart. He usually took the chart in one hand and he scanned the top line for the name, DOB, the allergies, and that was his muscle memory. His hands started it before his eyes did. His eyes did it before his brain did. His eyes landed on the name on the top of the chart and his brain—

His brain stopped.

His brain stopped like a needle lifted off mid-song. The whole bay went very quiet, which it wasn’t, for it was full of sound—monitors pinging, the medics still talking, Mateo on the other side of the bed saying something—but inside Jack’s head, it was very, very quiet. It was a sort of quiet he hadn’t heard in a long time; it came before bad things, as a result of the absence of his own thoughts.

He looked at the name on the chart. He looked at it for what he would later think was a long time and was actually about a second and a half.

He looked up, and he looked at the face. The ace had a tube taped to the corner of your mouth. Your hair was—someone had pulled it back at General and tied it off with those rubber things they kept in the jar at every ER—

Your face. Your face was your face.

Your face was the face he had—your face was the face that had—your face. 

Your face was older.

That was the first thing his brain managed to think after it had finished stopping. Your face was older by two and a half years. There were small things that were different. There was a barely-there line between your eyebrows that had not been there. There was a small softness around your mouth he was trying to name, but failing. Your hair was a slightly different color by a few shades. Maybe you’d stopped getting the highlights you used to. Maybe you’d started getting something different. Jack was clueless what you’d started to do differently, but he knew that you had.

Two and a half years had happened to your face without him, and his brain started taking a clinical inventory of the years he had not been allowed to see. His brain—for the first time in much too long—understood that time had been real. He’d understood time had happened, and you’d been alive for it. That you’d aged, and he’d not been there. 

His eyes went down to your throat. He’d made an involuntary decision to look. There was a thin gold chain resting there he didn’t recognize. It was small and the kind of chain you’d buy for yourself or have given it to you from someone else. This chain, Jack realized, had been on your neck for an unknown amount of time, in some unknown place, during unknown evenings he couldn’t be a part of. 

His eyes went down further. To your hand on the sheet. To your right thumb. The cuticle was bitten. The cuticle was bitten down to the bed of the nail, the way you used to bite it when you were anxious about something, the way you bit it the night before a big work meeting or the morning of a doctor's appointment or the time you were waiting to hear back from the bone scan on your aunt. The cuticle had been bitten recently. You had been anxious recently. He did not know what about. He did not get to know what about.

“Dr. Abbott?” Mateo called from across the bed, and it sounded like his voice came through a long tunnel. “Dr. Abbot, everything good?”

His hands were on the chart. His hands were still on the chart, and his eyes were on your face, and his mouth was not doing anything. His mouth was a part of his body he had forgotten about. He could feel his pulse in his neck. He could feel his pulse in his hands. He could feel the small mean drop of his stomach that he hadn't felt in two and a half years and that he recognized immediately, the way you recognized a smell from a place you used to live.

“Get me Dana,” he said to Mateo. His voice was the voice he used in the ER. His voice was a small miracle. He didn't know how his voice was doing that.

“Doctor—”

“Now. Please.”

Mateo scrambled off. Jack looked back down at you. 

You were—the color was bad. He could see that without looking at the monitor. Your face was the wrong color, it was the exact one of someone whose heart was not pushing blood the way it was supposed to, and your chest was rising in the wrong way, because it was one that was being made to breathe. There was a small patch of dried blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on its way in, and your eyelashes—Jesus fucking Christ.

Your eyelashes. He had not—there had not been a single day in the last two and a half years when he had not thought about your eyelashes, not specifically, not the small fact of their existence, the fact that they sat on your cheeks when your eyelids were closed, the small fringe of them, the small fringe of them that he had—that he used to—

He stepped back from the gurney, his prosthetic causing him to stumble back slightly. He didn’t mean to, his body had done it. His body had taken one step away from you and his body was, right now, his body was making a series of very small decisions about him without consulting him, his body was the only thing in the room with any sense, his body was controlling him because his brain was haywire.

“Jack,” Dana said firmly at his elbow.

He couldn’t look at her.

“Jack. Look at me.”

He looked at Dana.

Dana had her hand on his elbow. Dana was looking at his face. And Dana. Dana was a woman who had known him for a long time and who was looking at his face and Dana's own face did a thing, did a small terrible quick thing, and then it didn't do the thing anymore, and her hand was on his elbow and her voice was very low and very even and she was saying, “Step out.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“No, Dana.”

“You can’t—”

“I know. I know what I can’t. Get Ellis. Ellis runs it. I want eyes on. I am not leaving.”

“Jack.”

“I am not leaving, Dana.”

She looked at him for a second that felt like a year, the small assessing look of a woman who had run more codes than most cardiologists and who was, right now, doing math, fast math, the kind of math that took into account him and her and the patient on the gurney and the resident across the bed and the medical board of Pennsylvania and whatever the fuck else lived in Dana’s marvelous head, and then she nodded. 

“Stand at the head. Do not touch her. Tell Ellis everything you know.”

“I don’t—don’t anymore—”

“You know her, Jack. That’s what you know. Tell Ellis what you know about her medically. Allergies. Meds. History. Anything you have. Then you stand at the head and you keep your hands behind your back.”

He nodded, because words were foreign to him right now. So, he nodded. 

Dana squeezed his elbow once and let go and turned for Ellis, and Ellis came at a jog from the desk. Jack moved up to the head of the bed and he stood there and he put his hands behind his back like Dana had said and he looked down at her face and he thought about the kitchen.

He thought about the kitchen for one second, the kitchen at six-fifty-three in the morning, the cold coffee on the counter and the key beside it and the small tag on the suitcase handle in the closet that he hadn't found until two days later when he was looking for something else, the small tag with her handwriting on it and his name on it.

He thought don’t. Not now. Don’t. 

He looked at your face.

He cleared his throat quickly and said, “No allergies. NKDA. She—sulfa makes her stomach hurt but it’s not a real allergy; she’ll say it is because it’s easier. But write down sulfa. She—she was on a dose of OCP a couple years ago, but I don’t know if she still is. I don’t know what she’s on now. I don’t—”

His voice cracked, a little glitch it had not done in a long time. He cleared his throat again.

“She gets migraines, maybe twice a year, with aura. She used to take excedrin for them. I don’t know what she takes now. I don’t know what she takes. No surgeries. Tonsils when she was eleven. That’s it. Non-smoker, was. Is. Drinks socially.”

Ellis nodded. “Got it.”

“She’s—there’s family history. Her mom had a—fuck, she had a—a clotting thing. After her second pregnancy. She was on heparin for a while. Her sister got tested; she got tested. They were both negative. But it’s in the chart somewhere. It should be in the chart.”

“Okay.”

“It is in the chart, Parker. I’m telling you.”

“I believe you, Jack. We’ll look.”

“There’s—she’s got a thing. She said she doesn’t like the idea of being intubated in front of strangers. She’s scared of it. She told me she didn’t want it. If she can hear us, if there’s any way, I know she can’t, but if she can, somebody should tell her she’s safe.”

Ellis looked at him for a moment. “I’ll tell her.”

He nodded and made himself stop. He could feel the next thing he was going to say lining up behind his teeth and he made himself not say it. 

‘She sleeps on her left side. She can’t sleep on her back, it gives her bad dreams. If you have to put her flat for any reason, she’s going to wake up panicking. Just—be ready for it.’ He could feel the small careful instruction-manual of you that he had been keeping in his head for two and a half years, the small useful nothings. ‘She likes the room cold when she sleeps and she gets cold hands when she’s scared. She wants water but never says yes to it, so just put it next to her. She always wants water.’ 

He understood, standing at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back, that none of this was medical. None of that was his to give. None of it belonged in Ellis’s notes about you. Ellis was looking at him for something useful, and the only thing he could think of was that you like the room cold. He could not say it, though what he would not give to be able to spill his guts about you, talk about you to anyone who listened until the sun came up and his throat was raw.

“She’s healthy,” he said. “She—from last time I—she’s healthy.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Ellis nodded again gently and looked at him.

She looked at him with a face he was going to think about later, as she understood in real time, and Ellis, to her enormous credit, the credit of a doctor he was going to think about with gratitude for the rest of his life, did not say anything about it. Ellis took the report from the medic and started moving.

“Okay, let’s get a repeat set of vitals,” she said, turning back to your bed. “Bedside echo, second large-bore IV if she doesn't have one, and someone get me the chart from General, the actual chart, not the summary. Mateo, walk me through the heparin dose.”

Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he looked down at your face and he did not touch you and he watched your chest rise on the ventilator and he watched the small dried patch of blood at the corner of her mouth and he watched your eyelashes on her cheek and he thought, please.

He stood at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back like a man at a funeral and he thought please, baby and he watched the ventilator breathe for you, and somewhere out at the desk a phone was ringing, and somewhere down the hall a kid with no LEGO in his nose was being discharged with a sticker, and the clock on the wall said 11:07, and Jack Abbott did not move and did not move and did not move.

He thought about how Ellis was good. He’d always known it. He had a file in his head about her, and it was filled it words like competent, fast, doesn’t panic, asks the right questions, and that file was being updated in real time tonight now. Because Ellis, right now, in this bay, with this patient, being the doctor Jack would have wanted in this room for someone he loved if he had been able to choose, which he had not been and could not be, and the choice was Ellis. And Ellis was good, and Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he watched Collins work and he tried not to be grateful in a way that would make his face do anything.

Mateo gave the probe to Ellis. She took it. She gelled it. She tucked the sheet down off your chest in the small careful way she would for any patient and Jack looked at the ceiling for a half-second because he could not look at your chest under fluorescent light with a stranger's hand moving across it, even Ellis’s hand, even the hand of a doctor he trusted. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling tile above bay 2 had a small water stain in the shape of nothing, really. The shape of a stain. He had stood under this water stain before. He had stood under it last month and the month before and probably a hundred times. He had never seen it before in his life.

He had the algorithm in his head. He could feel it running. He could feel the part of him that was a doctor doing the thing it did, the small clean calculation of everything to do medically. And underneath, he could feel the other part of him. He could feel the man who had once watched you sleep next to him for six-hundred-and-forty-three nights, and that part was making a sound he could not hear out loud, a small high frantic sound, the sound of a thing being held under water.

“What do you want to do?” Ellis asked.

He realized she knew what to do. Ellis knew exactly what to do. She was asking him because he was the senior attending and because asking him kept him in the room, kept his hands attached to a function, kept him from being a man standing at the head of a gurney watching the love of his life turn the wrong color under fluorescent light. She was throwing him a rope. She was throwing it casually, the way you would throw a rope to someone who didn't yet know they were drowning, and Jack looked at Collins and Collins looked back at him and Collins did not blink and Jack thought, Parker Ellis. Parker Ellis, you good and decent woman. I am going to remember this.

“Half-dose.”

“You sure?”

“She’s young. Full dose risks the bleed. We watch.”

“Agree.”

“Get the Radiology in case.”

“Already paged.”

“You’re showing off again, Ellis.”

“You’re slow tonight, Doctor Abott.”

They looked at each other, and the exchange was the closest thing to mercy he was going to get for a while, and they both understood it, and they both let it pass without naming it, and Ellis turned back to your bed and started working and Jack stayed where he was, at the head, with his hands behind his back, and he watched.

This was a thing he had observed about himself in difficult moments before, mostly in a different uniform in a different country; his perception narrowed in stages. First, the room got smaller; the room got quieter; the room developed a kind of underwater quality, where sound came to him on a small delay, where people's mouths moved a half-second before the words got to him. His own pulse was the loudest thing he could hear. He was at the underwater stage now. He had not been at the underwater stage in a long time. He had forgotten how it was almost peaceful, almost, the small mean peace of a brain that had decided it could not handle the regular speed of things and had slowed everything down.

Your hand was on the gurney with the palm turned up. Someone — the medic, probably, at General, hours ago — had put a pulse ox on your index finger and the small red light of it was glowing through the pad of your finger, and your hand was slack and pale on the white sheet and your fingers were curled in the soft way of a hand whose owner was not currently making decisions about it, and Jack looked at your hand and he thought to make himself stop thinking. 

He could feel his thoughts coming behind him like waves, and he tried to brace and he tried to think don't hard enough that the memory would go around him instead of through him, and it didn't work, it never worked, he had been trying not to think about specific memories of you for two and a half years and he had not once succeeded in not thinking about a memory once it had decided to arrive, and the memory arrived like a crash.

It was a Sunday morning a long time ago, in his apartment, in the bed that had been his apartment's bed before it had been your apartment's bed before it had been his apartment's bed again, and you had been asleep on your side facing him and he had been lying on his side facing you, awake, watching you, in the way he sometimes did and never told you about, and your hand had been on the pillow between your faces with the palm turned up, the way it was turned up now, the small slack curl of your fingers, and he had reached out very slowly so he didn't wake you and he had pressed his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and he had felt it, the small steady beat of you, and he had thought ‘thank you.’

He had thought it as a sentence with no addressee. He had thought it the way men in foxholes thought it. He had thought thank you, and you had not woken up, and he had taken his thumb off your wrist after a while and you had slept on, and he had lain there for another hour watching you sleep, and that had been a Sunday in — he didn't know. He didn't know what Sunday it had been. He had a lot of Sundays like that one filed away and he had stopped, at some point, trying to keep them in order.

He was at the head of your bed and he wasn’t allowed to touch you. 

Your hand was on the sheet with the palm turned up and the small red light of the pulse ox was glowing through the pad of your index finger and your pulse was being read by a machine instead of by him and Jack stood at the head of the bed and he did not move and he did not move and he did not move.

When the tPA went in, Jack knew it went in and it went around and it found the clot and it started to break it up, and you started to get better the way ice melted, slowly, in increments you couldn't see while you were watching, only in the aggregate, only when you looked away and looked back. 

So the next twenty minutes were a vigil. The next twenty minutes were Jack and Ellis and Mateo and other people standing around your bed and watching the monitor and watching your chest and watching your color, and the monitor pinged in its small mechanical way and your blood pressure stayed at eighty-six and your heart rate stayed at one-forty and Jack stood at the head of the bed and breathed through his nose and counted, in his head, very quietly, because he had nothing else to do with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.

He counted to a hundred.

He counted to a hundred again. 

He was on four hundred when his blood pressure went up by four points. 

“Pressure’s coming up,” Mateo said. “Ninety over fifty-six. Heart rate one-thirty-five.”

When Jack didn’t move, Mateo called his name. 

“I see it, Mateo.”

“Sorry. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Sorry.”

Jack looked at the monitor; he watched your blood pressure. He watched your blood pressure sit at ninety for a few seconds and then go to ninety-two. He watched your heart rate come down from one-thirty-five to one-thirty-two. He watched the numbers and he did not let himself feel anything about the numbers and he stood at the head of the bed and the small slow tide of the room came back up around his ankles and, even though he didn’t, felt like he had one, healthy breath he could take instead of the shallow ones he’d been taking.

He thought, okay. He thought it the way you’d said it that morning. He thought it in your voice, he heard it in your voice, and he stood at the head of the bed and kept repeating the word and he watched the numbers and they kept on being good.

Ellis exhaled. Jack hadn’t even realized Ellis had been holding her breath, and the only reason he noticed it was because she let it out. Ellis shook her head once, very small, and said, “Okay. We’re getting somewhere.” Then, she looked at Jack and said, “Abbott, sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said, not missing a beat.

“You’re gray, Abbott.”

Jack stayed silent because, frankly, he had no idea what color his face was. He had no information about his face—he didn’t care about his face—because it was somewhere far above him being operated by remote. But Ellis was looking at him with a look he’d never seen on her, at least directed on him, and Jack thought he really must’ve looked bad.

“Five minutes,” Ellis said. “Go sit down. Drink some water. I won’t leave her. I’ll call you if anything moves.”

“Please—”

“Five minutes.” 

Jack looked at Ellis, then he looked at you. He was not going to win this one and that the smartest thing he could do was to take the five minutes she was offering and come back functional.

He walked through the bay doors and past the desk and past Dana, who did not look up from the phone, who knew not to look up, who was a woman of great and terrible mercies, and he walked down the hall to the supply closet on the left, and he opened the supply closet and he went in and he closed the door behind him and he stood in the dark for a second and then he turned the light on and he leaned against the metal shelving with the gauze and the saline and the small disposable speculums on it and he put his hands over his face.

Jack hadn’t cried in a long, long time. He wasn’t sure if he still could. The mechanism was there, somewhere, but he had not, since the morning he had come back home and seen your key on the counter and the cold, day-old coffee mug beside it, made it work. He’d come close. He had come close a number of times. He’d stood at his own kitchen counter for too long, his weight foot had gotten sore because of how much pressure he was putting on it, and the tears had not come. The only thing that accompanied him was this tug at his chest that started dull, then grew into this feeling of thousands of tiny knives stabbing into his ribcage. 

He stood with his hands over his face and his back against the shelving and he breathed for a count of four in and a count of six out, which was a thing he had been taught a long time ago by a therapist with a kind face whose name he could not currently remember. He breathed and breathed, but all his brain could conjure up was the trip the two of you never made it on.

The cabin, the one you were supposed to be going to in June, only months after you left. You’d booked it in October, and you’d been excited about it. Jack had been so, so excited about it. You had a running list of things you wanted to do—a hike, a swim in a strange place, a restaurant with things neither of you had heard of—and you’d emailed him the list with the subject line, “june???” and he’d emailed back, “yes ma’am,” and that was that.

He’d gone to the cabin alone four months after you’d left. He’d taken the time off he’d already booked, gotten in his car, and drove four hours to the cabin. He’d checked in under his own name and the receptionist asked if there had been a change to the reservation, because there were two names on it. He knew it was downright silly to have expected you there; he hadn’t run into you in Pittsburgh, so there was no possibility you would have shown up here. He said no, the other person couldn’t make it. The woman at the front desk had nodded politely and given him the keys.

He’d done none of the things on your list. He had sat on the dock and looked at the lake and thought about you. He’d thought about whether you knew the dates of the trip you’d planned. Were you also thinking about the dates? He had thought about whether you were thinking about him thinking about you. He had eaten badly. He had slept badly. 

On the third day, he had walked into the woods behind the cabin and he had sat down on a fallen log and he had stayed on it for an hour as his chest felt like it was caving in. The light had changed while he was on the log. The light had gone from the late afternoon kind to the early evening kind, and at some point he had registered that the light had changed, and he had gotten up off the log and walked back to the cabin, and he had checked out the next day a day early. He had driven home. He had not told anyone he had gone.

He took his hands off his face.

He looked at the ceiling of the supply closet. He turned the light off. He opened the door. He walked back down the hall. He walked past the desk. Dana, again, did not look up. He went back into bay 2.

Ellis looked at him and nodded, which he returned. 

Your blood pressure was ninety-six over sixty. Your heart rate was one-twenty-eight. Your color, under the fluorescents, was — your color was a fraction less wrong than it had been five minutes ago. The ventilator was breathing for you in the same small mechanical way. Ellis started charting at the foot of the bed. The new nurse was checking the IV.

Jack went back to the head of the bed and put his hands behind his back. 

He didn't know how long he stood there because he had stopped looking at the clock — there was a clock above the door of bay 2 and he had stopped letting his eyes go to it, because every time he looked at it less time had passed than he thought, every time he looked at it the small mean math of the clock told him that the universe was running slow tonight on purpose, and he had decided at some point that he was not going to look at the clock anymore.

“Jack?” Dana’s voice called.

“Mm?”

“Her sister’s here.”

He stood at the head of the bed and he looked at you and he held very still and he thought about something. He thought about the suitcase tag. He thought about your hand on the pillow on a Sunday morning a long time ago. 

He thought about the small dried patch of blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on the way in and which someone, at some point, was going to have to wipe off, and he thought, very clearly, with the small clean clarity of a man in a supply closet, that he wanted to be the one who wiped it off.

He wasn’t allowed.

“You don’t have to, Jack,” Dana said when he didn’t respond.

“I’m going, it’s okay.”

Dana looked at him for a long second with the look she had, the look he had earned over years, the look that said that while she is, in fact, his nurse, she could be his friend or his mother or his nurse, if he needed her to be any of those for the next ten minutes. He looked back at her and he didn't say anything. She nodded, once, and she stepped aside.

He walked out of bay 2.

He could see your sister, standing at the desk, in a coat that was too thin for the weather, with her purse on her shoulder and her phone in her hand and her hair pulled back from her face, which he had only ever seen her do twice, the first time when your father had been in the hospital four years ago and the second time when she had come to yours and Jack’s apartment for Thanksgiving and burned the rolls and cried about it in the kitchen and let him hand her a glass of wine. 

She had a wedding band on, which she had not the last time he’d seen her. The ring was a thin gold band. She had a small gold charm on a chain around her neck. 

He knew her face. He knew the way she held her phone. 

He knew, even from down the hall, that she had been crying in the car on the way over and had stopped before she came in, because that was the kind of thing your sister did, that was a specific habit she had, and he had liked her very much, once, and she had liked him very much, once. It was a kind of likeness that came from knowing the other person loved their mutual person right.

The last thing she had ever said to him out loud had been “She's okay. I just wanted you to know she's okay,” on a phone call four months after you’d left, and she had hung up before he could say anything back. She was the closest he could get to you without getting to you, because the one time he’d tried calling you, it rang five times before he, in the most honest words he could put it, chickened out.

When she turned and saw him, there was the flash of recognition. Then, he could practically hear her think ‘of course it’s you, of course it had to be you.’ Then her face did the thing he had been bracing for, the polite hard face of a woman who had not forgiven him and was not going to and was, right now, going to have to talk to him anyway because her sister was on a ventilator. She stood at the desk with her phone in her hand and she watched him walk toward her.

He put them in the pockets of his scrubs. He took them out. He put them behind his back. He took them out again. He let them hang at his sides.

“Hi,” he said.

She looked at him and seemed like she wanted to frown. “Hi, Jack.” 

Jack had been bracing for cruelty. It was then he realized she was choosing to be kind to him. Why, he wasn’t sure. But the only conclusion he could come to was that she wouldn’t punish him for what he’d done, and instead let the world do it. The world was doing a fine job.

“She’s stable.” He cleared his throat because it sounded too heavy again. “She’s gonna—she’s gonna be okay. We're moving her to ICU in a little while. She's gonna be okay.”

She looked at him and Jack watched her eyes fill up. Your sister was, like you, a person who did not cry in front of people if she could help it. He stood there and watched her not cry, and he understood, with the clarity of a man who loved you and could not stop doing so, that she didn’t cry in front of people because you didn’t cry in front of people. Because the two of you had learned it from the same kitchen, the same mother, the same childhood with the same set of rules about what was and was not allowed to be done in a room with witnesses. 

She let her eyes fill up and she looked at the ceiling for a second and she breathed through her nose and she looked back at him and she said, very quietly, “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”

“I didn’t—Doctor Ellis ran most—”

“Thank you, Jack.”

He gave her one jerky nod. Then, he looked at the floor and nodded again and he stood there. 

“Can I—” he started, then stopped himself because he wasn’t sure what he was asking. 

Your sister hummed, slightly urging him to continue.

“Can I see her? Once she’s in the ICU. Can I—I don’t have to go in. I just, I would really like to. Once, if that’s okay.”

This woman had stood in your kitchen one Sunday afternoon a long time ago and watched him put his hand on the back of your neck while you laughed at something the neighbor’s dog had done and who had thought, in that moment, that, yes, Jack is the one for her sister. This woman had also, four months later, sat with you on the phone while you cried in a parking lot in a different city. The look she gave him contained both of those things. It was a look that contained more than Jack could parse, and he stood in the hallway of his ER and he looked at your sister and he waited.

“I don’t know, Jack,” she said.

He nodded, and it was more unstable than before.

“I don’t know if she’d want that.”

“I know,” Jack said, and this time, there was no denying the shakiness accompanying his voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?” Jack was nodding along to whatever she said now, because this, this, he’d have to make peace with. “I’ll see how she feels, and maybe I can bring it up—?”

He nodded and he could not say anything and he stepped back from the desk. Before he could turn around, another question slipped from his mouth, “Was—is she okay? In the last while, was she taking care of herself? Happy? Sleeping?”

He was making a mess of it. He could feel his face doing the thing it did when he was making a mess of it.

“She’s been okay, Jack.”

He nodded and nodded and nodded. 

Your sister picked up her purse from where it had slid down her arm and she adjusted her coat and she looked at him one more time and she said, “It’s nice to see you, Jack.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

Okay, obviously this chapter is very different from the others, it's mainly just a little filler part to break up how bulky the series has become (word count wise) but I also thought it would be so fun to see what' going on in between part 4 and 5!!

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It’s all it takes for all four pairs of eyes to land on you and widen. Bella, naturally, is the first to smirk. An expression that is very quickly mirrored by Leone, Chloe and Karis. You raise a palm to stop them before anyone can try to say something stupid or inappropriate. 

“You are all to be on your best behavior and not stare at him like he’s some sort of zoo animal.” 

Their smirks collectively turn into feline grins at your words. “Jesus, we’re not that bad.” Karis defends, though really she’s only actually speaking for herself. 

You huff. “He’s just a friend and he’s Phoebe’s favorite person. Please don’t be weird and please do not bring up my pelvic exam.”

Karis giggles at that, her short brown bob swaying with the movement of her shoulders. Her reaction is much more innocent than the crazed smirks of the others. She’s always been the prude one of the friend group, never openly engaging in sex talk or sharing personal experiences. She’s just a bit of a quieter, more timid soul. Engaged to her lovely fiance, Ricky, and four months pregnant with her first.

Bella feigns an offended sigh, leaning across the kitchen island on her forearms. Her palms clap together gently, the chunky rings on her fingers clicking. “We promise to behave.”

You squint at her, unconvinced. Bella will be the biggest problem. Single, flirty and has no real sense of shame or embarrassment. That’s probably why she’s your favorite.

Your eyes flicker over to Leone and Chloe who are honestly the least of your concerns. “Don’t look at us.” They spend so much time together that the words slip from their mouths at the same time. 

Anyone who meets them assumes they're in the honeymoon period, freshly smitten. But in reality, they’ve been together since high school. When they were told it was just a phase. When they got bullied by girls and sexualized by boys. You’ll forever have the memory of the time you broke Henry Stevenson's nose when he called them dykes and asked them both to scissor in front of him. 

You feel a palm on your lower back, a presence at your shoulder. Your mom stands beside you, unwrapping the rest of the party food that’s plated on the island. “Tom not coming?”

You scoff at her joke. “Nope. I invited him for Pheebs, but he said he has plans.”

She pauses, turns to you. “But it’s her birthday.” 

With a sigh, you purse your lips and drop your shoulders. You can’t help but look across to Phoebe; playing with Bella’s daughter, Florence, and some of her other friends from preschool. It makes your heart ache to watch her laugh with excitement and grin in happiness and know that Tom doesn’t love her the way he should. The way she deserves. 

“Don’t worry about it, honey. She's got everyone she needs right here.” It’s your dad’s hands that land comfortingly on your shoulder, a grounding touch and a blanket of reassurance and love. 

You sink into it a little, let him wrap you in his arms. No matter how old you are, it always makes you feel like a teenager again. Safe in your fathers hold, knowing that he will never let anything touch or harm you. 

“Besides,” Bella begins with a grin, “I’m sure she’ll forget all about Tom when Jack gets here.”

Your moms head whips to you, eyes wide and sparkling as her lips curl in intrigue. “The silver fox?”

You feel your dad still slightly as he pulls away from you, cocking a brow at your mom in what can only be playful from him. She swats his rounding tummy in jest and wraps herself around him. But your dad…he turns to you with raised brows, a silent question as to what the fuck your mother is talking about. 

“You’re seeing someone? Someone older?”

A groan tumbles from your lips. “No. He’s a neighbor. A friend.”

“For now.” Chloe murmurs over the rim of her glass, eyes shining something mischievous. 

He looks at Chloe, then back to you. Your mom pats his stomach, one arm around his waist. “David, you’re not allowed to feel any type of way about this. You’re nineteen years older than me!”

A huff falls from you but you can’t help the laugh that follows. “There is nothing to feel about anything because Jack is a friend.” It’s like you speak in an alien tongue, because they all blink at you blankly. 

Your dad rolls his shoulders, clears his throat like the subject has made him uncomfortable. If he’s honest with himself, it has. He’s never liked the topic of you having a boyfriend or a partner. He hated it as a teenager and now you’re almost thirty…it still hasn’t gotten easier to come to terms with.

That you, his little girl, isn’t a little girl anymore. David often has to remind himself that you’re an adult, a mother. And that despite how uneasy he feels about you potentially being interested in an older man, Prue is right. He is nineteen years older than her. He has no place to judge, only has room for validated fatherly concern. 

He clears his throat, focuses his attention on you. “How old is this Jack, exactly?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek. There is absolutely no need to be having the conversation, and yet you find yourself quietly indulging your father anyway. “Forty-four.”

Your father blinks and you know he’s mentally calculating an age difference. He has the same look in your eye that you did when you were staring at your reflection the night after the ED visit, calculating the gap yourself. 

Sixteen years. 

David looses a breath and there’s a stillness in the kitchen. Phoebe and her friends continue to play, unaware of the turmoil he’s mentally battling. He reminds himself that you’re a big girl now, that you can make your own decisions. That he knows Phoebe is your priority always. 

But David knows what an age difference looks like. There’s a worry that wedges itself deep beneath his ribcage for you. Because while an older man may be able to offer you more, he can’t offer everything. At seventy-five years old, he knows he’s lucky if he’s got another ten years in him. That he’ll be leaving Prue a widow at sixty-six. That he won’t make it to see Phoebe become an adult, won’t make it to meet his grandchildren if she grows to have any. 

It doesn’t matter how fit and healthy he is, or how good he looks for his age. David is old, getting older. He can’t do the things that Prue can. He doesn’t want that life for you. 

The tension in the kitchen makes the next part even harder. And you don’t look at anyone when you utter words that make your father tense even further. “If you see his wedding band, don’t ask about it.”

An even thicker silence settles over the room at that. Partly because you’d never told them he was married, but also because they all seemed to get the hint that his wife is no longer here.

It makes David’s chest feel tight. Like history is repeating itself. Because before Prue, he was also a widow. 

Before any other questions can be asked, Phoebe is shrieking in delight as she tears open another gift. It’s all that’s needed for everyone to swiftly move past the doomed conversation. You avoid your mothers sympathetic gaze as you reach Phoebe, grinning as she slips her feet into a pair of plastic heels. 

There’s wrapping paper everywhere, toys and books and dress-up outfits. She’s torn through the majority of her gifts, screaming at Alexa to play Ain’t It Fun by Paramore. She’s no longer wearing the pretty dress you picked out for her; replacing it sometime ten minutes ago with a bright pink tutu and a Def Leopard t-shirt. 

After a round of musical statues and beating the shit out of a pinata, there’s a firm knock at the front door and Phoebe is moving toward it before you can say otherwise. 

The excitement in her screech is ear shattering as she throws the door wide open and bounces on the spot. Jack grins down at her widely, a large box wrapped in funky paper tucked under a muscular arm. 

“Hey, birthday girl.” 

“Jack! You came! Look, I'm having a party.” Phoebe doesn’t wait for Jack to respond, wraps her hand around his fingers and drags him into the apartment with far too much excitement. 

You watch with pursed lips, desperately trying to hide your grin at the sight. Jack’s eyes find yours amongst the chaos of hyperactive children and wayward adults, his gaze softening but the edges are lined with amusement. 

No more navy scrubs, but a pair of dark wash jeans and a white t-shirt that’s far too tight around his biceps. The slightly salt and pepper hair sits in what you can only assume to be their natural curls, and you have to remind yourself not to stare. 

You offer a wave, stepping over toys and little feet to reach him. It’s far too natural in how his free arm opens to pull you into a casual hug, your front pressing against his side for a brief moment in greeting before you both pull away. 

“Looks crazy in here,” he observes with a fond tone. 

You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you couldn’t have arrived at a more chaotic time.” 

Phoebe pulls on Jack's pants, eager for his attention again. He gives it to her without another thought, crouches with a soft groan and about as much fluidity as a rusty pole. But he offers the gift to a bright eyed girl and she tears the paper off it within seconds.

Another shriek of delight echoes through the room and you watch with raised brows as Phoebe jumps and shakes the box. “Mommy! I’m just like Jack!” 

She shoves the box to the ground and frantically begins to rip into it. It’s a medical kit. Complete with a doctor's case, plastic medical equipment, a pretend ID badge and blue scrubs that match Jack’s a little too well. 

You blink at him, lips parted slightly in surprise. It was only yesterday that Phoebe told him she wanted to be a doctor when she grows up. And somehow, he’s found the most perfect gift between then and now. 

“This is the bestest present ever! Thank you, Jack.” Phoebe throws herself at him again, arms wrapping around his neck and he smiles softly as he holds her with a gentle palm on her back. 

“You’re so welcome, kid.” 

He rises with another soft groan when Phoebe finally releases him from her clutches, and you both watch as she struggles to put the top on over her current one and step into the pants beneath the tutu. She’s grinning wide when she wraps the stethoscope around her neck and shoves the rest of the medical tools in her little bag. 

You have to stifle a laugh when she orders one of her friends to pretend to be sick and Jack follows you toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a drink. You didn’t have to get her a gift.”

He scoffs, like he’s offended. “And show up to a diva's birthday party empty-handed?” 

A laugh falls from your lips but lodges in your throat the moment you approach the kitchen island and realize all eyes are on you. Well, not you. On Jack. 

He stands with a polite smile, hands behind his back and a slight stiffness in his shoulders like he’s about to be interrogated for something he absolutely has not done yet. 

You clear your throat. “Um, Jack, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Jack. Our neighbor and Phoebe’s best friend.”

He laughs softly at that, a brief blush of pinkness dusting across his cheeks at your introduction. Bella is the first to introduce herself as your best friend. Then Karis, who’s a little more polite about it. Both Leone and Chloe offer smirks and a wave, no words to tell him their names. 

But your mom and dad… they approach Jack slowly. Your mother with a warm smile and your father with a slight squint in his eyes. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m Y/N’s mom, Prue. And this is my husband, David. Phoebe does not shut up about her favorite doctor.” 

Jack’s laugh is a bit nervous, a bit self-deprecating. But he offers a warm handshake to your parents and you take that moment to shoot a glare and a silent shut the fuck up to your grinning friends. 

“Ah, nothing too special about me but she’s a pretty cool kid.” He deflects it easily, casually. 

Your mom makes a sound of disagreement. “She’s a strongheaded girl, like her mom. I trust her judge of character more than my own sometimes, and I’ve been a lawyer for thirty years.” She laughs and Jack dips his head a bit bashfully. 

“Yeah, I heard you retired recently. Congratulations.” 

She waves him off with a grin. “Is a lawyer ever truly retired? You ever need a defence attorney for anything outside of the hospital, you let me know.” 

He grins appreciatively at the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Prue.” 

“You always been a doctor, Jack?” David asks it casually enough but there’s a slight accusing tone to his voice that’s completely unwarranted. 

But Jack just shrugs with a slight nod. “I’ve been in medicine most of my life. I served three tours as a combat medic before I went into emergency medicine.” 

Your dad pauses, stares at your neighbor and you quickly take note of the wide eyes of your friends. You’d missed that tidbit of information when they were grilling you about him. And you’re yet to let them know about his little SWAT hobby.

There’s a hint of approval in your dad’s eyes at that and you visibly watch the way his shoulders relax slightly. “I did four tours back in my day. The medics are the real heroes… PTMC is lucky to have you.”

It’s about as much outright approval David has ever given a man that’s come into your life. It’s something that makes you feel sick and happy all at once. He’s just your fucking neighbor, why is everyone treating him like he’s your boyfriend? 

Phoebe is bouncing into the kitchen before much more can be said, complaining about the lack of food she’s eaten and your parents and friends make quick work of moving the food to the small table set up in the lounge. You take that moment as a breather as they set the kids up for dinner and busy your hands with making a drink for Jack.

“Sorry, you kind of got thrown in the deep end there.” You apologize with a fond laugh.

Jack sits at the island, shrugging a shoulder and lazily waving a hand to brush it off. “They all seem nice. Phoebe had a good day?”

You nod with a tired smile as you slide a plastic cup toward him. He probably shouldn’t trust you as blindly as he does because he lifts the cup to take a sip before even checking what’s inside it, and swallows with brows raised. 

“Beer at a kids party?”

You lean across the island to clink your cup to his. “I won’t tell if you won't."

Jack laughs but nods his head, taking another gulp before twisting in his seat to watch Phoebe help her friends put party hats on their heads and hold a mini speech to thank everyone for coming.

Your head falls between your arms as you laugh at the sight, a loud chuckle falling from Jack as he watches her with a wide grin and an ache in his chest. 

For a moment, you just watch him watch her. Notice the way his grin softens into something fond and caring. Your throat dries up and you have to clear it with a cough. “Thank you for coming and for her gift. She’s a bit crazy about you at the minute.”

His eyes remain on Phoebe when he speaks. “Yeah, I've got a soft spot for her, too.” And when he turns back to you, his expression morphs into something slightly more intense. “And her mom.” 

You swallow around the dryness in your throat, pray to fucking God that he doesn’t notice the heat that crawls up your neck and sits on the apples of your cheeks. You feel warm and fuzzy all over at his words, at the potential implications of them. The actual meaning.

You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything at all. Your lips roll between your teeth to conceal a growing smile and you try your best to maintain his eye contact as you bring your cup to your lips again to take another sip.

Jack doesn’t get to spend much more time with you for the rest of the party. You’re either pulled away by duties or Jack is pulled away by Phoebe. He spends the next hour playing doctors with the four year olds and getting to know your mom and dad. But it’s on more than one occasion that you glance over to find him in deep conversation with Bella.

It sits uneasy in your stomach; the way he looks at her in such an intense way, like whatever she’s saying is gospel. It makes your throat swell in something like insecurity and embarrassment. There is nothing between you and Jack, you know that. But he says he has a soft spot for you and Phoebe and then submerges himself in Bella’s presence. 

You’re not blind. You know how beautiful Bella is. Dark skin and silky hair. Chocolate brown eyes and fluttering lashes that frame them. She’s slender, perfectly proportioned and she has a smile that tends to daze anyone she speaks with. It’s not a surprise to you that Jack fell into her captivation either. 

But it hurts, nonetheless. It stings in a way that it always has done with Bella. You’re wanted and desired until they meet her. Then you’re just a stepping stone to get to who they really want. 

You believe what Jack said, that he does have a soft spot for Phoebe and you. But you believe it’s a spot of pity. Where he feels sorry for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Bella finds you when you’re sticking candles into the frosting of Phoebe’s birthday cake, a sly look on her features as she stands beside you. “Jack seems nice. I see why Pheebs is obsessed with him.”

You still at her voice, at the mention of him. You force yourself to shove her playfully as crimson begins to crawl across your skin. She watches the heat on you, the insistent blinking. A mixture of embarrassment, hurt and if you’re honest with yourself, something like jealousy.

Her lips part. Body turning to look at you. “You like him.” 

It’s not a question, it’s written all over your face. You can’t bring yourself to deny it, you’ve never been able to lie to Bella. She sees right through you. Always has. But you do look at her and it’s then that she notices a vulnerability in your eyes that she’s never seen before.

It makes her pause, makes her teasing falter. You see the look of understanding cross her features and you look away. You’re not prepared to have this conversation with her. Not here. Not now. 

So you grab a lighter instead and bring the flame to the candles. Heaving a sigh, you slip your palms beneath the cake board and slowly round the kitchen island to make your way over to everyone. 

Jack notices you approaching first, eyes darting between yours with a small knit between his brows like he knows something is wrong. But when he notices the cake in your hands and your careful footsteps, he doesn’t approach you to ask. 

He does a quick take of everyone else, all too occupied in conversation or tending to the children and without much more of a thought, he slips his phone into his pocket and angles it toward you and you have to look away as he begins to film.

Bella starts singing first, allowing you a moment to find your voice before the entire room is singing off-key and you’re kneeling in front of Pheebs. She blows out the candle on a big breath and it’s not lost on you that this is the first year the cake isn’t covered in her saliva from it. 

Jack moves closer to catch it on camera, his laugh bubbling out of him when he actually sees the cake properly and the iced writing on top of it. 

DIVA, ALL THE TIME. OLDER, OCCASIONALLY.

Phoebe scoops her finger into the edge of the cake, a hefty chunk of frosting making its way into her mouth and she grins cheekily at Jack’s camera. Your mom scoops her up, peppering kisses to her cheeks and nose despite Phoebe’s obnoxious protests to put her down. 

You move in exhaustion and auto pilot for the last thirty minutes of the party. Cutting cake, filling goodie bags, watching Phoebe and her friends do round after round of Singstar on the old PlayStation2 you had kept from your younger years. It made you laugh when she started singing Faint at the top of her lungs.

“I thought she didn’t like screaming music?” Jack had asked.

And it was his turn to laugh when you both turned to look at him and said, “Linkin Park doesn’t count,” at the same time. 

By 7.30p.m, the party is clearing out of guests. Parents come to collect their kids while Bella drags a very uncooperative Florence out of the apartment; overtired and not wanting to leave.

Jack sits on the couch with a very sleepy Phoebe who has tucked herself into his side as she makes him read your copy of Stevie Nicks’ autobiography. The sight is so overwhelming it almost makes you feel sick and you have to look away and focus on the state of your kitchen instead. 

You feel a presence approaching you, gentle hands resting on your shoulders that you know to be your moms. Her lips barely tickle your ear as she speaks quietly. “I didn’t see a ring.” 

Your brows pull together slightly in a frown. For a moment, you’re confused as to what she’s talking about. But when you turn to face her and she offers a subtle movement of her head toward Jack’s direction, you blink.

“Really?” 

She hums. “He’s not wearing it. Not today at least.” She presses a kiss to your cheek as your dad joins her, wrapping you in a hug to say goodbye. 

You watch them press kisses to Phoebe’s head but she dodges them and shimmies out of Jack’s grasp. Her legs can barely keep her on her feet as she reaches you, rubbing at her eyes and insisting she needs to have a bath and go to sleep. 

Taking her into her arms, you’re reminded that your four-year-old is no longer a baby and actually weighs thirty-eight pounds of pure sassiness. You throw an apology over your shoulder to your parents and Jack, each of them dismissing you with a smile and wave of their hand. 

She puts up a fight in the tub, fighting you for the jug as you try to wash the soap out of her hair. Brushing her teeth is a wrestling match in itself, her argument being that she wants to be able to taste her birthday cake while she dreams. 

But when you go on a bit of a desperate spiral of convincing Phoebe that her teeth will fall out and then so will her tongue and she’ll never be able to eat cake again if she doesn’t brush them, she gives in. 

Settling her to bed is an even bigger struggle. First, her pyjamas are too warm, then the second pair are not pink enough. It takes every ounce of you to remain calm and patient. And after four pyjama changes and three Avril Lavigne songs, she’s snoring into her pillow like butter wouldn’t melt. 

By the time you creep out of Phoebe’s room, your apartment is silent and…clean. 

You blink. 

The food and wrapping paper has been cleared up. The frosting smears on the furniture have been wiped clean and popped balloons and torn party streamers no longer litter the floor. 

Rustling from the kitchen catches your attention and you follow the noise. Jack stands there, trash bag in hand and humming something that sounds oddly like AC/DC under his breath. He catches your presence as you move closer, taking in the spotless kitchen in slight astonishment. 

He smiles at you, not stopping the task at hand. “Phoebe okay?”

You blink again at him. “Uh, yeah. Just overtired—Jack, you didn’t need to stay to clean up.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “You snuck me beer, it’s the least I could do.” 

A tired laugh escapes you, and when he nods his head to the open doors to the balcony, you notice two more in the bottle sitting on the little patio table. Your shoulders sag in relief at the sight of it and even from a short distance, you can make out the little drops of condensation that drip down the glass. 

“On second thought, you can stay and clean up whenever you like.”

Jack chuckles at that, nods his head toward it again and you hate that you don’t argue with the silent but gentle command. The moment you step outside, your clammy skin is kissed by the cool evening breeze. It shakes a stressed sigh from your chest and you sink into the patio couch. 

You’re a few sips into your beer when Jack joins you, easing himself beside you with a small grunt. You watch him take in the surroundings. Unlike Jack’s balcony—which is bare of anything but a table and two chairs—yours is comfortable, homey. 

There’s outdoor furniture suitable for weather with throws and pillows, plant pots lining the corners and warm twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the iron fencing. When he reaches for the beer, it’s then that you notice for yourself what your mom observed earlier. 

He really isn’t wearing his ring. 

You take another long gulp from the bottle, let the bitterness line your tongue when you catch him stretching out his leg from your peripheral. 

“You can take it off by the way.” You nod toward his leg. “My great uncle had two prosthetic legs.”

Jack cocks a brow as he looks at you. 

“Army?” He assumes but he doesn’t argue with your offer. He tugs his jeans up as much as the denim will allow and reaches beneath the hem to pop the clips on the prosthetic. 

You scoff. “Being a jackass.”

It’s both a laugh and a sigh of relief when he eases the socket past his knee and places the machinery to the side of him. The relief in his body is almost immediate. You watch the way his shoulders sag in something like relaxation and he sits back with his beer and a gleam of tiredness in his eyes. 

“Thank you again, for coming. For her gift. For cleaning up. She really does adore you, you know.”

A softness eases the worrylines on his face, coaxes the tiredness from his eyes and loosens the clench in his jaw. Jack looks at you with something gentle. “She’s a great kid. You’re a great mom.” 

A smile teeters on the edges of your mouth, cheeks swelling slightly at the motion. And despite the fact that he’s interested in Bella, you still find yourself wanting to open up to him. His company is exciting. His presence is comforting. 

No matter what, you know you’ll always have a friend in Jack. It’s a fact that you believe enough that your lips are moving and unspoken vulnerabilities are slipping out. 

“I was only three months pregnant when Tom told me he couldn’t do it. Be a dad…” Jack listens intently, eyes on you despite your gaze landing on his balcony across the way. “I was barely twenty-three and I was terrified. I never even wanted kids, you know? I was too selfish to be able to care for something so dependent. I had no job, no qualifications… a boyfriend that was an ass.” You laugh but Jack doesn’t. He just watches you, soaks the information in. 

You swallow, fingers catching the drops of condensation that race down the neck of the bottle. 

“But I loved her already, and I promised her and myself that I’d be the best mother I could be. I was content with doing it alone, without Tom. But he kept coming back. Hot and cold. One minute she was his daughter and the next he needed time away. I gave him so many outs, Jack. So many chances to just leave her alone before it got complicated for her.”

Jack watches the tears well in your eyes and it clenches his heart in a vice. “He picks and chooses when he wants to be in her life. When it’s convenient for him. And now she’s four and she notices when he doesn’t show up when he’s supposed to. He’s constantly disappointing her. He couldn’t even show up for her fucking birthday.”

Jack’s hand moves before he can really comprehend the action. His palm rests on your fist in your lap, a soothing and grounding gesture to tell you he understands, he’s here, he’s listening. 

You sniffle and look down at it, the thin, pale line of where a ring used to sit. 

“I’m sorry.” You laugh a bit watery. “Didn’t mean to unload that on you.” 

He shakes his head. “No, don’t do that. Don’t apologize for how his actions have made you feel. You deserved more than that. Both of you.” His voice is tender, the words wrapping around your soul in the form of an embrace. And you allow yourself to find reprieve in it, if only for a moment. 

But the weight of his palm above your fist becomes suffocating. A ring-less hand, a touch that no doubt itches for your beloved friend. Your fingers wiggle beneath his hand and he retreats, watching you use it to wipe the tears from your face that have fallen. 

“I know.” You whisper. “My parents were a saving grace.” 

Jack feels lighter when he watches the sadness morph into something happier. “You’re close with them.” He comments with a small smile of his own. 

“Yeah.” You smile. “Not always.” You add with a laugh. 

When you turn to Jack, he’s looking at you with a lopsided smile and raised brows. A silent question. 

You huff a laugh. “I grew up in foster care. I didn’t get assigned to David and Prue until I was twelve, and by that age I was angry at the world and drowning in hormones. I was…a difficult teenager. But they were patient. They were kind and understanding and they let me express myself. It took me a long time to understand that they cared about me. That they loved me.” 

Reminiscing on your youth doesn’t bring up fond memories. You’ll always be plagued with the houses before them. The unforgiving foster families. The neglect and the bullying. And how it’s somehow continued to transpire into your adult life. 

A bit similar to that saying, always the bridesmaid but never the bride.

He understands you a bit clearer now. Your frustration and heartache when it comes to Phoebe. Because it hits you deeper than anyone could truly understand. Because you’d never been enough for anyone before David and Prue chose you. 

Jack calls your name softly, a reverent look in his gaze, like his soul is boring into yours. “You are an incredible mom. An incredible woman.”

There’s so much conviction in his voice that you don’t know what to do with it. It wedges its way into a chained off crevice in your heart and settles there like a permanent tattoo. 

You try to wave him off, attempt to scoff out a light laugh and look away but Jack chases your gaze. “I’m serious. I mean, c’mon. You’re not even thirty and look at what you’ve accomplished. Give yourself some grace.” 

That does make you scoff, but not maliciously. “Says the guy that’s served three tours, is an attending physician in the ED and also spends his free time as a combat medic for SWAT.”

Jack cracks a wonky grin at that, one that screams flirtation and a promise of heartbreak. “Don’t forget I’m also your daughter's favorite person.”

Your head falls back on a laugh before it lulls to your shoulder and you’re looking at him again. “What about you? No kids of your own?” 

It’s a sobering question for Jack. One he would prefer not to delve into right now… or at any point, for that matter. But there’s a comfortability he feels with you, no judgement or disgust. 

And you’ve opened up so deeply to him, he supposes it’s only fair he offers part of himself to you in return. 

“No,” he begins softly. “I was never against the idea, but Moira…”

You offer him the same grace that he gave you. You don’t rush, don’t speak. Just listen and absorb his past as he did yours. It’s intimate for him to share, to admit to someone new that his wife worried she’d be a bad mom, that Jack believed she knew she was sick for longer than he did. 

That it was her way of protecting him. 

It almost clears your heart in two when he confides in you that, actually, it breaks him more to live with nothing but the foggy memories of her. Nothing shared between them remains. 

How he sold the house, how she never wanted to take his name in fear of it removing the hard work she’d made for herself prior to him. How Jack understood it all, how she loved him unconditionally and he her. 

And how recently, he’s come to terms with the fact that he can’t live with the ghost of her. That his once undying love has eased into something he’ll carry forever, but not something he can never move forward from. 

But one thing he’s certain of is biggest regret of not having children. Before his wife, with his wife, after his wife. 

“I think being around Phoebe made me realize that.” The admittance that comes from him almost paralyzes you. “I’ve come to realize it’s my biggest regret in life.” 

You have to blink back tears. At the sad and very vulnerable admission he’s given, and the fact that your Phoebe is the one to make him realize such a thing. That she’s special enough to have that effect on someone. 

“You don’t think you’ll have any in the future?” You ask softly. 

Jack scoffs a laugh, humorously. “I think I’ve passed my sell-by date for that.” 

You roll your eyes, ready to argue that forty-four is not too old to have a child but Jack cuts you off with a question of his own before you can. 

“What about you? Do you think you'll have more?”

The question gives you pause and it takes you a moment to truly consider your answer. “I’ve always said no. That Pheebs is my one hit wonder. But sometimes, I don’t know, I get worried she'll grow up lonely like I did.”

You don’t mention that having more children would mean having to meet someone who you can trust and rely on not to step away. That a man that isn’t put off by a single mom is harder to come by than people think. 

“Besides, I think Phoebe is enough of a handful on her own.”

Jack’s grin stretches wide in amusement and fondness, chuckling into the rim of his beer bottle as he takes another long swig. His eyes cloud over with something pensive before turning to you with a slightly sheepish expression. 

“I need to be honest with you about something.” 

You grow uncomfortable at his words, shifting in your seat to face your body to his. Jack doesn’t speak again straight away. He looks to be considering his next statement and you’re a bit concerned at how quickly it's pushing you toward the brink of panic. 

“Phoebe might’ve slipped up on something about a silver fox.” 

His eyes glimmer with mirth when yours widens with horror. A crippling wave of humiliation spreads through as fire licks at your skin from the inside out. He doesn’t have to say it properly for you to know exactly what Phoebe has said.

That meddling little shit. 

“I am so sorry.” Your hands come up to shield your burning face and you force yourself to laugh to ease the embarrassment but it comes out more pained than anything. “She must’ve heard me on the phone.”

The sight makes Jack chuckle, finding the situation both flattering and endearing. It makes him feel other things, but they’re nothing he’s willing to admit just yet. 

Dragging your hands down your face, you turn to him sheepishly and can’t help but laugh at your own predicament. “I’m sorry. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.” 

Jack waves you off with a dismissive hand, the muscles in his biceps stretching as he leans across to place his beer on the table. Your eyes track the movement, your thighs clench.

“Are you kidding me? I’m flattered.” 

A laugh barks out from the back of your throat at that and Jack decides it’s one of the most gorgeous things he’s ever heard before. It makes his lips move again, keeps him talking, if only to hear it one more time.

“I think you should consider it for your next book. A silver fox protagonist.”

Your giggles follow through his next statement, head lulling back and body shaking slightly. “Oh, I’m sure that would do wonders for your ego.”

Jack’s brows raise, his smirk stretching. “Well, I never said it had to be about me, but I’m more than happy to play muse if I get a scene like chapter fifty-five.” 

You don’t miss the slightly sultry dip in his tone. It’s playfully enough to not be truly perceived as anything more than that, but it still ignites a flame in your belly. 

Turning to him with burning cheeks, your eyes squint accusingly. “You finished my book.” 

He grins wider, teasing. “That chapter is some of the best writing I’ve ever read.” 

You refused to be embarrassed or ashamed for it. So you cock a brow and force a smirk and pin him with a look of accusation and taunting. “Oh, yeah? You’re into threesomes and sex toys?”

Jack chuckles, loud and carefree. But he doesn’t answer the question, just pins you with the same look you gave him. “Is that chapter based on a personal experience or…”

“No, I’m just blessed with a very vivid imagination.” 

“Yeah?” It comes out breathlessly, a raspy whisper that you’re sure he doesn’t mean to speak in. Jack’s eyes zero in on yours, captivating in a way that makes you violently ill. 

He’s flirting. You’re not dumb. The smirk pulling at the corner of his tempting mouth, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes like he’s testing the waters.

Your breath hitches, you’re hot all over, and it’s completely involuntary when your eyes flick down to his naked hand. Like you’re doing something wrong. Jack catches the movement, sobers him enough to drop the smirk and reach for his bare finger. A hint of panic begins to seize in your chest. Partly because you’ve made him uncomfortable with the slip but mostly because his interactions with Bella are at the forefront of your mind. 

“I know you’ve noticed. It’s okay for you to ask about it.” His soft voice brings you back to the present and your lips part to blubber out something you’re unsure of. 

You don’t deny it, you won’t lie to him. So instead, you settle on the only thing that’s truthful and respectful to him and his late wife. “It’s not my place.”

Jack shrugs a shoulder, brows pinched just slightly. “Sure it is.” 

Confusion doesn’t manage to fully reach you before Jack dips two fingers into the hem of his shirt to pull out a silver chain and his band dangling from it. “You’re the one that gave me the idea.” 

You stare at the thin chain pinched between two thick fingers, at the silver band that glimmers when the moonlight catches on the metal. Something happens in your chest; a clench, an ache, a cry. You’re unsure of the sensation, the way it spreads cold and warmth through your blood at the same time.

The idea that you and your daughter have made such a profound effect on someone in such a short amount of time is almost dystopian. You’re not used to it. Being noticed, being seen. Not used to your actions or words being absorbed so fully to the point of them altering someone else in a positive way. 

It steals your breath from your lungs, makes your eyes sting. But you muster up a gentle smile, anyway. It’s a feeling of happiness for Jack that shortly follows, pride. Because you remember how long it took for you to finally move your ring to a chain around your neck. You remember the struggle and inner battle about moving forward, scared that you were belittling a once prominent presence in your life. 

Jack’s phone vibrating and ringing a generic sound breaks the lull between you both. He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s willing to ignore whoever it is in favor of whatever the fuck is happening between you right now. But responsibility gets the better of him and he reaches for his phone in his pocket at the same time as Phoebe waking up and shouting that she needs to poop. 

With a laugh, Jack watches you excuse yourself and returns his attention to his phone. Robby’s name is on his screen and he’s never fucking wanted to strangle him as much as he does in this moment. But Jack answers, and brings the device to his ear with a heavy sigh. 

“Hey, man. You good?”

“Yeah. You told me not to leave it for two weeks next time. You watching the game?”

Jack huffs to himself, lets his eyes gaze behind him and through the window where you’re making your way to Phoebe’s room. “Uh, no. I’m out…kinda busy right now.”

Robby’s silence is enough to make Jack cringe. Because if his best friend knows anything, it’s his work and sleep schedule, his inability to have a hobby that doesn’t include a near-miss and an adrenaline rush. 

“You’re on a date?” He can fucking hear the smirk in Robby’s voice. 

Jack clears his throat. “No, not…exactly.”

Another pregnant pause echoes down the line and he knows what Robby is doing. Thinking of a snarky comment, fighting off a shit-eating smirk that’s no doubt already stretched across his stupid face. Really, Jack’s happy to be his source of entertainment for the evening. Better it be at his expense than Robby throwing himself into incoming traffic. 

“Babysitting?” He finally quips back.

Jack scoffs, fights off his own grin and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call you tomorrow, asshole.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before ending the call. Jack stares at the darkening night sky, finally catching a glance at the time on his phone screen. You’ve been talking for almost three hours, the time slipping between his fingers. It bothers him a little to know he’s likely overstaying his welcome and should probably leave.

By the time he’s reattached his prosthetic and gently discards your empty bottles of beer in the trash, Jack finds you in the hall, sneaking out of Phoebe’s bedroom with hushed steps. You spot him immediately, notice his leg back on and keys in his hand. You try to hide the disappointment of his departure. 

“I should probably head out, it’s getting late.” 

You nod, offer a gentle smile as you approach. Jack lets you lead him to the door, lets you thank him for the third time for Phoebe’s gifts, for cleaning up, for keeping you company. 

When the door opens and he crosses the threshold, you lean against the doorframe with your arms folded loosely across your chest. Jack smiles down at you, only a few inches taller but enough for your lashes to flutter as you blink up to meet his gaze. 

Only a foot away from you. 

“Thank you for inviting me. And the beer.” He grins. “Your folks seem like good people.” 

You smile despite yourself at that, at how easily he had conversed with your mom, how quickly your dad had offered his respect to him. But you’re sobered with the reminder of your friends. Of his interactions with one in particular. 

“It looked like you and Bell got along.” You smile but it doesn’t reach far. 

Jack seems to notice, a minute squint in his eyes at the very slight waver in your voice. “Yeah, she’s nice. Cares about you a lot.”

You hum, believe him wholeheartedly. Bella does care, deeply and irrevocably. You’ve been sisters by choice for as long as either of you can remember. That’s what makes it so hard. Because she notices the shift in a man’s attention when she’s introduced to them. 

Jack’s eyes flicker slowly across your face, like he’s memorizing every line and imperfection. Like he’s searching for the truth beneath your closed off expression and body language. When his eyes reach your forehead, a twitch forms on his top lip.

A little smear of frosting tucked close to your hairline, something he hadn’t noticed under the dim lighting of the balcony. Without much thought, he reaches a hand to your face, lets his thumb brush against the dried, flaky consistency. Tries not to think too much about how warm your skin is. How soft. 

You force yourself not to seize up beneath his touch, can feel a tightness on your skin in the area he gently tries to brush clean. “She’s single, by the way.”

Jack’s too fixated on the frosting coating your skin to pay much attention to your words. Doesn’t register his movements until after he’s brought the pad of his thumb to his tongue and returned it to your forehead with three caressing strokes. 

“Who’s single?” 

The raspiness of his voice paired with his actions makes you falter for a moment. You’re barely quick enough to catch yourself from slipping under as goosebumps pebble across your warm skin. 

“Bella,” you swallow thickly. “I can give you her number, if you’d like.”

Your breathing becomes somewhat labored as you watch him, drowning in the focus in his gaze as he wipes away whatever is blemishing your skin. His hand slips down the same time that Jack’s eyes do and he locks his line of vision into your soul as his palm cups your jaw. 

You don’t know when he stepped closer, when your arms dropped to your sides, when your chest suddenly became pressed against his. But you know when you feel a gentle pressure on your hip, a testing squeeze and a thumb stroking against your cheekbone. 

Jack moves closer, tentative enough to give you the chance to pull away. But you don’t. You let his palm tilt your head back just an inch, let the tip of his nose ghost against the nape of yours. You feel his breath on your lips, warm with the scent of vanilla frosting and a tinge of beer. 

“It’s not Bella that I'm interested in.”

You feel the movement of his lips against your own. And against your better judgement, you press your mouth to his. Jack responds to you immediately, like he’s been waiting on the precipice of this for far too long. His grip on your hip tightens just a notch, his touch on your face growing reverent.

And you find yourself melting into him. Your arms reach for his waist, slide up the hard expanse of his sides, press against his toned chest until they reach his stubbled jaw and snake to the nape of his neck. 

Your fingers get lost in his curls as Jack’s mouth opens for you, your tongue chasing him in languid strokes of need. He matches your every lick with as much ferocity as the stroke before. You swallow the breathless sounds that escape him, a rugged whimper that travels like lightning bolts between your legs. 

It’s only the need for air that forces you apart, but even then, Jack doesn’t move far. He keeps his hands on you in any capacity that he can as you both breathe heavily. Your head feels muzzy, like you're drunk on just the most simple taste of him.

But nothing about that kiss was simple. Nothing about how Jack makes you feel is simple. 

His eyes are closed as his forehead rests against yours, his chest heaving with whatever restraint he has left not to pursue more of you. Not to take whatever you’ll give. Not to give whatever you want. 

The tips of your noses caress each other, and Jack almost makes a sound of protest when your fingers slowly uncurl from his hair and slide down his back before your hands are resting back at your sides. 

Jack’s eyes remain locked on yours as he presses a final kiss to the corner of your mouth before following your actions. You feel cold the moment his touch is no longer warming your skin. Disoriented when he takes a single step back and out of your space. It's a fight not to reach for him again, to pull him back into you. 

“I’ll call you?” 

His voice is fucked and raw and it zaps something unhealthy in your core. You don't trust your words, don’t think you can muster anything up even if you tried. So you nod. Dumbly, far too eagerly. It earns you a bit of a smug grin from Jack, but he has the decency to bite his bottom lip in an attempt to hide it. 

The act does absolutely fucking nothing to quell the wetness beginning to pool in your panties, but you make no mention of it. Pray to whatever fucker is listening that he can’t notice the tremor in your thighs. 

Jack dips his head, another pisspoor attempt to hide his smug amusement. 

“Night.” 

You say nothing but you watch him walk away. Until he rounds the corner for his side of the complex. Until you’re left standing in your open doorway with arousal coursing through you and the ghost of his lips on yours. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

WHAT DO WE THINK PLS TELL ME UR THOUGHTS BC I AM SO EXCITED TO FINALLY GET INTO THE START OF THEIR ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP!! I feel like it was a good time for them to open up more about their pasts before things progressed between them and don't worry, Jack will get his moment with Tom hehe

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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.

The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".

That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.

But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.

One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.

The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.

"I can carry—" you start to say.

"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.

You press your lips together, then follow him.

The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.

Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."

You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.

With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.

He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.

You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.

Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."

"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.

Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.

Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.

"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.

"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."

You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"

Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.

The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.

Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.

Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.

Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.

And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.

The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.

The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.

By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.

He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.

You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.

You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.

It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.

This couldn't be farther from that.

Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.

"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"

Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.

"Jack!"

His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.

"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"

She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."

Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."

Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"

"Jeremy?"

"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.

"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.

Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?

"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"

"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."

"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."

You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—

He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.

"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.

But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.

Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.

"Yeah, we met in med school."

"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."

Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.

"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.

"I did."

"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."

"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.

You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.

And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.

"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.

"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.

Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.

Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.

"Oh, I've already been there."

Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."

Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"

Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.

"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."

Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.

You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.

"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.

"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.

Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"

He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.

"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."

You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"

Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."

"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."

Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."

"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.

"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.

You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.

For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.

Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."

"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.

Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.

He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.

The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.

When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.

You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.

By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.

You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.

A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—

A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.

Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"

Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."

You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."

Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."

You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"

He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."

"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.

Jack stills next to you.

Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."

"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."

He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.

"...Goodnight, Jack."

Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.

How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—

God.

The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.

You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.

Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.

The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.

Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.

Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.

He doesn't.

A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.

"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.

But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"

You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.

He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.

Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.

The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.

You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.

You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.

When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.

The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.

You stride over to him.

"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.

You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."

Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.

He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."

Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."

"What—"

You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."

Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.

Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.

It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—

His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.

As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.

He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"

You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.

"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."

Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."

"I told you. Nothing."

"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.

"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"

Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."

Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."

Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.

Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."

Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?

Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"

You shrug.

"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.

"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."

Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"

You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."

You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.

"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."

"What?"

"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."

"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.

"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"

There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.

"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.

You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."

The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"

You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"

You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."

His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."

"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"

Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."

Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."

His mind is spinning. You love him.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.

The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".

That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.

But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.

One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.

The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.

"I can carry—" you start to say.

"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.

You press your lips together, then follow him.

The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.

Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."

You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.

With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.

He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.

You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.

Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."

"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.

Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.

Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.

"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.

"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."

You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"

Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.

The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.

Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.

Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.

Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.

And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.

The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.

The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.

By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.

He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.

You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.

You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.

It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.

This couldn't be farther from that.

Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.

"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"

Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.

"Jack!"

His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.

"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"

She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."

Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."

Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"

"Jeremy?"

"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.

"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.

Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?

"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"

"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."

"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."

You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—

He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.

"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.

But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.

Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.

"Yeah, we met in med school."

"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."

Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.

"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.

"I did."

"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."

"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.

You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.

And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.

"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.

"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.

Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.

Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.

"Oh, I've already been there."

Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."

Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"

Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.

"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."

Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.

You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.

"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.

"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.

Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"

He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.

"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."

You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"

Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."

"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."

Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."

"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.

"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.

You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.

For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.

Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."

"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.

Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.

He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.

The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.

When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.

You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.

By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.

You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.

A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—

A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.

Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"

Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."

You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."

Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."

You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"

He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."

"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.

Jack stills next to you.

Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."

"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."

He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.

"...Goodnight, Jack."

Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.

How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—

God.

The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.

You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.

Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.

The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.

Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.

Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.

He doesn't.

A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.

"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.

But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"

You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.

He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.

Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.

The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.

You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.

You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.

When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.

The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.

You stride over to him.

"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.

You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."

Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.

He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."

Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."

"What—"

You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."

Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.

Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.

It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—

His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.

As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.

He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"

You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.

"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."

Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."

"I told you. Nothing."

"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.

"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"

Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."

Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."

Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.

Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."

Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?

Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"

You shrug.

"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.

"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."

Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"

You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."

You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.

"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."

"What?"

"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."

"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.

"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"

There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.

"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.

You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."

The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"

You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"

You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."

His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."

"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"

Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."

Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."

His mind is spinning. You love him.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

And of course, it’s something that has to happen on one of the only real nights you get off to yourself. Not a night where you expect a call or text because Phoebe wants to come home. A night where, if anything, Phoebe has most likely begged your mom to just move in with her. 

You have to laugh at the thought, but the movement and contractions of your stomach only heightens the pain. You’ve bled through two pads and pairs of pyjamas, soiled your sheets well enough that you’ve had to throw them out. 

Perhaps it’s dramatic to call an ambulance to get you to the ER, but you’re unsure you’ll be able to stomach getting up, let alone driving yourself the short ten minute trek to PTMC. You consider leaving it, just ride it out for as long as you can. But the thought of Phoebe coming home tomorrow afternoon to a crippled and possibly bleeding out mother… 

A pathetic groan follows your movements as you force yourself to sit up on the bed, allow yourself a moment for composure and a silent prayer to the Universe to just make it stop.

Much like all other times, the Universe doesn’t listen. And the moment you stand, you’re met with that horrifying sensation of blood pooling between your legs and soaking into three pads you’ve stacked in your underwear.

What should take you fifteen minutes to get ready and arrive at PTMC actually ends up taking you almost an hour. The only reprieve you are offered is a slightly quiet waiting room. Twenty to thirty people at most occupy the chairs, all too exhausted or pain-ridden to offer up much conversation between each other. 

You don’t look much better than them. Pyjamas, messy hair, face bare of anything other than a grimace. Every step toward the check-in desk takes you back to when you first had Phoebe. When, for two weeks, you could only just shuffle your feet across the floor to get around after the emergency surgery. 

You’re clutching your abdomen when you finally reach the desk. An older woman sits on the opposite side of the protective screen, dark hair pulled back into a bun, kind eyes that assess you and a soft voice that asks for your name and what’s brought you in. 

“I think my IUD has moved or embedded.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, hunching slightly over the tall ledge as you take in her name badge. 

Lupe’s head tilts sympathetically to the side. “Can you describe your symptoms and pain for me? When did it start?” 

“Uh, about four hours ago. Very heavy bleeding, the pain is both an ache and a stabbing sensation. Feels kind of like someone’s got a chainsaw on my uterus.” You try to laugh through the pain, but when your stomach tenses you’re met with a blinding sensation of agony that you struggle to blink away. 

Lupe types on the keyboard of her computer, side-glancing you as if checking you’re not about to pass out and smack your head on the ledge or marble floor. “Any nausea or dizziness, hon?” 

You nod, swallowing on a dry throat. “I think that’s only due to the pain, though.”

Lupe finishes typing before the printer beside her begins to rumble and she’s slipping you a write-up through the small gap beneath the safety screen. “There’s free sanitary products in the restroom. Take a seat, hon. Someone should be with you shortly.” 

You offer a weak smile in thanks and she returns one with understanding.

It’s painful to sit but even more so to stand. After ten minutes, you’re slouching in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Another ten minutes and you’re shuffling to the public restroom before you can leak through yet another article of clothing.

It’s only twenty minutes later, when you’re trying to remember labor breathing techniques that the door opens and a gentle voice is calling your name. It takes you a moment to reach her but she waits patiently, an understanding look on her face through pursed lips. 

She introduces herself as Dr. McKay as she slowly guides you to a curtained off section in triage. It’s not until she’s helping you onto the bed with steady hands that you take notice of two other doctors standing behind her. 

Dr. McKay follows your line of sight. “We’re typically a teaching hospital, if you’re okay with two of our students observing tonight?” 

You wave her off. “I’m a mom, I lost my dignity a while ago. The more the merrier.” You manage to joke but when a laugh slips from your lips, your face scrunches in pain and your body curls involuntarily. 

Dr. McKay grins through a sympathetic look, sitting at the stool to the side of you. “Trust me, I know all about that,” she reassures, turning back to the students at the foot of the bed. 

“This is Kwon and Ogilvie. They’re in their third and fourth year as med students and getting a little taste of the night shift. We’ve read through your patient intake report, but do you mind explaining again what’s going on? You think your IUD has moved or embedded?” 

You nod on a sigh. “Yeah, the pain and bleeding started around four hours ago. I’ve leaked through pads and clothes maybe three times since it started.”

McKay hums, snapping on a pair of gloves and lifting your pyjama shirt to expose your abdomen. “Copper or hormonal IUD?”

“Hormonal. I only got it about three and a half years ago. A few months after I had my daughter.” 

She hums. “Any dizziness or nausea?”

Your head bobs, a wince slipping from you when she pushes slightly lower on your mid-section. “A little dizziness, a lot of nausea. I think it’s just because of the pain, though.” 

Kwon moves to your side, as she slips her hands into a pair of blue gloves and reaches for the thermometer. It beeps, flashes green. “Temp is steady at 98.96.” 

McKay moves back, discards her gloves into the trash and slides back over to you. “Are pain and bleeding usual for you?”

You shake your head before she can finish her question. “No, my cramps and monthly periods stopped a month after I got it inserted.”

She nods, a distant look growing in her eyes for barely a moment. “Alright, we’ll do a pelvic exam to check if we can identify the device to rule out any embedding. If it has shifted, we’ll get you ready for an ultrasound to find out what’s going on before attempting removal.” 

You nod with a wince when Dr. McKay stands, reaching over for a robe that she hands to you with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll step out for a moment while you change and get comfortable and then we’ll be back shortly.”

You hear her speak with the students as they pull the curtain closed behind them, questioning something about initial assessments but you zone out when the pain begins to grow. It’s five minutes later when you're situated in a gown on the bed when the three of them return. 

“Our student doctor Kwon is going to conduct your pelvic if you’re okay with that?” 

You hum at McKay’s words, not really caring who is going to be all up in your vaginal canal so long as the issue is resolved. You weren’t lying when you said your dignity left when you fell pregnant almost five years ago. 

Joy Kwon doesn't offer any pleasantries as she slides her hands into a pair of gloves and positions herself on the stool between your legs at the foot of the bed. 

Ogilvie stands behind her, looking anywhere but at your parting thighs. You move silently, without guidance. Knees up, dropping them to your sides, heels together. McKay grins at the sight when you fist your hands and shove them beneath your back, in line with your coccyx. 

You catch her amused look and offer an exhausted grin in return. “I know my way around these exams.”

Kwon cocks a brow as you meet her gaze again, a flicker of amusement washing across her eyes. It’s fleeting, but you catch it nonetheless. She reaches for the speculum, applying the translucent lubricant to the equipment.

Your eyes are closed, an overwhelming wave of pain washing over and you crippling any sense of peace you had begun to find. It’s so intense that you miss the voices from outside the curtain, only just catching McKay informing you that an attending is going to observe Kwon’s exam.

“Yeah, no worries. Let’s call it a party.” The words are rushed on a pained laugh from your lips before McKay is slipping outside before returning with another. 

When your eyes flicker open and a shaky exhale leaves your lungs, the air gets suddenly stuck in your throat at the sight before you. 

“This is Dr. Abbot.”

Jack stares at you with wide eyes and raised brows, his gaze involuntarily trailing down to your parted knees before snapping his eyes to the wall on the other side of the room. Your cheeks feel hot, your heart is thumping against your ribs and you feel like you can’t fucking breathe. 

There is no fucking way this is happening right now. Jack is barely able to meet your gaze again as he tries his hardest to offer the most professional nod and tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen. 

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.” You can’t help it. The words fall from your lips before you can think twice, the tension in the room that the others are only now privy of is too much to remain silent under. 

McKay’s eyes dart from you to Jack, lashes hitting her brows in shock. “Neighbor?”

Jack clears his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck in a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. He blinks at you, lips parting and closing again. You never imagined him to be anything other than confident and composed. 

Bored with the conversation, Kwon moves closer and lines the speculum with your entrance, a hiss falling from your lips at the cool contact of the lubricant. 

“Take a deep breath, you’ll feel some pressure.” She advises, a bit dully. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. You feel the fucking same. 

Ogilvie frowns at the speculum, eyes darting from the tool to between your legs. Like he’s assessing the physics of the exam. “Is that going to fit?” 

“I can get Shen, instead.” Jack offers abruptly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Perhaps he’s trying to find a way out for himself, maybe he’s the one that’s uncomfortable with the situation he’s accidentally walked into. But the thought of yet another doctor staring between your legs is the last thing you want right now. Your eyes squeeze shut in pure mortification. 

Your hot, widowed neighbor has just seen you in the most unappealing way you could ever imagine. 

“Nope. Four doctors getting an eyeful is enough. I don’t need a fifth.” You keep your eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of meeting Jack’s gaze right now and a wince passes through your teeth when Kwon slowly pushes the instrument into your vaginal canal. 

You blink up at the ceiling through quick breaths, discomfort turning into pain as you struggle to stretch around it. Kwon peeks up between your parted knees, noting the discomfort in your expression, can feel the resistance of the instrument and casts a quick glance to McKay.

“Did you have a vaginal birth?” she asks you softly. 

You laugh through gritted teeth. “Emergency caesarean, baby.” 

Kwon sighs, slowly retracting the speculum and placing it back on the tray. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s covered in blood. “I thought it felt a bit tight.” She comments. 

Your eyes bulge open at that with another mortified laugh. But when your gaze snags on the tool she originally tried to use, you blink rapidly. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had inside of you before. Including any and all speculums you’ve had the displeasure of being examined with. “You thought that was going to fit!?” 

“I didn’t think it would. I’m happy to try instead with a Pederson.” Ogilvie offers with a wide smile and you’re far too quick to shake your head for someone who was, at the beginning, happy for students to observe and conduct the exam. 

“No! That’s okay, Dr. McKay—”

“Dr. McKay, there’s a phone call for you. An officer from the PPD.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” She doesn’t excuse herself. Just tears off her gloves and stomps through the curtain. Leaving you with two student doctors and Jack fucking Abbot. 

Wearily, your gaze meets his again; your cheeks aflame and a stillness in his shoulders that makes you slightly more uncomfortable than the idea of Ogilvie spreading you open. Ultimately, you know Jack is your best option out of the three. 

More experience, kind and compassionate. Familiar, but maybe that’s not a pro in this situation. No. Definitely not a pro to have your fucking neighbor inspect your cervix. Yet you don’t look away from him. You don’t mean for your gaze to be pleading, don’t mean to ask the silent question that you do but Jack hears it anyway, answers it with a subtle dip of his head and he’s slipping into a pair of blue gloves and clearing his throat before taking Kwon’s position. 

“Asking the patient what birth they had should always be asked before conducting a pelvic exam.” Jack notes, eyes flickering to Kwon in a brief moment of silent scolding before he reaches for the other, much thinner probe. 

You don’t miss the way Kwon shoots a glare at Ogilvie with slightly threatening eyes. He has the right to look sheepish and a little scared before slowly stepping on foot closer to the foot of the bed. 

“That would be my fault, Dr. Abbot,” he admits nervously. “She said she was a mom, so I assumed the birth was vaginal and the largest speculum would be most appropriate.” 

You don’t mean to scoff when you laugh, but you do. Partly in offence for all women across the fucking world that this guy assumes all moms to have loose vaginas. The other part because if he had been watching Dr. McKay when she was checking your abdomen, he would’ve seen the small but visible scar just above your pubic bone. 

Jack blinks as he unwraps the sterile tool and smears a small amount of lubricant over it. “In that case, I highly recommend you brush up on your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.” 

Ogilvie takes the hint. He tears off his gloves and slips past the curtain to do exactly what Jack has said. A wave of guilt begins to ride over you but it’s also quite quickly replaced with a bigger wave of relief. 

Kwon turns to you with a thin grin, like she’s pleased with his lack of presence. “Sorry about him. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since he came out of one.” 

You almost choke on your laugh at that, wincing quickly after as your body locks up with another crippling cramp of pain. Jack’s gaze flicks up to your face, assessing the furrow in your brow, the flush to your clammy skin. 

“You doing okay, neighbor?” His voice lacks its usual flirty tone; gravelly now and laced with a thickness he can’t quite shift. But you can hear the lightness he tries to offer, the reassurance he doesn't speak that this is okay and you are okay and you don’t need to be embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this. 

“Oh, just peachy.” You snip back through gritted teeth, fisting the thin cotton sheets beneath you. 

Jack blinks his way to go between your thighs, jaw clenched and having to remind himself to separate any personal sensations right now from his professional responsibility. It’s one thing to think about you being laid in the position, but it’s a completely other thing to have you like it for an entirely different reason. 

Jack tries to block out the actual sight of you. Because in truth, there isn’t anything erotic about this, not even in the slightest. You’re in pain and bloody and hurting, and you’re trusting him to fix the issue. He feels sick with himself for how much he’s internally struggling at the situation.

“I’ve done this plenty of times, promise you’re in good hands.” He clears his throat, lines the speculum with the entrance of your vaginal canal and very slowly eases it between your walls. 

There’s no pain this time, only a slight hint of discomfort but that’s mostly at the cold gel. You can’t help the cock of your brow at Jack’s words. “You examine a lot of your neighbor’s cervixes?”

He laughs at that, breathily enough that you can feel it ghost the side of your thigh. You swallow, blink up at the ceiling. His laughter helps ease this fucking awkwardness and embarrassment of having to dig around in his neighbors vagina. Doesn’t do enough to stop it from haunting you moving forward.  

“No, you would be my first.” Jack promises, and you’re foolish enough to let yourself believe that comment has a double meaning to it. 

“I’m honored.” You mutter it sarcastically and brave the thought of looking down to the foot of the bed. 

You’re met with the sight of Jack peering between your legs, eyes slightly squinted as he works. Kwon looks just as invested as Jack does, handing him another tool when he silently opens his palm toward her. 

“You said you bled through clothes and menstrual pads?” Kwon asks. 

You nod, trying to remember not to tense or hold your breath. “Yeah, why? I’m not haemorrhaging or something am I?” 

“No.” Jack assures you with a firm tone, catching the lick of anxiety growing in your voice. He doesn’t move his head but his eyes flick up to meet yours and your entire stomach turns molten at the sight. 

You can’t look away and despite your best efforts, you do find yourself holding your breath. 

“You’re not haemorrhaging and it’s definitely not embedded, which is good. Looks like it’s just shifted slightly which has caused the pain and the bleeding. Did it start tonight?”

You nod, watching Jack slip into a fresh pair of gloves and reach across the room for a small machine. “Well, I’ve felt a little uncomfortable for a couple days. Just light cramps that I usually get when I should be due on my cycle. But the bleeding and pain started tonight, yeah.”

Jack nods as he approaches your side, a look of reassurance on his face as he turns on the ultrasound screen and reaches for the gel. Kwon moves silently, offering you a large sheet and gesturing to cover your lower part and pull up the hem of the hospital robe to reveal your abdomen.

“I’m just gonna check everything is okay internally and then Kwon should be able to do a quick removal and replacement.”

You nod, loosing a breath as you try to relax yourself as Jack presses the transducer to your lower abdomen. He moves it slowly, tenderly with his touch; not using too much pressure or pushing on your bladder like the midwives did when you were pregnant. 

He keeps his eyes on the screen and you realize you definitely have a thing for doctors. Or more specifically, this doctor. 

“You bring Pheebs with you?” He asks softly, offering a brief glance to your face before returning his attention to the screen again. 

“No, she’s having a sleepover with my parents tonight.” You say softly and you don’t miss the fond grin that spreads across his lips. It warms your heart so much that you can’t help but subtly mirror it. 

“How’s her tummy now?” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat. The irony of him being the one to check you over when only a week ago he was checking your daughter. “Yeah, good. Back to shitting like a pro again.”

Jack huffs in laughter, taking one more moment to assess the ultrasound before removing the probe from your skin and cleaning it off.

“Your uterine walls are thicker than usual. They're shedding, which is why you're bleeding the way you are. Totally normal. Other than that, ultrasound is clear,” he concludes with a smile that you can finally meet. 

That awkwardness and tension has finally begun to ease and disappear. Right now, you’re not neighbors. He is your doctor and you are his patient. 

“So, everything looks okay?” You ask. Jack nods, eyes on you again with that intensity you’ve started to grow used to. 

“Yeah, you look perfect.” It’s slightly raspy when he speaks, both the tone and his words causing a flush to burn across your entire body. 

It feels like air has trapped itself in your lungs and Jack’s shoulders stiffen as if he’s just realized the words he’s used and the tone he’s spoken them in. 

From the foot of your bed, Kwon’s slightly uncomfortable eyes flicker between you and Jack, blinking as if that’ll clear the air as to what the fuck she’s witnessing right now. Before she can open her mouth with a remark, before Jack can splutter an apology or a distraction, the curtain moves and McKay is slipping back into the area. 

Jack steps away from the bed, lips pursed into a firm line and he’s tugging off the gloves and moving toward the curtain. “She’s all cleared for removal and replacement.” He tells McKay, voice slightly strained. 

You can’t help the amusement that starts to curl within your lower belly, a grin stretching across your face and Jack meets your gaze, mirroring it a bit bashfully before slipping past the curtain. Leaving you with your legs spread, heart thumping, and delusional thoughts in your mind that he found this procedure just as eye-opening as you did. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s late Sunday morning by the time Jack’s done with his shift, exhausted and almost limping with how sore his leg is. He stayed late. Again. And his knee is protesting at the idea of potentially having to do it once more on his next shift.

It’s been a slight struggle now that Robby is on sabbatical. Jack’s left with the responsibility of staying later or starting earlier to aid Al-Hashimi with the influx of patience as the weather has gotten hotter. The sun comes out and people grow stupid. And Jack has to work through the pain of his prosthetic growing sweaty and unstable.

On top of that, he’s been riddled with something he can only compare to high-school level anxiety. Every time he’s walked through the main doors of the apartment complex for the past week, Jack’s been fucking nervous. Anxious that he may stumble into an awkward encounter with you after performing your pelvic exam. 

It’s stupid, he knows. You’re both adults and Jack’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He offered to get you another attending, and you declined. You had smiled—grinned—at him when he left you in McKay’s capable hands. And yet he had not heard from you since. 

No text, no collisions in the hall. Not that you owe him anything, he knows that. And it’s not even like you texted religiously before your night in the Pitt. But Jack can feel something strained between you. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by the situation. That your neighbor had pried you open to check for an embedded IUD. Or maybe he had made you uncomfortable with that stupid fucking slip he made when he said you looked perfect. 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Jack takes the elevator to the third floor, his leg far too achy to brave the stairs after being on his feet for the past nineteen hours. When he makes it inside his apartment, he’s not sure what’s worse. The deafening loneliness or Robby’s contact popping up as an incoming call on his phone. 

He answers before he even closes his apartment door. 

“You’re alive, then.” 

Robby scoffs a breathy laugh down the line at the greeting, something Jack can’t help but smirk at. He makes his way straight to the couch and falls into it, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works to remove his prosthetic. 

“Yeah, well… who would’ve thought nature could be so refreshing.” 

Jack hums, half listening with a grunt until he slips the metal from his knee and exhales a breath of relief. “You doin’ okay, though? Haven’t heard from you for two weeks.” 

“What? Miss me already?” Robby snides.

It pulls at the corners of Jack’s mouth in the form of a gentle smile. This is good. He’s cracking jokes, his voice doesn’t sound strangled and pained. He sounds better than he did when he left two weeks ago, but Jack is not a fool. He’s all too familiar with what Robby is experiencing, he’s danced toward the line one too many times himself. 

“What are you even doing with yourself out there?” Jack says instead. 

He can almost hear Robby shrugging through the line. He’s quiet for a few moments, likely contemplating, deciding how much or how little he wants to share. “How’s the hospital?”

Jack scoffs, shakes his head and leans back into the couch, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “Work is not your concern until you’re back from sabbatical. Not a day sooner.” 

Robby grows quiet again and they stay like that for a little while. No words spoken, just breaths shared down the line; both basking in the quiet comfortability of one another. Calming, familiar. Like moments shared on the roof after a particularly long shift.

“Spoke to McKay yesterday.” It’s Robby that breaks that silence. “Said you performed a pelvic exam on your neighbor.” 

Jack can hear his smirk, the teasing churn in his voice. He takes a deep breath and then a laugh is spluttering from his chest; exasperated and exhausted. 

“Brother, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Jack admits roughly. 

Robby doesn’t push, gives him a chance to add more if he wants to. He doesn’t. So Robby approaches carefully. 

“You like her?” 

The question makes Jack pulse skip. “Barely know her.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jack hesitates. It’s a lie, really. He does know you. Perhaps not in the most stereotypical way, but he does. He knows your love lost, your hatred for the way your ex treats your daughter, how your mind works when you create the excellence that you do. 

Deeper than that, he knows your heart beats solely for your daughter. He knows Phoebe. Her chaos and easy charm, knows how you’ve bled your personality into her unintentionally. 

Jack swallows. Robby waits. 

“I don’t know what it is. There’s just—there’s something there. Something about her…”

“It’s not just her, though, Jack. She has a daughter. Package deal. Big deal.” 

Jack hums, an involuntary smile curling on the corners of his lips. “She’s the coolest kid I’ve ever met, man. She makes her mom sing her AC/DC as a lullaby.” 

Had they been on the roof, Jack would see the softness that smoothes the worry on Robby’s face. He’d see the quiet understanding in his eyes as he listens to every word, as he understands why there’s a certain dullness in Jack’s voice. A reservation.

Robby takes a heavy breath. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that, Jack.”

It makes Jack wince. Because he does feel guilty. Whenever his mind wanders to the thought of you, he’s crushed with an immense wave of guilt. Like he’s betraying his wife, like he’s losing sight of her in the fogginess of his memory. 

Maybe that’s what scares him so much. He’s been with people since. One night stand, casual flings to keep the loneliness and demons of the night away. Physically invested and emotionally detached. It’s different this time. With you. Because there’s no physicality there, just this undeniable pull he feels whenever he looks at you, thinks of you. 

It’s deeper than a surface level attraction. It fucking terrfies him because he hardly knows you. Not truly, not in the ways he wants to. 

“You’re allowed to find happiness somewhere else. With someone else.” 

The phone slips to rest on Jack's shoulder as his gaze falls down to the hands resting in his lap, the silver band that still wraps around his ring finger. 

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them. 

Jack changes the subject fairly quickly. They spend the next ten minutes talking about nothing much before Jack forces Robby to promise he won’t leave it two weeks to reach out again. He showers, changes, takes some time to tend to the ache in his knee before brewing a coffee and making some eggs and taking them out to the balcony. 

He hears it the second the door opens. 

Music. Singing. Laughter. Loud and carefree and happy. 

It pulls a smile to his face immediately as he sits at the table and watches across the gap between your balconies. Jack sips on his coffee, admires the sound he’s blessed enough to hear, the fleeting catches he gets of you and Phoebe running around or dancing on the kitchen island. 

The sun is warm on his skin, the breeze soothing the ache of his tight skin where a limb once was and he feels himself slowly beginning to relax. 

“Morning neighbor!”

His eyes peek open, a palm out above his eyes to cover the blinding sun. Jack blinks and you’re there. Standing on your balcony, one hand on the railing and the other is waving above your head. Calling out to him, like that night last week didn’t happen. 

So you’re not embarrassed and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable. He can’t see you properly, too far a distance but he can make out the wide grin you offer. 

Jack throws a hand up to reciprocate your wave and you jab a thumb over your shoulder. “What do you think!?” You call back, and it takes Jack a moment to realize you’re asking about the music. 

His hand drops from the air and moves to cup the side of his mouth. “I love The Smiths!” He calls back. 

You lean closer, he’s sure he can see your brows pinching as you call out to him again. “What!?”

Jack huffs a laugh, leaning forward in his seat and sitting up straighter. He cups both hands around his mouth now and bellows across the space. “I said I love The Smiths!” 

He watches you throw your head back in laughter and suddenly wishes Robby never called. Because then he wouldn’t be so aware of the feeling in his chest whenever he looks at you. He wouldn’t have had to acknowledge and verbalize the turmoil that’s been brewing in his head from the moment he first laid eyes on you and Phoebe. 

You don’t say anything else. He watches you retreat back inside and you don’t come back out. The balcony door is closed sometime ten minutes later. And within thirty minutes, the music stops completely and Jack’s left in that horrible, aching silence again. 

After his eggs and coffee, he too is returning inside, leaving the dishes in the sink. He only allows himself a quick shower when the coffee begins to perk him up and decides it’s probably best to run some errands and grab some groceries before he inevitably crashes and sleeps for the rest of the day. 

He dresses in a black t-shirt and a pair of beige chino shorts. It’s not something he’ll ever really admit outloud, but Jack hates the summer. He hasn’t always, but in more recent years, especially since losing his leg, he does. There’s a choice he has to make every time the heat begins to pick up in Pittsburg.

Wear trousers and ignore the sweat and swelling on the tight skin of his knee, or wear shorts and ignore the lingering stares of the general public. He should be used to it by now, it’s been well over a fucking decade since he lost his leg. But in recent years, without his wife’s reassurance that they’re curious glances and not judgmental stares, Jack can’t seem to decipher a difference between the two anymore. 

Still, he knows he has to take care of himself. And with the ache still settling deep in his bones from his earlier shift, he’s aware that shorts are his best bet. It’s just after he clips his prosthetic back on again that there’s an uncoordinated knocking at the door.

The short relief of letting his leg breath allows Jack to move a bit more fluidly now, limp barely noticeable as he makes his way to the front door and slowly eases it open. He’s not offered much of a chance to check who his visitors are before a small body is barrelling into limbs. 

Jack only just manages to catch himself by gripping a hand on the doorframe as he blinks down at a small head of curls of a three-year-old who is blinking in wonder at his prosthetic. He faintly hears your voice, soft but firm and scolding Phoebe for barrelling into him. 

The child beams up at him, excitement laced in her chubby features as she points to his leg. “I like your leg.” 

It makes Jack blink, pulls him back to the present where a throb begins to form around his knee and he grins at her, reaching down to readjust the prosthetic that the kid has somehow almost displaced. 

He misses the way your brows raise as you look at him. You’d never realized he had a prosthetic and you can't help the way your head tilts at the sight of his arms straining when he readjusts the straps.

“SWAT?” you ask, voice thick as his veins pop and muscles flex beneath freckled skin. 

Jack huffs out a laugh, pretends he can’t hear his heart in his ears and the fact that you’ve seen his fucking leg and you’re not being awkward about it. “Military.” 

Phoebe watches him intently as surprise flickers across your face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for your service.” 

He rises to his full height at the flirty tone of your voice, letting his eyes rove over your body from the painted toes to the hair on your head. A beautiful sage green summer dress kisses your skin. Cinched at your waist, short but puffy sleeves, a neckline that teases the swell of your breasts and the hem stops just mid-calf. 

Jack swallows, admires your face. Hair pinned back in a flaw clip, messy and yet presentable. Your lashes look fuller and darker, a brightness to your face with makeup that doesn’t hide but accentuates your natural features. It momentarily knocks him breathless. 

He’s never seen you like this before. 

“I could say the same about you.” Jack’s voice is low and raspy when he speaks. It prickles your skin in buzzes of excitement, spreads a warmth beneath the flesh that charges your blood. 

Of course, Jack notices. The way your lashes flutter, how your lips part. How, despite the warmth, goosebumps prickle your skin. A smirk kicks at the corner of his mouth and he looks away, back down to Phoebe. 

She wears something similar, a blue summer dress that stops below the knee. Her hair is twirled up into a bun, little white sandals on her feet. It’s the most presentable he’s ever seen the kid look. And from the way she pulls at the dress and rolls her shoulders, he can tell immediately that it was a fight getting her to wear it. 

The fondness in that crevice of his heart aches at the thought. 

“Where are you two off to, in your pretty dresses?” He directs the question at Phoebe, who offers a twirl despite her hatred for the clothing. 

“Grandma is dying.” She chirps. 

Jack’s brows shoot to his hairline at the same time as you whipping your head down to your daughter. “What? No. Grandma is retiring, baby. We’re going for brunch with her company.” You correct her quickly, blinking profusely and both you and Jack are confused as to how she got those two words, of all things, mixed up. 

You clear your throat, taking a step closer to the threshold that Phoebe has occupied. Jack notices the movement from his peripheral and sets his burning gaze on you again. You smile at him, a bit sheepishly and push your arms out to offer him the tray of cupcakes he had missed. 

They’re decorated with multiple colors of messy frosting, some smothered in sprinkles and others decorated with some diced fruit. Jack blinks at you.

“We made cupcakes for Phoebe’s birthday tomorrow, and we made you some as a thank you. You know, for helping her tummy and then… well—mine.” You finish on a nervous laugh, one that Jack reciprocates. 

But he takes the dish from your open palms, a revert thank you falling from his tongue and he lets his finger tips brush against yours as he does. So this was a peace offering of sorts, a way to clear the air. He offers a glance to Phoebe. “It’s your birthday?”

Phoebe nods. “In the morning, and I’m having a birthday party at my house, Jack! Will you come?”

His eyes widen slightly at the request, casting a quick glance to you. You shrug a shoulder, pursing your lips to hide a smile and when he looks back down at Phoebe, she’s got her palms together in a prayer-like position with far too convincing pleading eyes.

Jack breathes through his nose, smiles fondly at the young girl. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t want to spend my day off doing anything else.” he promises. 

You smile at the sight, at how Phoebe brushes a sprinkle off Jack’s prosthetic that fell from the tray. He watches her just as intently, but when she returns her attention to the chipped polish on her nails, it’s like he loosens a breath.

“Everyone’s coming by at like 5 ish. But come whenever.”

Jack nods, allows his gaze to drift over you again. “You both look beautiful.” 

There’s a reverence in his tone, like it’s a physical need that you believe him when he says it. All you can do is smile; soft and shy. You reach for Phoebe, tell her to say goodbye and slowly guide her away from Jack’s door and down the hall. 

Of course, he watches you both go. Phoebe’s hand in yours, your slow steps and her quick skips. He’s about to go back inside when Phoebe halts abruptly, tears her hand from yours and turns to race back to Jack, giggling his name like she needs to tell him something exciting. 

She stops by his feet again, he watches as you wait for her with a sigh at the other end of the hall. 

“Jack! I told Mommy I want to be a doctor when I grow up, just like you!”

He blinks down at her, feels his throat constrict as she admits something that causes so much turmoil within him. “Yeah?” he rasps, clears his throat and bends slightly at the waist. “I think you’ll make a fantastic doctor, Pheebs.” 

Her toothy smile is wide and excitable, it’s almost impossible for Jack not to mirror it. 

“Before, I wanted to be a pop star so I could marry Harry Styles. But now, I wanna be a doctor.” She states it so matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing something as simple as the weather. 

It makes Jack chuckle. “You don’t wanna marry Harry Styles anymore?”

Phoebe shrugs, makes a small noise of contemplation. “Mommy said she’d fight me for him!” She giggles. 

Jack cocks a brow, dares a glance down the hall to you where you’re texting someone on your phone as you wait. “Oh, so Mommy wants to marry Harry too?”

Phoebe steps closer, looks a bit conspiratorial as she whispers her next words. “She said Harry will be a silver fox when I’m old enough to marry him… What is a silver fox?”

He blinks at that, unsure as to how they’ve crept into this territory and why the kid even knows the saying of a silver fox. He blubbers momentarily. “Um… it’s someone who’s old but….pretty.”

Phoebe grins, chin tucked to her chest with wide eyes and raised brows. The conspiratorial look has morphed into something far too mischievous for Jack’s liking. This kid is going to be so much fucking trouble when she’s older.

“Mommy said you’re a silver fox.” There’s a slyness to her tone, like she knows what she’s doing. That she absolutely should not be repeating whatever it is she’s heard you say. 

Little shit. 

Jack stills, lips parted into a soft O shape and he blinks at Phoebe. An amused huff of hair slips past his lips “Oh, I don't think Mommy meant for me to know that.”

“Why not? She told my Aunt Bella so. It's a compromise.”

Jack’s brow raises again, though this time in amusement. “You mean complement?”

Phoebe nods at that, moving even closer now. She reaches on her tip toes and cups her small hands around Jack’s ear. “My mommy is a silver fox.”

He laughs harder at that, pulls away to get a look at her face and he shakes his head, rubs at his eye. “Your mommy isn’t old, kid.” 

“But she is pretty.” It’s a statement, not a question. And she looks about ready to fight if Jack even dares to argue otherwise.

Not that he would. He couldn’t ever. He lets his eyes drift across the hall again, finding you standing in the same place. Jack feels his heart rate pick up, feels his skin grow warm and a rush of pure adoration and fondness overwhelms him. 

“Yeah, Diva. Your mommy is very pretty.”

It makes him realize something very, very sobering. 

Jack’s got a fucking crush on you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

Ahhh okay, the flirting is beginning, Robby is trying to knock a lil bit of sense into him and Pheebs is just well... she's doing her thing LMAO. This is where things start to get super juicy and I promise you the next chapter will have lots and lots more of flirty playfulness. I would love to know your thoughts so far!! <3

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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you — you are the opposite of his perfect girlfriend, and you’re all bucky ever thinks about. you, with your piercing eyes, your tense silences, your perpetual frowns. you walk out of the room when the laughter’s too loud, you give tight-lipped one-word answers until you physically can’t, you scan for threats and exits and potential weapons wherever you go.

where his girlfriend is soft, you are hard. where his girlfriend shines bright, you go dark. you are jaded, cold, unreachable.

and yet bucky wants you.

the guilt consumes him every second he’s with his girlfriend, but hurting her would be even worse. he tries his hardest to suppress the intrusive thoughts, but you’re as stubborn in his head as you are in person.

when his girlfriend climbs up his body, stroking him slowly before sinking down on him, he watches as her pretty lips part in ecstasy, eyes fluttering closed, breathy moans like ringing bells filling the room. and then he thinks of you.

he wonders if you’d make the same face while struggling to take him. or if you’d frown like you always do, brow furrowed in concentration because a tough thing like you would never back down from a challenge, no matter how big he is and how tight you are. something in his brain tells him you wouldn’t make a noise, biting your lip and refusing to moan — but he’d try like hell to get you to.

as his girlfriend sets a steady pace, caressing his chest and promising how good it feels, he thinks about you on top of him. he thinks you’d claw at his skin. slam your hips into his. grab his jaw and hold it how you want. you’d look deep into his eyes and make sure he feels everything he’s making you feel, because you’re nothing if not retributive. you’d bite your lip to suppress the whimper when he takes a chance and thrusts up into you, feeling every tight crevice you allow him to sink into. your eyes would roll back, but you’d keep going, determined, relentless, committed to the mission of getting off on his cock.

bucky’s girlfriend places his hand over her breast, and he squeezes instinctively. she mewls but he barely hears it, hips rocking up to meet hers while he imagines you loose and pliant above him, moving every which way you decide. when you want to grind into him, you do. when you want to fuck him hard and fast, you do. when you want to stop for air but clench around him, you do. you do what you want and whenever you want anyway, why should fucking him be any different?

he’ll try holding you down, big palms eclipsing your waist, gripping as tight as he can because the thought of letting you go might be worse than a thousand falls from the train. he doesn’t care if you glare or hiss or pull at his hands, he’ll keep them there and watch the fire growing in your eyes as you pick up speed.

his girlfriend sighs as she leans down to kiss him. his lips move vaguely, without purpose, against hers, but she doesn’t seem to notice, her hips drawing a figure eight on top of him, rhythmic and sensual. he wants more, but he doesn’t say anything, afraid to spoil the purity of her love with a depraved ask borne from an imaginary tryst with another woman.

god he’s so fucked up.

just like you. your bloody past haunts you as much as his does to him. but instead of running from the darkness like he tries to, you embrace it. maybe you even welcome it. bucky’s sure it comes out in the way you fuck, and he wants to know what it’s like very, very badly.

even with your incessant need for control of the situation, he thinks you’d let him flip you over without argument. on your back, yanked to the edge of the bed, because he wants you as close as possible and unable to crawl away, he wants to see every detail of your face when he pushes into you over and over, faster, harder, deeper. he’ll fuck you until you can’t contain the noises anymore and cry out for him, breaking apart with his name on your lips and finally, finally showing him vulnerability. he wants to earn it by making you shatter. he wants you to trust that he’s the only person that can make you see god and feel entirely human at the same time. he wants you to look up at him, breathless with your legs wrapped around his waist, and beg for more. he wants you to—

“baby? where’d you go?” his girlfriend whispers, slowing to a stop on top of him. her beautiful face is lined with concern. she has no idea where his mind has been.

bucky’s cock twitches inside of her, the last images of you dissolving into thin air. he exhales shakily, fingers pressing into her skin while he remembers where he is, who he’s with, what he risks losing if he doesn’t try to be a better man like he promised he would be.

“i’m here,” he mumbles, pushing up to kiss her throat. she melts immediately, but there’s still worry in her voice.

“are you sure? are you hurt?”

his heart hurts, but that’s his own damn fault.

“no, just…just tired. i’m sorry, sweetheart. you’re perfect. this is perfect. you feel amazing.”

she purrs as his mouth makes a line down her chest and captures a nipple. she arches into him, fingers winding through his hair and tugging (but not hard enough). he sucks and nips and wills the feelings of emptiness away.

“love you,” he murmurs against her skin. he ignores the angry loud voice in the back of his head.

“love you,” she gasps, rocking into him again. he winds his arms around her and thrusts up in time with her breaths, slow and sweet. she comes with a soft whimper, fluttering around him delicately. bucky lets her catch her breath as she drapes herself over him, trying not to think about how you probably come with everything you have, raw and heavy and messy and powerful.

“so good,” she slurs, lips peppering his shoulder. then they find his ear. “are you close?”

bucky grunts, rocking faster but not harder, shallow thrusts that stimulate just enough without growing rougher. he’s panting when he comes with drawn out groan, brain fuzzy and glitching as he watches his girlfriend turn into you and then back to his girlfriend. he closes his eyes and kisses her before he says something stupid, feeling his fingers twitch on her skin as if they’re dying to press harder, to make it hurt, to make her feel what he’s feeling.

she doesn’t deserve that, but you might.

his girlfriend sighs dreamily as his body relaxes again, trembling through the come down and something heavier. “missed you.”

two words he doesn’t deserve to hear.

“i missed you, too, sweetheart.”

guess i can only make bucky shitty lately. hey siri am i okay?

Like every Sunday, Jack sits and listens. Echoes of loud giggles and shouts of singing from two sets of healthy lungs. Watches from a distance; ungraceful twirls, obnoxiously playful dancing, until a small body is standing on the counter and dancing too. 

The girls in apartment seventeen have wiggled beneath his ribcage and into a secret crevice of his heart. The place that warms every time he hears the laughter, every time he watches the most wholesome mommy-daughter time. 

He doesn’t know your name, nor your daughters. But he knows you love music, that it’s bled into your child in the most copy and paste way. She dances like you, uses wooden spoons for microphones, chopsticks for drum sticks, and her imagination for an electric guitar. 

It makes Jack’s heart swell and sting at the same time. 

His wife didn’t want children, a decision that he always told himself he was okay with. They were both slight workaholics, both too selfish to give up the idea of financial freedom. She didn’t think she’d be a good mom, no matter how much Jack disagreed. And then she died. 

Left Jack with nothing but fading memories and a big house that felt too suffocating until he sold it five years ago. He keeps her photo in his wallet, a frame on his nightstand, his wedding band around his finger. Six months married and then she was gone. They didn’t even make it on their honeymoon. 

Perhaps that’s why he relishes these Sunday mornings. He knew he’d never have that life with his wife, he knows he most probably won’t ever…but it’s a secret desire he wishes for. So he tucks it deep away, close to his chest, close to his wife. 

The bitter coffee doesn’t chase the ache away. It still festers beneath his ribs, an itch that he can’t rid himself from. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just allows you to grow around it.

Jack allows himself five more minutes in the captivity of apartment seventeen before retreating back inside in search of sleep.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Phoebe, Grandma's on the phone!”

You hear the tornado of flat feet smacking against the floor before you even finish your sentence. Your mom laughs on the screen, a screech of excitement tearing through the three-year-olds throat as she barrels onto the couch and snatches the phone from your grasp. 

“Hi, Diva.” She beams wide, panting for breath and attempting to swat the sweaty hair from her face. “Are you coming to my house to play today?”

You bark out a laugh at that, her unashamed favoritism when it came to your mom. 

“Not today, pickle. Grandma is on vacation with Grandpa, remember?” 

Phoebe huffs and nods. “Can you bring me back a fridge magnet?” She asks instead, a question both you and your mom saw coming. 

Your eyes dart over to the refrigerator. Covered in magnets and drawings and post cards… you’ll have to do some reorganising if she wants to fit another one on there. 

“Absolutely, I’ll even bring you back some new shoes.” 

Your eyes roll fondly when Phoebe’s lights up, an excited squeal falling from her lips as she nods her head vigorously. You press a kiss to her head before leaving her on the couch, pulling the phone closer to her face to speak. 

Their conversation is a muffled background noise as you start to clean up the mess of her toys, the thirty-something articles of clothing strewn across the floor from her fashion show this afternoon. Plastic princess heels, a tiara, fairy wings…you’re sure she has a pirate’s outfit somewhere in the mess, too. 

Your eyes flick to the time flashing on the microwave. 16:30. 

Your shoulders drop, heart sinking. Thirty minutes late, you can try to hold out hope. But when it gets to the hour mark, you know it’s yet another no-show. Another night of tears with Pheebs and fast thinking on your part to distract her. 

You learnt your lessons months ago. You know better than to tell her when she’s supposed to be seeing him. It only sets her up for disappointment and resentment. Let her come to the decision about him when she’s old enough to understand. Not when she’s three, upset and feeling like he doesn’t want to spend time with her. 

You’ll shelter her from the truth of him for as long as you possibly can. 

Throwing her outfits into her dress-up box in the corner of the lounge, you turn to your daughter with a heavy heart and the brightest smile you can muster. 

“Alright, Diva. Go put your shoes on, let's go out for pizza.” 

Phoebe doesn’t even offer your mom a goodbye. She throws the phone to the side of the couch and leaps to her feet, little legs scurrying toward her bedroom to no doubt retrieve the bright pink Crocs she’s recently become obsessed with. 

You reach for your phone, sharing an exasperated laugh with your mom before she settles and tilts her head at you through the screen. 

“What’s the excuse this time?” she asks. 

You sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine. No calls or texts, just a no-show.” 

Your mom’s lips form into a thin line, a look of disapproval that only ever seems to be reserved for him. “I take it Pheebs doesn't know?” 

You shake your head, toeing your own shoes on as you wait for her. “No, I stopped telling her when she’s supposed to be seeing him months ago. Unnecessary upset, you know?” 

Your mom hums, a contemplative look crossing her features. When she notices the disappointment in your eyes, she softens. “You are all that she needs, baby.” She reassures you. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing by her, and you are. But when she’s older, she’ll realize it for herself.”

Shoulders sagging and heart aching, you sigh again. “I know, it’s just not fair on her. Wish I could shield her from it forever, you know?” 

“I know, but you are doing fantastic. Me and Dad are so proud of you.” 

It’s a struggle to blink back the tears. In truth, you likely wouldn't have coped at all if it weren't for your parents. You were young when you fell pregnant, just shy of turning twenty-three. No real job, no real qualifications. Still living at home and accidentally knocked up by a douche of a boyfriend you were trying to figure out how to break up with. 

But your parents…they were a rock for you. They supported whatever decision you wanted to make. They let you stay at home until you had the money to move out, took you to every appointment, helped you turn your dad’s office into a nursery without a hint of annoyance. 

Your mom held your hand when you were rushed into hospital to deliver Phoebe, and she sang to you softly when you had to go in for emergency surgery. 

Your parents were the ones to encourage you to go back to college. They were the ones to babysit while you worked for your degree, when you had last minute interviews and meetings. And they were the ones you thanked and celebrated with when you finally made it. 

When your first book got published and made its way to a New York Times Bestseller within the first week of its release, they were the ones you celebrated with. It was their mortgage you paid off with your very first cheque. 

It was only at that point that Tom decided he wanted to be in Phoebe’s life again. That he had apparently made a terrible mistake and wanted to be a ‘family’. You’d allowed him access to his daughter but denied him ever having any access to you. 

“Get out of that brilliant head of yours.” 

You blink as your mom’s voice drifts you back to the present and you smile, slightly wonky. “Have a cocktail for me and keep Dad away from the dirty martinis. I doubt half of Cabo wants to hear his Elvis impression.” 

She barks out a laugh at that, blowing kisses to the phone and promising to call back tomorrow before hanging up. 

“Mommy!?” Phoebe calls out to you from her bedroom. 

“Coming!” You call back, feet slowly moving you down the hall toward her bedroom. Stopping short with a sigh when her next words echo from her room. 

“I pooped my pants again.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Phoebe’s tummy is filled quite comfortably with a veggie pizza and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. A dinner of champions, in her humble opinion, and a day well spent with you. 

Her legs bounce her along the marble floors of the complex entrance, a skip in her step which is slightly making you regret that third scoop of ice cream. A sugar rush right before bed is not something you have the energy for. 

“Hold up for a moment, baby. Mommy needs to check the mailbox.” 

Her sassy huff is the only response you get, but she listens. Trudges back to your side with less enthusiasm than before. You can hear her clicking her tongue and jumping on the spot when you unlock your designated box, rifling through some letters and the package you’ve been eager to receive. 

The first print of your newest novel. 

It’s not until you’re locking the box back up that you notice Phoebe isn’t to the left of you anymore. Instead, she’s to your far right with her hands behind her back and her small neck craned up to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man walking toward the main front doors.

“Hi, my name is Phoebe." Her small voice speaks at his legs and the man stops short at the sound of it. 

His neck whips down to her, a small kiss of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before it morphs into a friendly smile. Jesus Christ. 

He blinks at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Phoebe. I’m Jack.” 

His voice is like slowly crystalizing honey. Soft and smooth yet a slightly raw register as he lowers his tone to address the toddler. You swallow as you watch, a little taken back by the sight of him. 

Salt and pepper curls with a mostly salt stubble, slightly tanned skin and bulging biceps that threatened to tear through his––is that a scrub vest—

“Are you a doctor?” Phoebe asks the question aloud that you silently ask in your head.

Jack smiles, nods his head and reaches to pinch the ID badge clipped to the pocket of his pants. “I am.” 

You realize yourself then, tucking the mail under an arm and moving to approach the two. Your hand comes to rest on Phoebe’s shoulder and Jack’s eyes lift up your body before settling on your face. 

“Sorry, she’s a bit of a social butterfly. She’ll chat your ear off all day if you let her.” It’s a slightly nervously laugh that bubbles from your throat and you’re completely unsure why. 

You don’t get nervous. Not usually. But it’s also not every day that your daughter is introducing herself to a hot older man who happens to be a fucking doctor. More than that, and maybe it’s just his age, but it’s also not every day that you meet a man with such intense eye contact. 

The moment his gaze meets yours, it doesn’t look away. 

Jack laughs breathily, offering an open palm just above Phoebe’s head. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m Jack.”

His tone holds a flirty lilt—light and airy and far too comfortable for someone you’ve just met. Your palm meets his in a gentle greeting, skin rougher than yours, palm bigger than yours. You shake his hand with as much mirth as he does to yours.

“Y/N, this is my daughter, Phoebe.” You say softly, retrieving from his hold and resting your hand back on her shoulder again. “I think you’re the first normal neighbor we’ve met. We only moved in like six weeks ago.”

Jack’s smile widens just an inch as his hand moves to the strap on his backpack, his laugh something understanding, like you already have an inside joke. “Seventeen right?” 

Your brows pinch slightly, head tilting. “Yeah… how—”

He points a finger to the ceiling. “I’m fourteen. Your balcony is opposite mine,” he turns his attention to Phoebe with a playful smile. “I’m pretty jealous of yours and mommy’s Sunday morning parties. They sound like a lot of fun.”

Color stains your cheeks but Phoebe grins at that. “We call it Sunday Funk Day. Music, chores, and pancakes for breakfast,” she counts them off on her chubby fingers, her tone slightly bordering authoritative, but Jack only seems more entertained. 

“I didn’t realize we had the music on so loud… I’ll keep it down next time.” You apologize quickly. Another thing out of the norm for you. But you’ve been trying to teach Phoebe to be a bit more considerate of other people the older she gets. 

Jack waves you off with a scoff. “No way, it’s nice to have a neighbor with good music taste. Not like apartment twelve.” He says the last part a bit quieter, like he too doesn’t want to influence your daughter with his less than kind opinions. 

Your eyes widen, the sound of a scoffed laugh scratching the back of your throat. “Is that the crazy bird lady?” You mirror his pitch.

Jack’s lips part. “So that’s what that noise is. I’ve been calling her Chirpy in my head for the last six months.”

You laugh louder at that, stopping yourself just short of snorting. The way he speaks makes you feel strangely warm. His words and voice are relaxed, lazily drawled together with a slight accent that you can’t quite place.

Phoebe scrunches up her nose. “Mommy says people can listen to what they like, but I don’t like screaming music.” She shakes her head. 

Jack has to stifle a laugh, expression mirroring yours as you close your eyes and take an exasperated but fond breath. “While I agree with your mommy, I have to say that I agree with you too, kid.” 

An insistent buzzing echoes through the silence between you. You notice the brief movement of his hand cupping his pocket, realize that he’s being paged or called but too polite to check or excuse himself. 

You squeeze gently on Phoebe’s shoulders. “Okay, we need to get you bathed and ready for bed and I think Jack needs to go to work.”

He offers a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t feel forced. His eyes flick between you and Phoebe, a soft look of fondness relaxing his features for a moment. “It was nice to finally put names and faces to the lovely singing voices I get to hear.” 

You smile warmly, albeit a little bashfully, before guiding Phoebe to your side to hold her hand. Jack lets his gaze fall on you again, warmth in his smile as he offers a slight nod. 

“Have a good night.” His voice is tender and soft, heavy with security and you don’t understand how it feels so foreign and familiar at the same time. 

“You too,” you say softly, turning at the same time he does to go your respective ways. 

Phoebe turns her full body to look at him, hand waving frantically in the air. “Bye Doctor Jack!” She shouts at him, despite there being only a ten-foot distance between them. 

You turn just in time to see Jack do the same, a small wave of fingers over his shoulder as he shouts back softly, “Bye Phoebe.”

Then he’s gone out of the complex doors and you’re ushering Phoebe into the elevator, unaware of the small smile that curls at the corners of your mouth. 

“I like Doctor Jack.” Phoebe hums, pressing the button she has learnt for your floor. You smile down at her as the doors close and the elevator begins to hum and shift. 

“Yeah? What do you like about him?” 

She shrugs a shoulder, uncommittingly and swipes hair from her face. “He has kind eyes.” 

Blinking slowly at her, your heart seizes. You find yourself wondering how your daughter comes up with some of the things that she does, how attuned she is to the people around her and the way her judgement of character grows every day. 

You barely know the man, yet you can’t help but agree. 

“Yeah, baby. I guess he does.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

NEXT PART

Cute little meet cute for our single mom, Phoebe, and Jack!! I am almost busting at the seams with excitement for what I have planned for these guys; little moments and big!! There will lots of tiny hidden references in this series that I would love to know if you guys pick up on, and I also have a very comical and painful scene that I've already written for later on in this series hehe.

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

Dating had always felt like a chore—a time consuming, anxiety riddled, unsatisfying chore. Most of the men you matched with on dating apps made it abundantly clear that they were only interested in casual, no strings attached fun. It was never fun for you—maybe in the beginning, when you would exchange a handful of flirty texts that had butterflies flapping in your stomach and a giddy smile blooming across your face. But then, once they had you where they wanted—laid out on their questionable smelling sheets, straddling them on their lumpy, faded couch—all the promises they had made over the phone suddenly vanished.

Nine times out of ten they didn't even bother with foreplay, hitting you with "does that feel good?" before spilling in a condom within two minutes of sporadically thrusting into you. You never lied, never bothered with faking a moan—let alone an orgasm—just to satisfy their ego. They were shit at taking care of a woman's needs, and you weren't going to spare their feelings just because it was polite.

So, why you were on a date on your rare Friday night off from working in the ED was fucking beyond you.

You wanted to blame Santos, she was the one who had set the date up after all. She claimed she was sick of hearing you bitch and moan about your dry spell, saying that if you weren't going to get back on the apps then she would find someone for you. And honestly, after working at PTMC for a few years—getting increasingly frustrated after every twelve hour shift you spent with Dr. Abbot—you owed it to yourself to give dating one more try. Maybe this would be the guy that would finally touch you right, finally make you feel something more, scratch that itch that you couldn't reach yourself.

He was your type, just as Santos had raved. Well, your new type. At some point, maybe around month two of swapping to the night shift, your thumb had slipped and the dating apps started showing you men at least fifteen years your senior. Men with fine lines crinkling their eyes, salt and pepper scruff lining their jaws, their terribly posed selfies accentuating their age.

But, surely, these men would be experienced enough to care for a woman's pleasure, right?

Wrong.

God, you were so wrong.

You gave up after two failed dates—one ending shortly after the appetisers because he was still married, the other ending when he got aggravated because his dick was staying semi-hard and had an ego too big to take viagra. Oh, and he refused to make you feel good if he wasn't getting anything in return.

You deleted the apps in the uber on your way home. You tried to convince yourself that it was these men that you kept picking and not you. You sure as hell weren't the problem. Comparing them to your extremely off-limits attending had nothing to do with it, either.

Santos said he was a regular at her gym, no mark on his left hand where a wedding band may have been, with an enticing smile and deep eyes that promised a good time. If only she had spoken to him for more than a couple of sentences.

You internally cheered when your phone vibrated on the table in front of you with an incoming call. You didn’t even bother checking caller ID, you would gladly take a call from a scammer if it meant it got you out of one of the top five worst dates you’ve been on in your life. 

“Excuse me,” you muttered to the man sitting across from you before lifting the phone to your ear. He rolled his eyes and gave you a dismissive wave, sipping on the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’d ordered for himself.

“Hey, hon,” Dana’s urgent voice came through the line. “Sorry to interrupt your night off, but we need you in the ER. Ellis has come down with a nasty stomach bug, and the place is about to overflow with patients from a multiple MVC. Night shift needs you, kid.”

You couldn’t resist the sigh of relief you let out. Being elbows deep in traumas sounded a lot better than continuing your date with the misogynistic asshole in front of you. 

“I’m on my way,” you replied to Dana, ending the call and gathering your clutch. You offered a fake apologetic smile to your date as you stood up from your chair.

“I’m really sorry,” you weren’t, “but I’ve been called into work. Life of being an ED doctor.” You offered an awkward chuckle. 

He let out a sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “So you’re not coming home with me, then?” Your eye twitched. “Least you can do is pay for your half of the bill.” 

And there it was. The disgusting norm that comes with modern dating—the man only footing the bill if he knows he’s getting his dick wet.

You pulled a twenty dollar note out of your wallet, slapping it onto the table with more force than necessary. You shot him a sickly sweet smile before turning on your heel.

“Have a nice life, dick.” You muttered to yourself, pushing open the door to the restaurant. You pulled out your phone, ordering an uber straight to PTMC.

“Holy fuckin' smokes!” Dana exclaimed, her eyes locked on the sliding doors to the ambulance bay. 

Despite the chaos engulfing the Pitt, her outburst caught the attention of the nurses and doctors hanging around the hub. Half of the day shift had their bags hanging off their shoulder, midway through saying their goodbyes.

It was almost cartoonish, the way they slowly spun, their eyes following the path of Dana's. A couple pairs of eyes bulged, a med student's jaw slightly dropped, and a smug smirk curved Santos' lips.

"Oh damn," Princess whispered, McKay and Mateo humming and nodding their agreement.

They had seen you plenty of times before—right before the start of a long shift when you were bright-eyed and eager, at the end of a double when you were sunken and hollow, stumbling into an uber after one too many at the local bar. But, they had never seen you like this.

There was a shift in the air, one that you seemed completely oblivious to. You were walking the path from the ambulance bay to the staff lockers, mind focused on getting into your spare pair of scrubs and out of your stupidly uncomfortable shoes. You briefly wondered how long into your shift it would take for your knee to start twinging, for the muscles around it to start straining because you decided to wear nice shoes instead of practical ones.

They were shoes you had bought to match the dress that had been hanging sadly in your closet for the past four months. It was a nice dress, one that you had been eager to wear and finally you had a reason to. Now you were regretting wasting it on that douchebag.

It wasn't just the dress that everyone was taking notice of, wasn't the only thing that had the room momentarily holding its breath. You looked…different. Still like yourself, but with your best features highlighted—making you stand out in a crowd. Not that you even noticed the attention on you.

Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning his elbows on a desk in the Hub, his back turned in your direction. Dana's abrupt—but not unusual—outburst had him looking over his shoulder, doing a double take when he realised it was you that had Dana swearing. He straightened his posture instinctively, turning and folding his hands behind his back like a soldier standing to attention. His eyes followed you as you kept walking towards the group of fleetingly stunned medical professionals.

He always noticed you, more than he cared to admit. He gravitated towards you from the second he saw you on your first day shift years ago, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were intelligent, quick-witted, determined but you were also kind, compassionate, empathetic—all important attributes for a doctor to have. You were his best resident. And you were beautiful.

It was a matter of fact to him, that you were pretty in a way that had his pulse tumbling and breath hitching. He knew it was dangerous for him to be attracted to you—his resident that was way too young and had way too much of her life ahead of her. So, he never did anything about it. He kept things strictly professional, pretending like he didn't have a file cabinet tucked away in his brain where he stored every little detail about you.

He convinced himself that every detail he knew served a purpose, that it made him a better attending and in turn made you a better resident. It was to help you, which then meant you could help patients.

Knowing the exact way you liked your coffee? That was so you were well caffeinated and less grumpy towards patients when the four am low hit.

Noticing when you took more frequent deep sighs, accompanied with rubbing your temples? That's when he knew you needed fresh air to ward off an incoming headache, and then you would be fine to treat more patients.

Carefully watching the way your face lit up when he bought your favourite snacks? Just confirmation that you were getting sustenance, so you would have the energy to continue your hard work as an ED doctor.

It was habit for him to catalogue everything about you, and now you were giving him details to store that had nothing to do with improving your work as a doctor. The way the light reflected off your lip gloss, how you filled out your dress and made it look like it was designed just for you, the sway of your hips thanks to the shoes you were wearing.

He couldn't control the drag of his eyes down your body even if he wanted to. And that's when he saw it—the three faint scars on your left knee. The fluorescent lights above made them stand out more, and his eyes were glued to them. Two were barely an inch long, laying in horizontal slits either side of your kneecap—keyhole scars. The third one was more noticeable, running in a clean vertical line along the very top of your shin. He recognised the surgical scars immediately.

“I feel sorry for the poor bastard we dragged you away from.” Dana's raised voice knocked him out of his trance, the sounds from the ED around him rushing back into his ears.

He turned back to the desk, back to his charting before anyone could see how he had been looking at you—before you could see. His eyes still flicked back to you over his shoulder, observing how your pretty glossy lips were pulled in an out of place pout and your brows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance.

You sighed at Dana's comment, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He wasn't a poor bastard at all, he deserved being walked out on. Before you could reply to the day charge nurse, Santos let out a long low whistle from her spot leaning against the Hub, right next to Dr. Abbot.

Whatever pleasantries you always had loaded for your coworkers disappeared in an instant, anger and irritation flaring hot in your chest. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed in a glare, a single finger raising to point accusingly at your fellow resident and friend.

"Don't you fucking dare, Trinity." You seethed, pulling more attention towards you.

Whitaker froze in his spot, his hand's pausing on the keyboard where he had been finishing up his charting for the day.

"Oh, shit," he whispered, worried. "You never call her Trinity."

It was true. She was only ever Santos or Trin to you, Trinity was saved for the extremely rare occasion that you were mad at her.

Perlah and Princess stopped in their tracks, exchanging knowing looks with growing grins on their faces. They could wait a few more minutes before heading home.

Santos' eyes widened briefly, surprise flooding through her—she wasn't the one who had called you in and ended your date early.

"What did I do? Not my fault there's a ten car pile up." She raised her hands in mock defense.

"You're the one who set me up with a misogynistic prick!" You couldn't help but exclaim, your hands starting to shake with the unleashed anger you had been feeling since the second you sat down at dinner.

The group gathered around the Hub went still, eyes darting towards each other as they watched the rare scene of you losing your temper. The women around you shared a collective wince, immediately understanding your situation. They didn't even need you to explain what happened, they already knew how awful men could be—especially in your line of work.

Jack couldn't stop the protectiveness that ran deep through his bones at your statement, couldn't stop the jealousy souring his gut at the fact you were out with another man. A man that apparently did not deserve your time, did not deserve how beautiful you looked. He didn't think any man deserved you, even himself.

He wanted to know what happened, wanted to know who deserved a beating for treating you poorly. The possessive rage bleeding in his veins was new and incredibly dangerous.

The doors to the ambulance bay split open, a handful of paramedics rushing in with gurneys carrying bloodied victims from the MVC Dana called you in to help with.

Robby emerged from Trauma one, glancing around at his staff loitering while chaos rushed around them.

"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? Get to work!"

Everyone shifted into gear at his yell, splitting off to assess the new patients and to prepare rooms for their treatment. The day shifts with one foot out the door already slowly inched towards the exits.

You passed Dana as you rushed towards the staff lockers to quickly change, her hand briefly squeezing your shoulder.

"I'll be here if you need to vent, hon." She threw you her signature mother bear smile. "God knows I've dealt with my fair share of misogynistic pricks." And she had the battle scars to prove it, too.

The frustration from your awful date lingered, only being subdued during the frantic hours you treated the patients from the car crash. You focused on what you knew best, on providing the utmost medical care you could.

Even after the influx of injured and critical patients from the crash, you had to handle the day patients that had been waiting for hours. The last of the day shift went home by ten pm, looking like zombies and talking about a goodnight drink at the park before they split ways. Just after midnight, multiple dirt ridden trucks pulled up into the ambulance bay—dumping off a load of drunks that had ruined their faces and fists by starting a bar fight.

Your frustration rose back up to the surface as you tried your best to treat the belligerent drunks, their acrid breath hurling derogatory insults at you despite how you were helping. Some nights this behaviour was easy enough brush off, to file away for you to scream about later. Not this night though, you were already feeling torn down by a date's outdated and chauvinistic views and now it was just more fuel to the fire.

Dr. Abbot was standing next to you, observing as you examined a drunk's head lac, asking questions to determine the best plan of action.

He was standing next to you when the drunk grumbled out loud, his glazed eyes glued on your scrub covered chest. "Don't think you belong here with those."

Jack watched as your hand faltered, a grimace flexing your jaw at the crude comment. He opened his mouth, whether to tell the asshole off or to reassure you he wasn't sure, but you met him with a sharp look and shake of your head.

He was next to you again, letting you take the lead on a hip dislocation. Unfortunately, it was another one of the bar fight idiots—an old man who slipped from standing on the bar. You treated him how you would any other patient—your hands in the exact same position.

"Bit further up, sweet cheeks. That's where I need your hands most." He leered with a sleazy grin.

Your hands slipped, a flare of disgust and rage tearing up your chest. Your breathing grew heavy, coming out in quick audible bursts. Angry tears started to fill your waterline.

Why were men so fucking awful?

Dr. Abbot stepped in from behind you, adjusting his stance to block you from the drunks invasive eyes. He gripped the man harder than necessary, leaning down with an authoritative, deadly glare.

"Shut your fucking mouth," he simmered, pushing the man's hip into place with more force than required.

After exiting the room you leaned against the wall to take a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you willed yourself to calm down.

"Hey," Dr. Abbot's low voice mumbled in front of you. You lifted your head to find him peering down at you, worry softening his hard features.

"You doing okay?"

He watched you visibly collect yourself, pulling in a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. The faint tremble in your jaw gave you away, though.

"I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest. You couldn't break down over a couple brass comments, not when you've witnessed much worse happen to your fellow female colleagues.

He lowered his chin towards you, his shoulders dropping. He spoke in a soft, private tone. "Doesn't mean it's okay, kid."

He sighed and took half a step closer, careful not to invade your personal space. "You've had a long few hours of dealing with pricks tonight." He paused, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I promise we're not all bad."

You rolled your eyes with an amused scoff. "Yeah, that's what they all say."

Still, you couldn't help but feel hope at his words—because you knew they weren't all bad, you were reminded of that every time you worked with him. And the other men who worked in the Pitt alongside you. But, you always noticed the good qualities in him more than anyone else.

You noticed how he never flaunted his money, yet was always the first to pull his phone out to call an uber for a struggling patient. How he often door-dashed dinner for the ED staff, careful to make sure everyone's dietary requirements were catered for. You noticed the way he positioned himself between an aggressive patient and female staff, becoming an immovable shield. And you sure as hell noticed how gentle he was with the younger patients, how his voice softened as he put them at ease.

You hated how much you noticed about him. Hated how hours, days, weeks later a warmth still curled in the pit of your gut. You hated how much you wanted him, hated how his soft hazel eyes and hardened lines threw your world off its axis.

What you hated most was that you knew you would never find a man like him. You were stuck dating assholes because the one man you wanted was the last man you were allowed to have.

He kept his eyes on you as you pushed away from the wall, heading towards one of the day shift patients in the West rooms. His eyes tracked the subtle hitch in your step, the way you shifted more weight onto your right leg. It was something he had noticed before, when the sun would breach across the horizon signaling the end of the night shift. He never focused on it too much, filing it away as tightness after being on your feet for twelve hours straight. But now, after seeing the scars your scrub pants kept hidden he knew it was more than that, and you were only halfway through your shift. It was obvious your knee was bothering you. He felt his own knee twinge in sympathy.

"So," Mateo started, leaning back in one of the swivel chairs at Central. "What happened on your awful date?"

You didn't have to look up from your charting to see the cheeky grin on his face, you could hear it bleeding through his voice.

"You've spent too much time with Princess," you muttered in reply.

Shen peered up from his spot in the Hub, his ears perking at the mention of a date—the man loved to gossip, especially with a dunkin coffee in his hand. He grabbed the tablet he was working on, his lips pursed around his straw as he walked over to you two. You felt his presence before you heard him.

"What's this I hear about a date?" He leaned his hip on the desk next to you, raising his eyebrows in interest and slurping his coffee.

You sighed, bringing a hand to your left thigh to rub a twitching muscle—you were really paying for those stupid shoes you wore earlier.

"Why is it that I'm always surrounded by men?"

"Hey!" Lena exclaimed as her and Bridget walked past you three. "We're still here—and we want to hear the date story too!"

You didn't even remember them being near you when you first got to work, seething at Santos about her awful blind date set up—gossip traveled fast at the Pitt, especially at shift change when the nurses overlapped.

After taking a look at the relatively calm board, the two women came back to Central with matching curious grins. It was nearing the end of the three am witching hour, when the influx of crazies quietened down and the exhaustion started to creep into your bones. You had just over three hours of your shift left and you figured venting about the thing that had been simmering in your chest wouldn't do you any more harm.

You didn't notice Dr. Abbot hovering in the doorway to Central nine, midway through removing his gloves when the unmistakable sound of gossip reached his ears.

He was curious, he couldn't help the way he shifted closer—focusing on your voice over the other sounds filling the ER.

"Where do I even start," you muttered, lifting your head to meet the intrigued eyes of Mateo sitting across from you.

"Firstly, he didn't hold the door open for me as we entered the restaurant—just let it swing into my face." You chuckled bitterly, "should've taken that as the first red flag."

Lena and Bridget nodded along sympathetically, knowing the worst was still yet to come.

"He then proceeded to order for me—both my drink and food when we had barely spoken a word to each other."

Shen shrugged next to you, and you focused a glare on him. "He ordered me clams. I fucking hate seafood." That made the man wince.

Jack drifted closer to the conversation, standing a few feet behind you. You were too caught up in the annoyance that lingered from your date to notice his quietly commanding presence.

"When I told him what I do for work, he went on a five minute monologue about how the ED is no place for a woman."

That gained a collective eye roll and groan from everyone gathered, even pulling silent wince and twitch of the mouth from Jack.

"You stayed after that?" Lena questioned, her face showing how incredulous she found the situation.

You groaned in response, lowering your head into your hands. "I know, don't remind me." Your voice was muffled by your palms.

You took a breath and lowered your hands, loosely crossing your arms over your chest to ground yourself. "That wasn't even the worst part…" you trailed off.

"After bragging about his job as some finance hotshot, he said that because it takes him all over the world—by that, he meant he goes to Canada sometimes—he needs to have romantic partners in every city he travels to."

"Yikes," Mateo blurted with a wince.

"Said that it's his right as a man to have multiple partners, but that the women he's seeing can only exclusively date him."

Jack couldn't stay quiet any longer. There was a deep burning in his chest the more he listened to you.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered with a humourless chuckle. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"

You whipped around quickly, shocked and flustered that your attending had heard all about your terrible date. You expected him to be annoyed at you all for sitting around gossiping, but you could only find disgust and another unreadable emotion clenching his jaw.

"I didn't find him," you mumbled with a shrug. "Santos set it up. Said he's a regular at her gym."

"I'm surprised you weren't more mad at her earlier."

"I was actually relieved when I got Dana's call asking me to come in." You let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you preferred the night shift chaos over a date with an attractive man—well, he was attractive until he opened his mouth.

Jack felt a misplaced sense of pride blooming in his chest at your admission. He took it personally when you said you would rather be with him—the night shift—than on a date.

"To top it all off, he made me pay for my half of the bill when he realised—"

The rest of your vent was cut off by one of the medical assistants wheeling in a patient from chairs.

"This is Mr. Wilson, mid sixties, he's been erect for the last eight hours."

The irony of the situation didn't get lost on you, a small snort slipping from you. Shen patted your shoulder before straightening up.

"I got this." He had the decency to leave his dunkin coffee behind as he walked over to the patient.

"So, Mr. Wilson. Did you take anything that might have lead to this condition?"

Five minutes later you were sat alone at Central, some of the lingering frustration now eased from your shoulders. A freckled arm appeared in front of you, placing a cup of coffee and your favourite protein bar next to the keyboard you were typing on.

You looked up in time to see Dr. Abbot's face tilted towards you, a soft smile smoothing his features.

"Thanks, Doc." You breathed with your own faint smile.

He responded with a smooth wink, one side of his mouth quirking up before he turned and headed towards South.

You watched as he left, noting how his gait shifted to accommodate his prosthetic leg. Your eyes trailed up his back, watching the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his scrub top, lingering on the freckles sprinkling his neck before landing on his silver curls. God, how you wanted to tug on those curls. A rush of warmth flooded your body as images flashed through your mind unprompted, unwanted. Images of you running your fingers through the curls while his head was between your thighs, hazel eyes dark with his own desire.

You spun back around before anyone caught you staring, quickly chugging your coffee and burning the roof of your mouth in the process. You took it as a much needed distraction to the heat gathering in your core. All he did was give you a goddamn coffee and snack.

It was just after five am when your knee buckled, straining from the long night and making you audibly wince. You were back at the Hub, hands clenching the counter as you tilted your foot against the half wall trying to stretch the tight muscles pulling on your knee.

It offered you temporary relief, one of the knots on your lower calf slightly easing. But it wasn't enough—the hard to get knots clustered on your upper calf were too deep, too close to the joint to get any relief from a quick stretch. You sighed as you felt the joint start to throb, a clear indication that the inflammation was flaring up.

That steady presence you quickly came to admire fell next to you once again, a veiny hand placing a tablet on the counter. You tried resisting following the lines of veins up his forearm, but you knew it was a losing battle so early in the morning. The fluorescent lights were still bright above you, but the early hour made everything feel soft—like the calm before the day shift storm.

"ACL reconstruction?" Dr. Abbot's voice grumbled low next to you.

"Huh?" You questioned, your brows scrunched in confusion. The patient you had just seen was a young teen with a fever that wouldn't break, possible meningitis.

Dr. Abbot tilted his head towards your leg that was still in a half stretch position.

"Your knee, I saw the scars when you came in earlier. Is it giving you trouble?" A line appeared between his brows, his cute mouth curving downward in a concerned frown.

He knew it was giving you trouble, he didn't need to ask. He had observed you the whole shift, feeling concerned when you stilled with a huff and changed your stance to accommodate the pain. He knew the pain of an injured joint all too well, could feel his own leg starting to scream at him after ignoring the tenderness for over ten hours. His fingers itched to help you, to offer you some comfort and take away your pain. He told himself it was because you were his resident—he couldn't have you hurting and disrupting your job as a doctor.

You straightened under his watchful gaze, distributing your weight evenly on both legs—a jolt of pain had you shifting to your right with a subtle wince.

"Reconstruction and a meniscal repair, too." You answered his first question. "Nothing I can't handle," you repeated your earlier statement, trying to brush off the obvious discomfort you were feeling.

He shot you a deadpan look, not buying your bullshit. He crossed his arms across his chest, leveling you with his quiet, intense authority that had fire tingling under your skin.

"What happened?" He asked gruffly.

You sighed out of habit—it really wasn't that big a deal.

"A not-so-friendly soccer match in high school." You shrugged, looking away from his unwavering stare. "Hurt like a bitch, but it's been over ten years. I've learnt to deal with it."

He grasped your elbow gently, leading you away from the Hub despite your complaints. He lead you to an empty patient room in North.

"Dr. Abbot, what are you—my patients—"

"Shen and Crus have it covered, you're allowed to take a break." He let go of your elbow, turning to close the curtain halfway—giving a slight semblance of privacy.

You stood awkwardly near the patient bed, feeling flustered from his attention and stubborn to prove you were fine.

He shot you another look, something between amused and impatient.

"You're in pain. Sit."

Again with that goddamn commanding tone, the one that always had you shutting your mouth and obeying.

You sat down on the edge tentatively, not missing the faint smirk twitching his cheek.

He was enjoying this.

You couldn't focus on the thought for long—your attention being seized by him grabbing stool and rolling it in front of you.

"What are you doing?" You asked with a single brow raised, watching as he sat down on the stool and patted his leg.

"I'm helping my resident," he said nonchalantly, like this was something he did all the time. "Now lift your leg. Doctor's orders."

You huffed with an eye roll, succumbing to his authoritative charm. You placed your ankle in his lap, careful to not rest the full weight on him. You weren't sure whether this was crossing a professional line—it felt just shy of being intimate, of being more than just your attending helping you with an old injury.

You could feel the strength of his thighs beneath your leg, how they were pure hard muscle. It was something a resident shouldn't notice about her attending—something she definitely shouldn't store away for later, when she was home alone with her hands between her thighs.

His hands gently grabbed the bottom of your scrub pants, slowly pushing the fabric up your leg. It felt way too intimate for such a simple act—his bare hands brushing against your skin, eliciting a path of fire and goosebumps in their wake. You no longer had control over your eyes as they dropped to watch his hands, catching sight of the wedding ring he still wore. He rolled the pant leg above your knee, his eyes darting up to yours for consent—moving his hands down at your small nod.

His hands gently pressed around your inflamed joint, the heat radiating up to his skin before he even touched you.

He gave a disappointing shake of his head. "You need to ice this, kid."

"I will when I get home, promise." Your voice was low, quiet. "It's not usually this bad—it's, just…it's been a long night." You don't know why you were explaining more than necessary, maybe you didn't like feeling like you had disappointed him.

Even with the door wide open, the noises of the ED fell away around you—fading into a faint hum as you looked into his hazel eyes.

"Why is tonight any different? I don't think I saw you limp once on the Fourth of July."

Your breath hitched without your permission—he was paying enough attention to you to make note of that?

His hands traveled down from your knee, fingertips lingering briefly on your scars before wrapping around your lower calf. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin, feeling around for the tight knots.

A steady stream of shocks ran up your leg from his touch, gathering in a simmering warmth in the pit of your belly. His hands on you felt way too good, you started to regret accepting his help. You would not be forgetting his hands on you any time soon.

Jack was doing his best to keep his head clear—repeating to himself that this was to relieve your pain. But, god, your soft skin and the smell of your lotion cutting through the usual antiseptic was making it hard to focus on anything else. Add in the way you were looking at him with big, trusting eyes and he was a goner.

His mind betrayed him further, thoughts of how you prepared for your date earlier clouding his mind. Was your smooth, tempting smelling skin just a coincidence, or were you planning for more? He remembered the dress you wore—how could he ever forget it?—and his thoughts strayed to what you might've been wearing under it, what you may be wearing under your scrubs. It was a seriously dangerous train of thought to have, especially with your leg in his lap.

He watched your face carefully, looking for the slightest wince to indicate you were in pain. He pressed harder, rolling a knot and catching the way your body tensed in response.

"I didn't wear the most sensible shoes earlier," you mumbled. There was something about the two of you alone in here, with his hands carefully tending to you that made you more…vulnerable. Open. "Wasn't expecting to work a twelve hour shift—I went with shoes that matched the dress." You finished with a small shrug, looking away from his piercing eyes.

"Ah. The date that keeps on giving," he grumbled bitterly.

His hands pressed further up, reaching your mid calf. You felt the cool band of his wedding ring press into your skin, and it made this feel even more personal and intimate.

"What were you saying earlier? When he made you pay half the bill…" Dr. Abbot's voice trailed off, eyeing you expectantly with raised brows.

You scoffed, the disgust you felt almost twelve hours before still sitting on your tongue.

"Yeah, that. He said the least I could do was pay my half since I wasn't going home with him."

Jack's brain short-circuited for a brief second, his grip on your calf tightening a fraction.

"That's…awful. I'm sorry."

You looked away from his intense gaze again, your heart doing something stupid in your chest. It was hard to miss the mix of anger and concern swimming in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.

"That's modern dating for you." You let out a humourless chuckle, "some assholes even try to claim it's for the sake of feminism." You rolled your eyes with a sigh. "It's part of the reason I gave up on dating, I was hoping the guy today was going to be different." You couldn't help the self deprecating chuckle that slipped out.

"God, I didn't realise how bad it was out there."

Jack didn't know what else to say, couldn't think of much past the rage boiling his blood. A man had really said that to you? He wanted to show you that there were some redeemable men in the world, but by the sounds of it this wasn't this first time a man had said something like this to you.

His thumb swept across your shin soothingly, a motion he wasn't even aware of. But you were. It was all your body could focus on, every nerve ending rushing to the spot his rough skin was rubbing tenderly against yours.

"You reckon there'll be new gossip for people to focus on by my next shift?" It was your attempt at deflecting the conversation, talking to Dr. Abbot about your lackluster dating life wasn't exactly on your list of favourite things to do.

Jack jokingly checked his watch. "You're next shift is in what, fourteen hours?" He shot you a cheeky smile. "I'll make sure there's something else to talk about by then," he finished with a smooth wink.

It's something you've seen countless times—Dr Abbot's inherently flirty nature. You've seen it in the way he smiles at Samira, how he easily asked Dr. Al-Hashimi out for drinks when he first met her. You knew not to take it personally, he handed flirtatious comments out like they were as necessary as breathing.

Still didn't stop the hoards of butterflies wrecking havoc in your stomach.

"Thanks," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious from his gaze. It felt like he could see right through you, and you added it to the long list of things you hated about Dr. Jack Abbot.

"Don't mention it."

You both fell quiet as he continued his massage, the conversation coming to a natural end. His fingers reached the most sensitive part of your calf, right behind your knee where the muscles pulled on the joint. He pressed down on a knot, your hand shooting to his shoulder for stability as pain flashed from the tender muscle. He focused on the spot more, watching your face as a small whimper slipped through your lips. Your leg spasmed in his hold from the pain.

"That's the spot," he muttered absentmindedly.

He continued his ministrations, finding a handful of small knots just below your knee that provoked similar responses. Your hand didn't leave his shoulder, clutching his shirt tighter when he pressed on an extra sensitive spot. He started to file away new details that had nothing to do with your jobs or the hospital. The faint pained whimpers you let loose, the pinch in your brow when he worked on a sore spot, the way your breathing had shallowed. Those were all things that were making his scrub pants sit a bit too tight. Gradually, your leg relaxed in his hold and the pain evaporated from your facial expressions.

He rolled your scrub pant down your leg, the act feeling just as heightened as before. He gave your clothed shin an affectionate pat before lowering your leg to the ground. He stood from the stool and walked to the curtain, pulling it fully open. He needed to get back to work, needed to do something with his hands so he could get rid of the itch to touch you again.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot." You said as you stood up, relief washing over you as the throbbing in your knee eased to manageable. You almost forgot what it felt like when it wasn't in pain.

"No problem, sweetheart."

Your head shot up to him at the term of endearment, another dangerous burst of heat rushing through your body—the feeling of sweet serotonin flooding your system. Your eyes bulged as you noticed the dusting of red climbing up his neck and cheeks. He cleared his throat and made his way to the open door, stopping with one foot out in the ED. He looked at you over his shoulder, still frozen next to the bed.

"Come find me next time it flares up, alright?"

You briefly nodded, feeling slightly light-headed from the whole ordeal.

"Yes, sir."

His shoulders tensed at your choice of words, a primal part deep down in his gut rearing it's head. He felt his cock twitch in interest and he knew he was fucked. You really shouldn't have said that to him.

He took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, a small limp to his step as he made his way back to the Hub.

You watched him as he left, a heavy feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over you. This was now past the point of an innocent crush on your attending. This was something you had to cautiously keep in check or else it could derail your whole career, ruin your reputation as an upstanding resident at this hospital.

Why the fuck did he have to be so hot, and be a decent guy on top of that. It wasn't fucking fair.

soooo...smutty part 2 anyone ?

You weren't sure how to take it really, but you were also busy with your own stuff relative to the surprisingly busy Christmas season at the bar, so maybe it was something similar. You wanted to press for details whenever you tried to pen another message, but at the same time you didn't want to take the risk of coming off as too nosy or too annoying - and just in case you would possibly flag the tiny FBI agent living inside your phone at all times if you did.

So, you just let it be.

It wasn't until a few days after Christmas that you finally heard from him properly. You were unwinding with a long hot shower after a busier Saturday shift, only to see a few small notifications pop up with his name when you checked your phone once you were out. You open it only to be greeted by an absolute dog-pile of photos of the Thunderbolts; some where they were totally geared up in some sort of presumably professional setting, others where they were in more casual, slightly more festive attire. You never took John for an amature photographer, but its clear that some of the photos were also at the behest of probably someone like Bob or Alexei, including some adorable group photos by a rather tiny Christmas tree in some kind of meeting room you didn't recognize.

With the photos came a small smattering of messages underneath, almost like a tag tied on the side of a belated Christmas present.

Just a taste of all the nonsense I've been dealing with for the past few days… <

Weeks? <

Kind of lost track but, regardless. <

Hope your holiday was more relaxing than mine. <

You don't know why you have the instinct to tap the call button on his contact instead of just texting some simpler reply, but the phone only rings twice before it abruptly stops.

"Hello?"

You almost want to kick yourself when you feel your heart skip a beat at the sound of his voice. Your busy work had definitely helped settle down the flames of your crush, even if it was just a smidge, but a single word in that familiarly gravelly tone was enough to ignite it all over again.

"Hey! I, uh…I dunno," You stumble over your words a bit with a nervous smile, trying to readjust yourself on the bed, "I figured calling would be better than texting to catch up."

"Yeah, makes sense." He replies with a chuckle. "So you saw the photos then?"

"I did! They're very adorable," You admit with a smile, popping him on speaker before swiping through them again, "Though I am kinda bummed you guys had a little Christmas party without me."

"Felt more like pulling teeth than partying." John clarifies. "Alexei kept trying to get us to do stuff - go see Christmas lights, make us do a Secret Santa, all that kinda stuff - but we all really just wanted some peace and quite after the fucking circuit they made us work all week." He sighs, and you hear the familiar clink! of ice against a glass in the background. "I'm just glad it's finally over."

"Tell me about it. Now we just have to make it to New Years in one piece."

"God, don't remind me." He groans, alongside the equally familiar glug of what you assumed was the bourbon you gave him. "At least you had the hindsight to give me something to help get through it." He notes, but then pauses. "I don't think I ever said thank you, by the way, so…thanks."

"You're very welcome." You answer back with a smile stuck to your face. "As a bartender it's my job to always know what my customers need."

"Ouch. I'm just a customer to you now?"

"No, you dummy," You tease, "If you were just a customer for me to milk cash out of, I'd be a lot more flirty with you, that's for damn sure."

"So you just think I'm broke?"

"I didn't say that!"

"Eh. Kinda did."

"Oh whatever." You giggle with a roll of your eyes, taking him off speaker and bringing the phone back to your ear. "What kind of salary do you even make as a superhero anyways?"

"Less than you think." John answers honestly, albeit somewhat bitterly. "But we do get a decent 401k match. And dental."

You can't help but scoff. "Can't believe being a superhero is somehow more stable sounding than any normal ass job I've worked." You say as you lay back on your bed. "Maybe I'll have to fall into a vat of radioactive goo sometime, or…do whatever people do these days to get superpowers."

That draws another chuckle out of John, which pulls the undeniable smile on your face even wider. "Mhm. And just how many vats of vague radioactive goo do you think actually exist in the state of New York?"

"I mean, there's gotta be at least one, right? Stupid rich techie assholes are probably dumping shit into the Hudson as we speak- oh! Hey, speaking of rich assholes-" You straighten up as soon as the reminder hits your consciousness, "I…actually managed to get New Years off."

You weren't sure if it was the booze moving through his system or the weird pivot you took, but John sounds just as stunned as you felt about the whole ordeal. "…Wait, really?"

"I know, right?! I didn't think it was possible for a bartender to get THE drinking holiday off - well, maybe besides Saint Patrick's Day I guess - but turns out if you work for a guy for a while and bring in some superhero clientèle, he might get a little soft around the edges."

"Wow, that's-" He's silent for a moment before finally finishing his sentence. "That's great."

Your brow knits together a bit. "You say that like you're not excited."

"What? No, no, I am-" He sighs, and you can practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am. Really. I wouldn't have extended the invite otherwise, you know that."

"I know, I know." You try to reassure, but a thought can't help but prickle in the back of your throat before it slowly manifests itself past your lips. "…If you don't want me to come though, it won't hurt my feelings."

"No, it's- goddammit-" He mutters to himself before speaking up again, "Look, I'm sure you know this, but this isn't just some fancy party. This is real bureaucratic government bullshit we have to deal with, and it's not only stuffy and boring as hell, it's-"

"An unnecessary peacocking arena for rich assholes?"

You hear John stifle a laugh. "Well, that too, but the biggest thing is that this isn't something anyone can just waltz into. Everyone in there has some sort of agenda, good, bad or otherwise, and if something happens-"

"You don't want me to get in trouble?"

He sighs again, but this time it seems to be more in relief. "…Yeah. In a sense."

Your smile softens a bit, your heart squeezing in your chest just enough for you to notice. "I appreciate the concern John, but I'm a big kid, remember? I promise, pinky promise, that I won't stir up any trouble at this thing-"

"Oh c'mon, you don't have to-"

"Ah-ah. Let me finish." You tut. "And, if you get a weird feeling about anything, if you feel like something is about to go down that's well above my pay grade, you tell me to leave, and I will. No questions asked."

A silence lingers between the two of you on the line, but when John finally does say something, it's almost like he feels sorry for you. "You don't have to do that, y'know."

"I know, but…I want to make sure I'm the least of your problems at this thing, and this feels like the least I can do." You purse your lips as a sudden thought crosses your mind. "Although, I might ask you to cover the cab fare if I dip early."

John just scoffs out a laugh, "Fair enough…and, thanks."

"Hey, can't help if your military brain needs a plan of action for every little thing." You tease. "Figured it'd help put you at ease."

"It...weirdly does." John admits. "Jesus, am I really that easy to read?"

"Eh, not necessarily. Just gotta pay attention to the right things." You try to reassure, but you can't help but poke at him a little more. "And also the super obvious things, but mostly the right ones."

"God, I hate you sometimes."

"Hey, don't hate the messenger, hate the message. 'To be loved is to be perceived' and all that."

There's a lingering silence after you say that, and even though it lasts a few seconds, you can't help but bite your own tongue a bit.

"…I guess so." He eventually huffs. "So…I'll pick you up and take you to the Tower on Saturday at about, like, seven or something?"

"Sounds good to me." You reply with a nod, pulling your phone away from your ear to write down a little reminder for yourself. "Oh, or should I say, 'yes sir!' like I'm your little chipper cadet now or something?"

"Oh shut up. I'll see you Saturday."

"See you Saturday." You parrot back, your face practically beaming as you hang up the phone.

Walker never took himself as a fidgety person, and did his damnest not to seem like one. He always walked, talked and stood like a solider: spine straightened, shoulders back, trying to come off as the hard-earned proof that everything he's been through has been for some greater purpose after all. But here he was, standing at the doorstep of your apartment building, restlessly tugging at the sleeves of his jacket, thumbing over the grooves of the Army sigil engraved on his silver cuff links.

Hell, it didn't help that he was practically teased out of the Tower as he left to pick you up, insisting to the team that five people did not need to be deployed to pick up "a god damn glorified prom date."

"Oh, so it is a date?" He heard Ava call out just before the elevator doors closed on him, scoffing while his cheeks burned the whole ride down.

Assholes.

He didn't know why he was so nervous - or rather, he knew why he would be nervous, but every reason sounded more irrational and more stupid than the last. If the team somehow made a fool of themselves, he at least had control over his own actions so he wouldn't be caught up in the consequences. If Valentina or Mel (or worse, both) had some harsh words for him bringing a guest, he could pass the blame more evenly on by claiming it was a the entire team's idea, which wasn't technically a lie. If some random Avengers-level threat decided to roll up in a limousine along side them, you'd go straight home, just like you promised, and they'd handle it.

So why the hell was he still so uneasy?

He feels every burning second tick by after he presses the buzzer for your apartment number, the cool metal of his watch having mellowed out to a comfortable weight on his wrist on the brisk commute over.

Soon enough, your chipper voice cuts through the static of the speaker. "John?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Oh, hey! I'll be out in like, five minutes, just hang tight!"

"Alright, but we gotta get moving." John replies, pulling up his watch as he notes the time. He made sure to arrive early just in case something happened, plus to accommodate for time to get back to the building and to the entourage of black SUVs that were taking them to the venue.

It wasn't your fault really, or at least you weren't doing this to him on purpose. He was certain you'd behave yourself despite your personal shortcomings with certain politicians and other people that would surely show their faces tonight. Maybe he was just nervous about things being taken the wrong way? If the press showed up tonight, which some probably would, would some trashy tabloid blast your face out there if you're even within a five foot radius of him? Or what if it wasn't some trashy tabloid, but an actual reputable news source, or worse, some stupid fucking influencer who somehow got an invite filming just one brief interaction out of context.

If he really was worried about it that deeply, he could just bail right now. Text you that something had come up, that he had to be called back for an emergency mission, something to get him out of even the sheer possibility of the world seeing him with you - no, that's not it-

Something to get you out of being seen by the world with him, of all people.

Just when he's descending back down the stairs and pulling out his phone to text you, he hears the door open behind him as soon his foot hits the pavement.

"Hey, I was about to text you, uh…we should probably-"

As John turns on his heel, tucking his phone back in his pocket while moving to look up and face you, he freezes. He stares at you with his mouth still partially open, slightly slack-jawed like it's all he can do as your looks halt him mid sentence.

When you told John off hand that you "might have something that can work," he was thinking of something more simple. Something like a cute little cocktail dress maybe that was just classy enough to get away with at such a high caliber event, or maybe even a simple suit you'd stuffed in the back of your closet. But this?

A silver-bordering-on-nickel dress hugged your figure like marble sheets draping across an ancient statue, shimmering in the streetlights with a small slit on the left side of the slim skirt rather appropriately rising to your knee. Other than that slit, the dress simultaneously covered you chastely while still highlighting all the dips and curves of your body in a way John never knew was possible with a piece of clothing. There was even a piece of silver hardware resting on your left shoulder, a silver hoop seeming to be the primary suspect as to how the fabric draped over you so elegantly. You even had the perfect earrings to match, silver warbled hoops dangling from your ears that caught the light beautifully, along with some strappy silver heels and a simple silver clutch.

While you were known to get dolled up to a certain degree for your shifts and occasionally on your days off, getting invited to something so fancy called for something a bit more…dramatic. Considering you hadn't done a true full face of make up in God knows how long, you'd enlisted the help of some of your friends earlier in the day as you were getting ready. Your eyes were somehow more doe-like than they ever had been before, long lashes batting at your date for the evening through glitter-covered lids. A touch of rogue tinted your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your facial features a little more deliberately carved out with some subtle contouring. Despite the more fancy face get up, you decided to stick with a classic last-ditch lip look you always relied on - a hint of liner on the inner part of your lips, ombreing out under a shiny layer of your favorite lip gloss that had seen you through many nights out.

John closes his mouth, taking a moment to blink - taking a moment to breathe.

You look at him, your eyes glittering like your gown in the low light of dusk before looking down, brushing your hands over the fabric. "What? Is there something on my dress, or-"

"No, no, you're fine. Just-" John folds his arms over his chest, giving you a proper once over. "Wow."

You can't help but let out a nervous laugh as you feel his eyes rake over you. "I clean up nice, right?"

Understatement of the fucking century.

"Yeah." John manages to reply, clearing his throat as he watches you start to descend down the short flight of stairs. As you do, he reaches out his hand like a proper gentleman, keeping you steady as you walk the rest of the way down. Jesus, you even had your nails done for this damn thing, silver swirled accents on slightly longer nails glittering in John's grasp like diamonds.

"Well, just for the record, you clean up nice too." You speak up with a radiant smile - the same one you always had. "You look really handsome."

John blinks again, letting out an awkward chuckle as he lets go of your hand that he was still absentmindedly holding, brushing off his suit. "Oh, uh, thanks. Haven't had to wear something like this in a bit, but, still fits just fine."

"So you just had this dorky little bow tie hidden away in your closet and you didn't tell me about it?" You tease, playfully adjusting it while still making sure it sat straight under his collar.

"Wh- It's not dorky, it's basic black tie, everyone knows that."

"Oh yeah? Where's your cummerbund then?"

He frowns, looking down at his suit then back up at you. "My what?"

"Y'know, that weird thing old timey dudes wear with their suits to catch their crumbs at dinner or whatever." You gesture over your stomach like you were wearing a belt. "You snap it on here and it makes you look like a little penguin."

John's nose crinkles. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

"What? It's a real thing, I promise!" You insist. "I only know about it is because the boys in my high school choir had to wear them when we had performances. Didn't help us in the cool department, but at least we got good scores for our acapella competitions."

John's face uncrinkles for a moment in slight surprise. "You were in choir?"

"Yeah! What, did you think I'd choose, like, home ec as an elective or something?"

John shrugs. "I don't know, just…I swear every time I learn something new about you it puts something else into perspective."

You raise a brow. "Oh yeah?"

John presses his lips into a fine line, looking out into the street as he tries to think of something to say. "Yeah, like, how you can talk for so long without taking a damn breath." He ends up teasing right back. "Probably learned some kind of magic breathing technique that just lets you talk and talk and talk-"

"Haha, very funny." You dryly reply, though you're unable to wipe the smile from your face as you playfully jab his ribs with your clutch. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to talk on the way to…wherever this thing is."

"Oh, right," John recalls, rearranging what he was going to say before you walked out the door, "We should get back to the Tower, they're probably waiting-"

Before you could lightly protest about John making you walk all the way to the Tower in heels, a loud succession of honks calls out from behind you on the street. Usually you'd chalk it up to some typical New York traffic shenanigans, but it grew even louder as a long, sleek black limousine merges into the lane closest to the sidewalk before pulling to a stop right in front of your door.

Well, sleek as it could be with the brazen star-shaped logo it had with clear white lettering below it on the driver's door - Red Guardian Limo Service.

You read the tagline aloud under the name. "…'Protecting you from boring evening,' huh."

John is already swearing under his breath by the time the window rolls all the way down, revealing Alexei behind the wheel in a nice maroon suit, along with a drivers hat and driving gloves. "Your chariot has arrived!"

Your cheeks puff out as you try to hold back a laugh, looking back at John only to be met with the pure anguish on his face. He gives you an almost apologetic look before he steps forward to lean down in front of the window. "Alexei, what the fuck are you doing here man."

Alexei gestures to the dashboard in front of him. "I am your ride to the gala tonight, I thought that was obvious-"

"No, no, we were planning to go back to the Tower and ride in the vans or whatever with Valentina and the others, remember?"

Alexei just shrugs. "Well, they already left. Something about not being able to wait for your return-"

John swears he feels a vein pop up beneath his temple. "What do you mean they already left?!"

"I fear you should really have your hearing checked, Walker." Alexei comments, only for John to groan and back off from the window, running his hands over his face. Alexei's brow scrunches in confusion, leading him to emerge from the limo to continue the conversation. "So, naturally, I come to rescue." He clarifies as he walks around, initially set on Walker until he passes a glance at you, then does the world's strongest and most obvious double take that looks like it could've popped every bone in his neck.

He gasps, muttering something in Russian before hastily walking up to you, taking your hands in his. "My dear, have you been hiding this radiant goddess away inside you this whole time?" He regales dramatically, getting a flustered laugh out of you as warmth rises to your cheeks. "You are stunning, I am nearly at a loss for words-" He looks back at John, who catches his glance only to see Alexei not-so-subtly mouth 'HOLY SHIT' to him before turning back, giving you a warm smile. "It will be an honor to have you in my limo tonight, truly."

"Oh, no, it's my honor to ride with the noble Red Guardian behind the wheel." You reply with a gentle smile, doing a little curtsy to draw a deep laugh from Alexei. "And it looks like you clean up just as nice as I do."

"Ah, of course," Alexei beams, his smile turning sly as he strokes his still bushy but slightly less crazy beard, "But I wish I could shine with even a fraction of your radiance."

"You're too sweet, Alexei, really."

Alexei just shrugs. "I only tell you what my eyes see."

The sweetly intimate moment is slightly broken by John's muttering of expletives just over Alexei's shoulder, prompting you to both turn around as John messes with his phone. "Goddammit, why isn't anyone answering-"

"…Well," Alexei says as he turns back to you, seeming to brush John off, "We should get this show on the road, ah? Don't want to be late for such a fancy event, you know."

He walks over to his limo, clearly taking pride in being your gentleman driver as he opens the door for you, revealing a sleek black interior with slightly worn but still nice-looking leather seats.

You look back over at John before walking over to him, lightly tugging on the sleeve of his tux. "C'mon John, it'll be fine. We'll just…be the ones pulling up in style."

John huffs, but when he finally breaks his eyes from his phone, he can't help but linger over your face. Beneath all the various creams and powders and whatever else was invisibly enhancing your features, it was still just…you, at the end of the day, and for some god damn reason, it made him almost think everything was going to be fine.

John sighs, straightening himself and his suit he shrugs. "Well…not like we can just walk there anyways."

"Says the guy not wearing heels." You say with a roll of your eyes, threading your arm through his to playfully tug him towards the door. "C'mon soldier boy. We've got a party to uncrash."

He lets you tug him along, a small smile cracking at the edge of his mouth. "Uncrash? Really?"

"What? I know you'd hate me if I said we were crashing it - I mean, I technically am, but still."

Alexei watches with a shit-eating grin as you both slide into the car, giving John the most obvious wink in existence before shutting the door on you both.

"…I feel pretty protected from a boring evening," You lean over and mutter as Alexei gets back into the driver's seat, trying your hardest not to sputter into a fit of laughter as you meet John's eyes. "Don't you feel protected from a boring evening John?"

"Don't." John groans, taking in the interior of the car more as Alexei starts to pull away into the road.

Much to his relief, your smile just softens, gently nudging his shoulder as you turn to stare out the window, fidgeting with the clasp of your purse in your lap.

It clearly takes John a minute or two to adjust to the drive considering his history with Alexei behind the wheel, shifting in his seat and tugging at his suit every now and again as you rode in relative silence. This car was definitely nicer than the one took them across the desert - it even came with working air conditioning, and a more complete mini bar sitting at the near-opposite end of the car.

"By the way," Alexei calls out from the driver's seat, "You are more than welcome to help yourself to the fine Russian vodka back there."

Your eyes drift from your view out the window and catch on a large bottle just ahead at the mention of it, a big red logo and barely readable yet clearly Russian text on it a few feet away.

"I'll pass, but, thank you." John awkwardly calls out with a nod.

You, on the other hand, figured you could use something to calm your secretly frazzled nerves as the reality of everything was starting to set in. It was one thing to be invited to this thing in the first place, which you were still secretly wondering how serious the proposition was, even in the back of a limo on the way there. Your friend who you'd been blatantly crushing on for the past few months was sitting next to you, somehow even more comically handsome than he'd ever been before in your presence, taking you to a fancy event you couldn't even imagine fantasizing about, as his date.

Well, a group date, sure, whatever that meant, but you were still on your way to the venue with him by your side. That had to mean something, right?

You wondered what the scope of super soldier powers were all of a sudden, because God forbid he could hear how fast your heart was thrumming in your chest, feel the way your pulse was giving yourself away completely under your skin.

"I think I might have some, honestly." You mention to John, holding out your glittery clutch to him as you shift to the edge of your seat. "Mind holding my purse?"

John nods, taking the purse from your hands as he watches you attempt to trek the inside of a moving vehicle, in heels, towards the little bar just ahead.

"Careful!" John calls out as you wobble bit, but you just laugh it off and reassure him you were okay with a thumbs up.

"It's fine, I've got it!" You call back, making it to the bar with one last wobble, one hand clutching onto the small protruding counter while the other grabbed the small neck of the bottle sticking out of the built-in ice bucket. You're surprised to find that the logo was actually a genuine wax seal, bearing the text 'JEWEL OF RUSSIA' in gilded lettering, with the same color wax sealing the twist off cap.

"Hey, I didn't know they named a vodka after you Alexei." You note with a smile, getting another laugh out of Alexei from the driver's seat.

"Oh hush, you are too kind, really." Alexei beams back while keeping his eyes on the road, clearly taking the boost to his ego in stride. "Enjoy it my friend - it is the good stuff, really."

"Cheers to that." You say as you raise the bottle slightly to him, trying your best to break the seal but finding it somewhat finicky. "Damn, do you need to be a fucking super soldier to open this?"

"Ah, I would help, but…" Alexei vaguely gestures to the steering wheel.

"Hey John?" You call out, "Mind helping me out with this?"

"Huh? Oh, sure." John speaks up, briefly pulling him out of his own thoughts that he'd quickly sunk back into as he watches you attempt to make your way back, the vodka bottle stuffed oh-so gracefully under your arm for the sake of your leverage.

Unfortunately, the more run-down streets of New York apparently had other plans for you.

The limo jostles violently as Alexei cruises over a nasty pothole, with the back taking a brunt of the shake up like you were on some old school rollercoaster. You were almost back at your seat before you started tumbling forward in the chaos, clasping onto John's broad shoulders ahead of you without a second thought to steady yourself. John attempts to catch you before you could crash into him on the seat, but the surprisingly slick fabric of your dress causes his hands to slip a bit too far past your hips as your collarbone nearly collides with his face.

You don't get to see how quick color rushes to his cheeks, his face beaming bright red when all he can take in is…well, the fact that his face nearly slammed right into the plushness of your chest, for one, but also the smell of that god damn perfume, the one that he rather vividly dreamed about just over a week ago.

In the microcosm of time that was this brief moment before you'd jerk away from each other and just (hopefully) go back like nothing ever happen, there's just one lingering thought that crosses John's mind:

Well, at least this limo doesn't have-

The car suddenly hisses with the sound of a fog machine activating, being made even more visible by the colorful LEDs shifting from the edge of the ceiling - and the worst part, of course, was the speakers firing up:

Touch me baby, put your lips on mine,

Could go to hell, but we'll probably be fine,

I know you want it, baby you can have it,

Oh I've never done it

Naked in Manhattan!

It wasn't something John recognized right off the bat, but unfortunately you would know that iconic voice and catchy building synth line anywhere. That being said, even a name like Chappell Roan couldn't pop into your head as you felt John Walker's hands right on your ass, his lips unintentionally ghosting over the collar of your dress. Thankfully you'd caught yourself just before your knee could slam into his crotch, pushing back to hover above him, both of you reading the palpable embarrassment on each other's faces plain as day.

"Fuck- Shit, I'm sorry-"

"N-no, shit, I'm-"

It all happens in a flash, but the lingering feeling of his hands practically burns through the fabric of your dress as you sit back down beside him, the mountain of apologies rushing from both your mouths clashing in the air, barely audible over the music blasting from the speakers just behind your seats. You almost want to hide your face in your hands, feeling an unbearably embarrassing heat crawl up your neck, your cheeks, even your-

Wait a minute.

Wait a damn minute.

It comes over you in waves, but once it starts, the laughter is hard to contain let alone stop. You throw your head back as you run your hands over your face, tears of laughter brimming in your eyes as you look over at John who, naturally, looks absolutely horrified.

"Do you not know this song?!"

"Wh- No, of course I don't!" He almost yells, his embarrassment clear as day with his face being the reddest you swear you've ever seen it.

"Do you know who Chappell Roan is?"

"Why the hell does that matter right now?!"

"BECAUSE, John," You emphasize over the speakers, "She's a lesbian who makes songs about being a lesbian!"

You hold up a finger to silence any further questions or confused stammering from John, who was clearly processing what that all meant as you partially sang the next few lyrics to get it through his thick, assumingly heterosexual skull:

"Hair clips and lip gloss,

French kiss sitting criss-crossed,

If I don't try, then it's my loss-

An inch away from more than just friends."

John just blinks, staring at you with such a deep seated confusion taking over his face, then shifting his attention to Alexei guffawing in the driver's seat before groaning deeply, taking shelter from the lingering embarrassment behind his hands.

Taking some odd comfort and a hint of guilt from your shared flusteredness, you pull out the bottle of vodka that was still somehow safely nestled under your arm, taking another crack at opening up the damn liquor that you both definitely needed right now. "Goddammit- Why can't I break this fucking-"

"Give me that-" John suddenly interjects, perking up to snatch the bottle from your hands and crack the lid open from it's waxy imprisonment like it was nothing. He takes a quick swig and swiftly makes a face, letting out a small cough or two before offering the bottle back to you, his gaze locked onto the stretch of limo in front of you.

You can't help but smile a little, gently taking the bottle from his hand and taking a small swig yourself - you also can't help but wince a little as it burns in your throat - before capping the bottle, nervously wringing your hands around the neck of it. You didn't even know what song was playing anymore, it now having faded into some fuzz of noise as you both sat there in what could've been the most awkward silence of both your lifetimes.

"…You really don't know who Chappell Roan is?"

John groans again at your question, less in frustration with you, but as if he could exorcise the sheer embarrassment out of his body somehow by doing so. "No, I don't."

You nudge his arm with your hand, holding it out to him. "Hand me my clutch."

He does it without any protest while still not making eye contact, but can't help but look a little confused as he hears you pop it open with a snap!

Since your bag was so small, you weren't able to fit your normal everyday distractions and knick knacks, but you did manage to cram some old wired headphones in there, along with some lip gloss and smaller essentials from your wallet. You stick the jack into the bottom of your phone, putting one earbud in your ear before offering the other out to John, waving it in front of his face. "Here."

John stares at it for a moment before his brow furrows again, finally looking back at you. "…You brought headphones?"

You just shrug. "Never know when you're gonna be stuck somewhere for an indefinite amount of time." You justify with a smile, nudging the earbud at him again. "Now put it in."

John's shift briefly between the dangling earbud and your face for a moment before gently taking it from your hand and popping it into his ear. You scrolled through your phone for some more Chappell songs - you can't just not educate him on one of the hottest pop artists of the last few years.

"Here," You point out as you hold your phone where he could also see your screen, tapping on a song, "This is one of the more popular ones and it's pretty cute. There's even a little dance for it and everything."

"What, like, the Macarena or something?"

You can't help but laugh as the opening cheers for HOT TO GO! start playing. "I mean, technically yes, but also absolutely not."

John holds his hand up to the ear bud to try and hear the song better, and you do your best not to accidentally yank it away as you hear the chorus start. You mouth along with the words while you do a slightly smaller version of the choreography, spelling out H-O-T-T-O-G-O with your arms before pointing towards John, then lightly guiding your hands down your torso. John just watches with a soft yet slowly growing smile, chuckling as you nudge his shoulder to try and get him to join you on the second chorus. He just laughs as he shakes his head, you exaggerating your moves even more the second time around before belting the bridge along with the track. He finally gives in one the last few spellings, doing smaller movements but still clearly charmed by your infectious enthusiasm.

You're caught in a giggling fit by the end of it, your cheeks starting to ache a little from how hard you were smiling. "You should teach that to the other Thunderbolts. Might be good for your publicity if you start doing cool trendy TikTok dances." You joke.

"Well, not like our public image couldn't get any worse." He noted with his usual sarcasm, a small cheeky smile plastered to his face as he nods down towards your phone. "Do all of them have dances like that?"

"Lucky for you, they don't actually." You clarify with a mischievous smile. "At least not all of them. Some of them are really fuckin' sad actually, but those are honestly my favorites."

"Could've fooled me." John teases. "Is that why you're so 'happy-go-lucky' all the damn time? You just listen to super depressing music when no ones around to siphon all the sadness out of you?"

"Hey, don't knock it till you try it." You tease back, leaning a bit closer to show him the next song you wanted to play. "Here, this is probably my favorite on the album-"

Once he pulls to a gentler stop at a red light, Alexei can't help but catch glimpses of you two from the rear-view mirror. As you seem to babble about the song that was playing or softly sing along to the words, he can't help but notice how John's gaze on you softens, how his shoulders finally seem to relax as he tries and fails to evenly divide his attention between the lyrics on your phone and your face.

Alexei smiles to himself, sighing happily as he turns his focus back to the road.

It didn't take as long as you anticipated to finally arrive at the venue, the event itself practically announcing itself to you with the glowing lights shining on the columns carved into the building. There was also a small crowd of well-dressed attendees starting to file in from the looks of it, a few cameras and reporters also seemingly posted at the sides as they ascended the stairs that led into the building.

"We have arrived!" Alexei announces with a boisterous laugh. "Sit tight - I will get the door."

While John just sighs, you simply nod at Alexei's little declaration as you watch him step out of the car, a sinking feeling in your stomach starting to spread as the door slams behind him.

Even with everything you'd done to mentally and physically prepare yourself, even knowing damn well what this whole thing entailed (or at least having some sort of idea about it), your breath can't help but shake a little as you tuck your phone and earbuds back into your clutch.

And, of course, John notices.

"Hey." John gently calls out, causing you to look up from your lap. "Don't tell me you're thinking of bailing on me now?"

"What? No, absolutely not-" You clear your throat as you smooth out your dress. "I guess, uhm…nerves are just starting to get to me, that's all."

John hums in understanding, looking out the window to assess the scene ahead of you - always the soldier, trying to think tactically through every little detail.

"Well…" He starts, turning back to face you, "Usually getting in is the hardest part. Once you're past those doors though," He makes a point to gesture to the entrance just ahead, watching as other attendees in fancy attire stroll up without a hitch, "It's a cake walk, I promise."

You look just over his shoulder, apprehensive eyes looking like they were planning to make an escape more than an entrance. Without thinking, John gently takes your hand from your lap, pulling your attention right back to that handsome face right in front of you.

"Just keep your eyes on me, okay?"

You softly nod, watching as John nods back before Alexei opens the car door for him to exit. As he's stepping out onto the sidewalk and extending his hand back inside the limo, your heart itches to leap out of your chest as you reach out and clasp your hand in his. Feeling the the gentle tug on your arm as he helps you out of the car, his clear eyes watching you carefully as you steady yourself on the concrete, it was all weirdly soothing and exciting all at once.

"See?" John says with a smile as he lets your hand slip out of his grasp. "You're a natural."

You can't help but smile a bit more bashfully, even as your nerves finally start to settle. "I guess so." You reply back, but you smirk a little as your brow quirks. "You trying to say I look like a rich asshole?"

"I'm trying to get you to stop putting words in my damn mouth." John throws back.

"Ah, now you think I'm broke?" You joke with a smile, and John just scoffs.

"I mean, everybody is 'broke' in some sort of way, if you think about." Alexei suddenly speaks up, pulling you both from your little private world.

"That might be the most insightful thing I've ever heard you say, Alexei." John notes.

Alexei grins with a nonchalant shrug. "It is because I am insightful man."

John just slowly nods. "Sure bud."

Alexei just smiles, but the joy from his face is cut short by the sudden cacophony of car horns from behind the limo. "Ah, shit- I will rejoin you later! Surely there is valet or…something around here."

Alexei dismisses himself with a tip of his drivers cap, you and John watching as he runs back to his drivers seat while yelling at the awaiting cars just trying to make their way to the venue.

"Where the fuck is he even gonna park that thing?" You ask, and John just shrugs.

"Not our problem." John answers simply, his eyes quickly scanning over the small crowd outside before spotting a familiar face buried in her signature tablet. "C'mon. Gotta check in with someone first before we head inside. Let me do the talking, okay?"

"…Okay?" You say with a hesitant smile, following just a step or two behind John as you both approached the base of the stairs.

The woman looks up, seeming to immediately recognize John with how quickly her face went from slight relief to annoyance. "Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be with us in the envoy-"

"Well, I would have, if you guys didn't leave early." John throws back.

"What? What do you mean?" Mel tries to correct. "We didn't leave early, we left at the time we all scheduled, like we planned."

"Wh- but, Alexei-" John freezes for a moment, blinking once before letting out a frustrated sigh before muttering under his breath. "Those motherfuckers-"

Mel brushes off his sudden epiphany with a wave of her hand and a small shake of her head. "It's fine, whatever, what matters is that you're here-" She cuts herself off, looking around over John's shoulder and seemingly to just gloss over you entirely, "Where's Alexei?"

"Oh, uh, I think he's trying to find parking somewhere." You helpfully speak up with a smile.

Mel stares at you like she had only just now registered your presence, turning her seemingly disapproving gaze back to John. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

"O-oh, sorry, I'm-"

"This is our plus one." John clarifies before you can stumble over your own tongue, clearing his throat and introducing you by name to Mel.

"Wh- Wait, I'm sorry- our?"