X Reader Fic Recommendations

Companion piece to:

Before You -  Pope was in a dark place before he met you.

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

Made For You (NSFW) - Pope’s sexual encounters have always been paid for… until you.

Go - Pope doesn't realise he has options, not until you.

The Gift - Andrew recieves an unexpected Christmas gift.

Compulsions - You realise something isn’t right in Pope’s world

The Octagon - Smurf decides to show you the real Pope Cody.

The Bathtub - After the fight at The Octagon Pope returns to the beach house to claim his prize, only to discover a change of plan.

Two Weeks - Two weeks is too long for Pope to go without you.

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Wild Boys - Pope gets a phone call he doesn’t expect in the middle of the night.

The Journal - Pope accidently comes across your journal after an incident with Smurf.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.

The Gruffalo - Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.

Kill The Queen - Pope tries to come to terms with Smurf’s death.

Night Thoughts - You and Pope discuss your fears about becoming a parent.

Existential (NSFW) - You and Pope have another first in the aftermath of Smurf’s death.

Today (NSFW) - You and Pope both wake up excited for the day ahead.

Freya - There’s a reason that the wedding has to happen before the birth of your daughter.

Picture Perfect - Pope shares a quiet moment with his new daughter.

Pope could spend hours watching his daughter.

A month in and he’s already memorised every single one of her motions.

The way she shakes her hands and kicks her feet when she wants picking up, the purse of her lips when she’s hungry, the scrunch of her face when it’s time for a diaper change. She’s a miracle, his miracle and he tells her that every single night when she falls asleep in the bassinette he’s put on his side of the bed, those tiny snores emitting from her cute little nose.

“I don’t think there’s ever going to come a day when I don’t find that endearing.” He tells you as he strips off his jeans and climbs into bed alongside you.

You prop your head up on your pillow, your hair falling across your features. He reaches out, his fingertips tucking a stray strand back behind your ear, his wedding ring glinting in the light. His thumb grazes over your cheek, an ache building in his chest as he thinks about his own history, how he was pick pocketing at six, fighting Smurf’s battles by eight. You were already turning tricks at that age, being sold to your father’s friends to fund his habit.

He doesn’t understand how any parent can do those things to their kid. He didn’t before his had his own and now… There was something toxic inside of Smurf, something fundamentally broken inside your father.

The two of you, you’re not like them. You’ll never be like them.

“You and me, we never really got to be kids.” His voice is rough as he presses his forehead to yours. “But her… let’s make sure that she does ok? Let’s make sure she gets the childhood she deserves.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

You had recently returned to school after being out for years, making you noticeably older than your peers. Financial constraints had prevented you from attending college when you were younger, so a few years back you earned your associate degree at community college before transferring to San Diego State University. Now in your final year, you were on the verge of completing your degree. Balancing school with work, you attended night classes while employed as a hotel concierge—a position you'd built up to after starting as a housekeeper. Your goal was to transition into hotel management, and your Hospitality and Tourism degree was the key to getting there.

Andrew was already at the door, and your heart did that little flip it always did when you saw him. He jogged down to meet you, that easy smile spreading across his face.

"Hey, you," he said softly, already reaching for your passenger door before you could even close yours. He grabbed your backpack from the seat, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. You turned to face him, and he leaned in, his hand finding the small of your back as he kissed you. It was the kind of kiss that made the exhaustion melt away, at least for a moment.

"Come on," he murmured against your lips, "let's get you inside."

You grabbed the insulated bag from the back seat (leftovers from the hotel restaurant, good stuff that your manager had let you take) and followed him up to the apartment. It was 8:30 PM, and you were starving.

"I brought dinner," you said, holding up the bag as he unlocked the door. You kicked off your work shoes by the door, sighing with relief as your feet finally touched the cool hardwood. Your hotel uniform (crisp navy with the logo embroidered on the chest) felt heavy after twelve hours of wear. You unclipped your name tag and set it on the small table by the entrance, already moving toward the kitchen.

"I'll just heat this up real quick," you said, walking towards his kitchen and pulling out a container of the special from tonight's service. Your stomach was growling loud enough that Andrew probably heard it.

"Baby, no." His voice was gentle but firm, and you felt his hand wrap around your wrist before you could open the microwave. "You've been on your feet all day."

You turned to protest, but he was already shaking his head in that familiar and determined way that meant he had made a decision. You learned not to argue with him when he got like this, not out of fear, but because underneath all that rigid control was someone who couldn't rest until you were comfortable.

"Come on," he said, tugging you toward the couch. "Sit down."

You settled onto the cushions with a grateful sigh, your body already beginning to unwind.

"Can we eat here? On the couch?" you asked, biting your lip. Your feet were throbbing, your lower back ached, and the thought of sitting upright at the dining room table felt like asking you to run a marathon.

Andrew didn’t say anything for a moment. Eating on the couch was chaos. It was crumbs and disorder and everything that made him uncomfortable. You could practically see the internal calculation happening…the war between what he wanted (order, structure, and the dining room table being where meals belonged) and what you needed.

But he leaned down and kissed your forehead, surprising you, pressing his lips there for a long moment before pulling back. "Sure," he murmured, and walked back to the kitchen.

"Would you like some water?" he asked.

"Can I get a beer?" you called after him. It was Friday, and you rarely drank, so Andrew could tell that you were using this as a celebratory drink. A small reward for surviving another week.

"Of course," he grunted.

He heated the containers, found plates, and within minutes, he returned with the grilled chicken and roasted vegetables arranged on a plate, setting it down on place mats. A cold beer sat beside your plate, condensation already beading on the glass.

"There," he said, settling beside you on the couch, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. "Better?"

You leaned your head on his shoulder, already reaching for the fork. "Much better."

"You need to eat more consistently. Your energy levels have been inconsistent this week."

"I know," you said, already chewing.

He watched you eat, the fork moving mechanically from plate to mouth. You were wiped out, and he could see it in the slight tremor of your hand, the way you had to keep your head up consciously. It was the same exhaustion he'd noticed creeping in over the past few weeks, that tired look that appeared around your eyes by Wednesday and didn't fade until Sunday afternoon.

Too much, he thought, It's too much.

He understood the logic of it. School was important. It was currently your number 1 priority. And your job provided financial stability, the practical means to exist in this expensive fucking city. He respected that. He understood that. But understanding and accepting were two different things. And, right now, watching you struggle to keep your eyes open while you worked through dinner, Andrew couldn't reconcile the equation. You were working full-time and carrying a full course load… the math of it didn't work. You were dividing yourself into pieces small enough that none of them could function properly. If it were up to him, you wouldn't be working at all. You'd be in school, focused entirely on that. You'd have time to sleep, to eat properly, to exist without this constant strain pulling you apart at the seams.

"Baby, I've been thinking," Andrew said quietly, his thumb tracing circles on your shoulder. "For next semester, why don't you take your classes during the day?"

You frowned. "But...then I wouldn't be able to work."

"That's fine." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You could move in. Since you refuse to let me pay for your tuition, then let me take the stress of rent, utilities, food, and everything else off your plate."

"No." The word came out as a growl, and you pulled away from him, setting your fork down with more force than necessary. Andrew knew this would be difficult because you were extremely prideful. But that didn't make it easier to watch you reject the obvious solution.

"Why?" he asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he genuinely couldn't understand the logic of your refusal.

You stood, moving away from the couch. "Andrew, I can't let you do that."

"The rent is only going to go up," he said, following you with his eyes. "The increase is about to be announced."

You turned to face him, and he saw the flash of understanding across your features. You lived in one of the family buildings owned by him and his brothers, so you were his tenant (and he was your landlord), which meant that your relationship was technically a conflict of interest. But it had never mattered to him… because the first time he helped you haul your groceries up the stairs to your apartment—he knew he was a fucking goner. Six months later, here you both were.

One word and your rent could disappear. He had offered once, but you had respectfully declined. So instead, he accepted the checks and hated himself for it. He'd stare at the numbers, at your signature in the corner, and it made him feel like he was taking from you.

"That's not the point," you said.

"Then what is the point?" Andrew stood now. "Explain it to me, because from where I'm standing, you're working yourself into the ground for no reason."

"I don't want to be dependent on you, Andrew. I can't—I won't—let myself become that person. The person who relies on someone else."

"That's not what this is."

"Isn't it?" you rolled your eyes. "If I move in, if you pay for everything, what happens when—" you stopped, but it was too late.

"When what?" Andrew's voice had gone dangerously quiet.

"What if we break up?" you whispered anxiously, fingers twisting together.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Andrew stared at you, and you watched his expression shift… and watched something dark and sharp flicker across his features. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled in a way that was somehow more frightening than if he'd shouted.

"Why the fuck are we breaking up?"

"We're not, I just—"

"No." He stepped closer. "It sounds like it’s not a hypothetical for you. You're already planning for it. You're already assuming it's inevitable."

"That's not what I’m saying."

"Isn't it?" His voice mirrored yours from moments before, but there was an edge to it now, something rigid and unyielding. "You're sitting here, exhausting yourself to the point of collapse, because you're so determined to maintain some kind of independence that you won't even consider the possibility that I might want to take care of you. That I might need to take care of you."

He could provide for you. He wanted to provide for you. That was what he was supposed to do. A real man took care of what mattered to him. It was that fucking simple.

"It’s not right," you said, your voice rising. "I don’t deserve it."

"What do you mean it’s not right?" Andrew pressed his lips thin. "Stop being too proud to let me help you!”

"It's not about pride!" The words erupted from you before you even realized you were speaking. "My dad walked out on us. My dad, Andrew. One day, he decided my mom, my sister, and I weren’t worth it anymore, and he just—he left. My most recent ex dumped me purely because his brother didn't like me. And my sister? Her husband promised her forever, and then she caught him with a fucking 21-year-old."

Your voice shattered mid-sentence, fear bleeding through every word. "My best friend had to move in with me last year because her ex literally changed the locks on her when the asshole broke up with her. She had nowhere else to go. And my colleague—God, my fucking colleague is still waiting for this mediocre married guy to leave his wife. He keeps telling her 'soon, soon.' But it's never going to happen. He's never going to choose her. So please, forgive me if I don't just... trust that you're going to want this forever, because people don't. People change their minds. People leave."

Andrew stood there, utterly still, and his dark hazel eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on unbearable. The realization hit him like a bullet to the chest. He could feel it, the slow spread of cold fury radiating from his gut, working its way through his veins until it sat behind his eyes, hot and sharp. Your father didn't just leave. He didn't just walk out, close a door, and disappear. He carved a wound into you so deep that years later, you were still bleeding from it. And every man who came after (your shitty ex, your sister's husband, your friend's ex, your colleague's married lover), they were pressing their thumbs into that wound and twisting it.

He didn’t look away from you, just took a breath, slow and deliberate, and let the thought settle into his bones:

If I ever meet your father, I'm going to kill him.

It wasn’t fantasy. It wasn’t an exaggeration born of the moment. It was a cold, crystalline certainty that lodged itself in his chest like a blade he had already decided to pull. He pictured it: some man, probably middle-aged, probably with a face that didn’t look like cruelty. Probably someone who would shake Andrew's hand and not know that he was shaking hands with the man who would fucking end him. And Andrew would look him in the eyes, the same eyes he passed down to you, and he'd think, This is the man who taught you that love is temporary. This is the man who made you believe you're not worth staying for.

He'd kill him slowly. Not sloppy, though, because Andrew wasn’t sloppy. But slow enough that the man would understand what was happening, understand that this was recompense for every night you probably spent wondering what was wrong with you, and thinking that people change their minds, and people leave.

"Come here," he said quietly.

"No." You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I can't do this right now."

"Yes, you can." He closed the distance between you, his hands gentle as they found your shoulders. "Look at me."

You didn't want to, but you did. His eyes were intense, focused entirely on you.

"I love you," he said, and he meant it. He meant it with every filthy, blood-soaked, stubborn part of him. "Not for right now. Not for the next year or the next 5 years. For forever. Do you understand me?"

You shook your head, tears spilling over your cheeks now.

"I don't know how to believe that, sometimes," you whispered.

Andrew's hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away your tears. "What do you want me to do? What do you need me to do to prove this to you?" He wanted to promise you something he had never promised anyone. He didn’t know what the words would be yet, but he felt them clawing up from his chest, desperate to be said.

"I don't know. I don't—"

"Do you want me to bring out the ring I bought last month?" he asked quietly. "Because I will. Right now. I'll go get it."

"What?" you gasped.

"You heard me," he said, looking at you like you're the only thing in this world that matters. "I was planning to wait. But if that's what you need to hear, I'll do it now. I'll ask you right now."

"Andrew, we—we haven't even been together a year yet," you said, shock overriding the fear for a moment.

"I know." He stepped back slightly, his hand still on your face. "But I also know that I love you. And I know that I'm not going anywhere."

"You can't promise that," you said, but your voice was smaller now, less certain.

"I can, and I am." He looked at you with such intensity that it was hard to hold his gaze. "I'm promising it to you right now. Forever. That's what I want. That's what I'm choosing."

You stood there, tears streaming down your face, wanting so desperately to believe him. Wanting to let yourself fall into this, into him. But then you looked up (really looked) and suddenly in that awful, unmoving certainty, you felt it: he meant every word.

"If you're my soon-to-be fiancé," you sniffled, "then... then I guess it's okay if we live together."

Andrew's expression softened into something almost like relief. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you whispered. "I love you, Andrew."

And you did. They were words that were exchanged fairly quickly in your relationship. Probably a month in. But neither of you seemed to care that it was fast. It had felt like it made the most sense in the world. He pulled you against him, and you buried your face in his chest.

"There's something else," he said, his voice rumbling against your ear. "If you're my soon-to-be fiancée, you're going to tell work that you’re taking a leave of absence until you graduate. Not a reduction in hours—a full leave."

You pulled back to look at him, confused. "Andrew, what? I can't just—"

"You can, and you will." His voice was firm, brooking no argument.

"But the money—"

“I'm handling it." He cupped your face, his dark eyes intense and unwavering. "You don't get to argue with me on this. Not anymore. You're going to focus on school. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me love you, and that means taking care of you. Your future, your education, everything.

"Andrew—"

"There is no negotiation here," he said, and there was something almost dangerous in his certainty. You wanted to argue. You wanted to protect yourself, to keep that wall up. But looking at him with that absolute conviction in his eyes, and the obsessive need to ensure your security, you found yourself nodding instead.

"Okay," you murmured.

"I'm not going to promise you that every day is going to be easy," he muttered, "because it won't be. But I'm going to promise you this—" His thumb stilled on your skin. "I'm never going to make you wonder how I feel about you."

He kissed you then, slow and deep, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, forever was possible.

“He needs this,” you say quietly.

His eyes hold yours before following the slope of your nose and settling on your mouth. The air between you thickens, growing heavy and charged.

“We all do,” he agrees, his voice dropping to a rough timbre that vibrates the small space between you.

Slowly, he lifts a hand, his thick, calloused fingers shaping to the side of your neck.

“The galaxy is full of danger,” you whisper. “All we have are these moments.”

His thumb rests gently against the line of your jaw and he lowers his head. The distance evaporates until there’s no air left to breathe, just him. Warm lips brush yours, soft and slow and you melt into it, your fingers finding purchase on the edges of his chest plate, anchoring yourself against his strength.

“And I want to spend every one of them with you.” he murmurs along your lips. “I’ll go wherever you will go.”

Your fingers trace up and over the wide breadth of his shoulders, finding his hair and combing through gently as your forehead rests to his.

“And I’ll stay with you for all of time,” you answer, watching the slow dip of his head until your lips meet again.

Your eyes flutter shut and each pass of your lips earns a soft groan from him, low and desperate. His arm bands around you, large hand splayed at your back, every inch of you pressed against him.

You catch sight of him lingering by the curtain, smile growing somehow even brighter. "Dr Abbot," you say, still warm as sunshine after a twelve hour shift. "Look at you all the way up here." You wait until you're well out of earshot of the patients before speaking up again. "Surprised you could figure out the elevator, old man."

Jack snorts, swinging his hips around to shift his weight so he can start walking at the same time as you. He's normally got a lot of handoff or charting to do so you usually meet him downstairs. It had been a mercifully slow day and he'd managed to get out on time. "You needed my help to set up your printer yesterday."

"Earning your keep, grandpa." You shrug your coat on. Your ID badge has a glittery sticker of a cartoon character plastered in one of the few sections of dead space. Jack watches you finish up at your locker and then follows you dutifully back towards the elevator. You wave back at the little girl as you leave, coming to rest your head on his shoulder once the elevator doors close. "Did you have a good day?"

He hums in lieu of response, hand coming to rest flat on your back. "What about you?"

He listens to you chatter about your patients all the way to your car. Kids in the ER are always the hardest cases but that doesn't always necessary translate to the ward. You love your job, Jack's always known that about you, even before he was allowed to see you outside the confines of the hospital. He can't stop thinking about you with that little girl on your hip, looking the picture of perfect happiness. He spends the entire drive home plagued by the image of a baby with your eyes and his smile.

You and Jack have been together for a while, definitely long enough to have spoken about kids. You haven't yet, you figured that comes with the territory of dating an older man. You love him so much, you're okay with whatever he wants to do. You love kids, being around them day in day out, your life is perfect just as it is.

"Do you..." Jack's been unusually quiet the entire time you've had him this afternoon. It's been a long day, you don't like to hold it against him. "Do you think you'd ever want kids?"

You're young. You could want kids, marriage, the whole shebang. You could want those things with someone who isn't him. Jack isn't in the business of making assumptions.

The parking garage is cold, especially now that the sun is sinking. He's shifting on his feet and fiddling with the strap of his watch. You trap him against the car, keys still in your pocket, practically forcing him into a hug. He softens against you, arm coming to wrap around your shoulders. Jack tilts his chin so he can press a kiss to the part of your face that his closest to his, the fleshy part of your jaw. "I'd have kids with you, Abbot."

He hates when you call him Abbot outside of work and Jack knows you know that.

"Forget I asked," he tries to wrestle out of your hold. "I don't want to have kids with you, anyway."

You make him fight for it for a sec before eventually letting up and unlocking the car. "Well then, problem solved," you hit the lock button right as he reaches for the handle. "We don't have kids, I get you all to myself forever."

He jerks the handle, almost hitting himself in the face when it finally opens. You're the most annoying woman he's ever met, chock full of energy after being on your feet all day, so unendingly endearing, and he wants to have a baby with you so badly.

"Not good enough anymore," he says once you're both settled in the car. "I need someone else there to give me a buffer, take my side against your fuckin' antics."

"Make up your mind, old man," you groan, stretching your back and rolling your neck. Jack resists the urge to kiss the expanse of skin peeking above the collar of your coat. "Who's to say that our kid wouldn't turn out exactly like me anyway?"

Evidently, he’s struggling.

“Good morning, Cardinal, do you need a hand?”

His eyebrows shoot up when he hears your voice and he stops dead in his tracks, slowly turning his head until he catches you standing right behind him. Despite your announcement, he visibly startles, nearly dropping the boxes in his arms.

“Oh, eh… yes, if you could open the door for me, Sibling?”

“Of course.”

With your hand on the knob, you watch as he hurries inside of his office, wheezing under the weight and dropping the boxes onto his desk with a dull thud that echoes loudly in his mostly bare working space. Apart from books upon books strewn across and around his desk as well as an old weathered couch, there hasn’t been any love put into decorating the space. You wait patiently for him to turn back around to you, a hint of red dusting his cheeks when he finally does.

“Thank you,” he squeezes out, trying very hard to swallow his heavy exhales. “I carried them here all the way from the archives. Long way, you know, even for my…” He holds up his arm, flexing it exaggeratedly. “My strong, powerful muscles.”

You giggle and he perks up in delight, eyes wide and shiny. “No problem, Cardinal, I can imagine they’re very heavy.” 

You smile at him and he smiles back, so sweetly, and you’re momentarily at an equal loss for words. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, down the prominent bridge of his nose. He brushes it away with a leather-gloved hand and you can’t help but stare as he wipes it clean on the heavy fabric of his vestments, shaking out his fingers once he’s done. You can’t look away as they flex and release, flex and release. They’re surprisingly long and so… nimble.

Copia’s violent cough startles you awake and you’re not sure if it’s his own nerves that make him clear his throat, if his overexerted lungs are protesting or if he caught you staring. Either way, you feel your own cheeks getting hot now, the moment of hesitant silence slowly transitioning into a gooey sort of awkwardness.

“So, ugh… I better get back to my own duties,” you say. “Lots to do, spring cleaning and all that.”

He nods. “Yes, yes, you are busy, of course. Such a busy little bee. Bzz bzz. Hehe.”

You awkwardly giggle back, trying hard to think of a clever joke. Maybe something that has to do with stinging? But before you can settle on one, the time for a witty come-back has stretched thin and so you just awkwardly wave at him, mutter a “see you later” and close the door.

With your back pressed to the wood, you let out a deep exhale, the butterflies – or bees – in your stomach making it very hard to breathe at a normal pace. Once you’ve recollected your wits, you notice that the hallway is still as busy as before, maybe even busier.

Like lions gathering around an animal carcass after days of starvation, what feels like half the abbey has been flocking to the big rectangular corkboard. You cannot possibly imagine what would warrant such intense interest. The most exciting messages on any given day are unusual sex requests, the invitation to a weirdly themed party or a call for applications to a particularly intricate sex ritual to honour the Dark One.

You push through the crowd to check what’s causing the repeated giggling and excited whispers amongst your peers when you spot a pristine piece of paper on the board. It’s thick, stark-white, shaped like a heart at the top and with pieces to rip off at the bottom that contain a phone number. You squint, move in even closer until you can make out the text – hand-written and in cursive.

I (m, 50) am looking for a partner to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t have any preferences but it would be coolio if we had similar interests, so we can have some fun together.

I like: watching movies, playing video games, going on walks, rigatoni, juice, small animals

I don’t like: coconut flavour, being barefoot, swimming, touching wet dishes, bullies, dentist appointments

If you think we are a good match I would like to take you on a romantic date. Please call or text me.  Bye bye!

You smile at the note but quickly find back down to earth when someone rams their elbow into your side. No one has taken one of the numbers yet, so you assume the excitement is more about the fact that there is a lonely hearts ad on the bulletin board at all than any actual interest in the person. You have to admit, it is a bit odd. Most younger clergy members just use dating apps these days or social media. But the lonely heart in question is fifty, so they may not be familiar with modern methods, and it’s oddly endearing that anyone would go through the trouble of creating such an ad. At the same time, it breaks your heart that someone in the abbey is so lonely that they risk the ridicule of half of the clergy members just to have a chance at finding love.

“Well, there are a bunch of people who it could be,” you overhear someone say. “Maybe one of the older Brothers, a bunch of them are single. Could also be that new bishop who just arrived, I heard he’s a cinephile and walks around the gardens quite often.”

You ignore the whispers of speculation, making your way back through the crowd to return to your duties. It’s almost dinner time by now and you need to get two more loads of laundry done before then. But even as you sort through piles of habits, cassocks and veils… you can’t stop thinking about the ad. You sincerely hope the person receives a few serious and not just prank calls. The note did sound endearing and you definitely see similarities. At the same time you’re far too busy nursing your hopeless crush on the Cardinal to actually entertain the thought of dating someone else. 

You decide to check on the ad again tomorrow, see if anyone took a number, and if not, you could at least save it to your phone… just in case.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Two birds land on his window sill, rubbing their beaks together in a kiss before happily chirping at each other. They’re in love, literal love birds, building a nest on the little protrusion in the wall right below his window. He’s been watching them occasionally, unreasonably envious, as they bring in twig after twig, ready to start their family. From the same window, Copia can make out the spring-filled gardens with their colourful patches of pink and red tulips, bumblebees hurrying from blossom to blossom, drunk on pollen and greedy for more. He can overlook the bright green meadow leading down to the pond, speckled with lush, budding trees. At this time of the day, after everyone finished their daily duties, the grass has almost completely disappeared under a plethora of picnic blankets.

Spring fever, he assumes, has to be the reason why everyone seems to be in love. Couples dozing in each other’s arms in the shade of the trees, feeding their lovers berries or grapes, taking a stroll down to the pond with their joined hands dangling between them, kissing without pause in the archways of the cool stone walkways leading outside. Just now he spots two Sisters rubbing sunscreen on each other’s bare shoulders, one of them kissing the other's head before they fall back onto their blanket, giggling happily at each other.

He feels so incredibly lonely.

This has been going on for weeks now and he’s tired of feeling so shamefully worthless of affection. Instead of the arms of his lover, he sinks into his tattered old desk chair and drowns his sorrows in boring paperwork. Not that that’s going well, but for lack of alternatives, he’d rather do budget calculations than sit in his quarters all alone. Every evening, the spring breeze carries the sound of happy laughter through his windows, usually while he’s playing video games all by himself, but he can’t keep them closed if he doesn’t want to sweat to death. Besides… that same gentle breeze is the only thing caressing his skin as he tries to fall asleep at night and if he closes his eyes, the wind almost feels like fingertips ghosting over his arms.

As he leaves his office that night, he receives another heavy but sadly much expected blow. Almost a week now and still no one has taken one of the numbers from his lonely hearts ad. Of course it doesn’t mean no one saved it to his phone, he tells himself, people are shy or they just don’t want to date an anonymous person. It has nothing to do with him, they don’t even know it’s him. And yet… if his dating streak continues so poorly, he’s not sure if he can stay sane for much longer. There are only so many tears you can cry in bed at night before it starts to take a toll on you.

His heart is especially heavy as he makes his way to his lonely quarters. One more day and then he’s taking it down, he decides. No use in waiting any longer now that surely everyone in the abbey has seen his request and the last thing he wants are pity calls.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

“So, are you going to call the Cardinal?”

You look up from your breakfast plate. Your friend Lily is sitting opposite of you, chewing on a blueberry muffin, and you narrow your eyes at her. “The Cardinal?”

“The number in the lonely hearts ad,” she says. “It’s still there, I checked earlier.”

“It’s the Cardinal?”

She nods, popping another piece of muffin into her mouth. “Duh.”

You feel your cheeks heating up and set your fork down to hide the sudden tremor in your fingers. “Which Cardinal?”

She gives a soft groan of annoyance. “Babe, there is only one of the Cardinals who would ever hang up such a goofy thing. Now, will you call him?”

Copia. She knows about your… slight infatuation with him. And despite being kind and not teasing you too much, it was just a matter of time until the occasion popped up. If he is looking for a serious partner… maybe it’s too late for you soon. The ad has been up for days and while you’ve been toying with the idea of calling, you just haven’t found the courage yet.

You continue eating, trying to act casual, but it takes you three attempts to pick up a stray piece of cucumber from your plate. “How do you even know it’s his number?”

Lily takes a deep breath, setting the muffin down to ready herself. “Sooo, Michael wanted to call the number to check who it is, right? Well, turns out his girlfriend already knew it’s the Cardinal’s number and his girlfriend is Sister Jill who knows it from Sister Mary who is roommates with Sibling Jessie who works with the treasury and their colleague Brother Paul works as the Cardinal’s assistant two times a week and that’s how he has the Cardinal’s number for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Now, will you?”

Eyes on your empty plate, you bite your lip until you can taste blood. It’s Copia’s number, the number of your crush of about six months now, and he’s looking for a partner, unspecified. That’s… big news, intimidating news, news that calls to an action you’re not sure you’re prepared for.

Glancing at Lily, you catch her smirking at you and promptly give her a scowl. “I don’t know. What if he already got better options?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Better than you? I doubt it.”

“You’re biased because you’re my friend.”

A shrug. “You should try. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“He could be disappointed.”

“He’s more disappointed if no one calls,” she counters.

“Yeah but–”

You stop yourself when you see Nora, Lily’s girlfriend, approaching the table. Her arms wrap around Lily from behind as she presses a loud, lingering kiss to her cheek, both of them giggling.

“You scared me,” Lily says, turning around for a proper kiss.

“Sorry, love, but I can’t leave breakfast without my sweet treat.”

You avert your gaze, involuntarily feeling like an intruder. They’ve been together for a few weeks now, sickeningly adorable. Lily had been pining after Nora for months, a little bit like you with the Cardinal, only that she eventually found the courage to ask her out. To see her bravery being rewarded like that makes you incredibly happy for both of them. But at the same time… you have rarely ever felt your loneliness so sharply, the heaviness of your unreciprocated crush such a weight on your shoulders.

You know that if you want this to be you and the Cardinal, then there’s only one real answer to her question: You have to reach out to him.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

He’s ready to toss this day into the trash bin already and he only just got up. 

Last night, after tossing and turning for hours, Copia fell asleep only to promptly land in a hysterically embarrassing dream that made him jolt up whimpering like a kicked dog and hiding his face in the pillow. Bringing himself close to suffocation, he finally realised that he had not actually stumbled right in front of you, spilling juice all over his robes, scrambling to get up only to slip in the puddle by his feet, falling onto his butt with a high-pitched cry. You had been standing there motionless, watching the spectacle unfold until you turned around to leave.

This is the reaction he would expect, should he ever actually find the courage to ask you out. However, this is highly doubtful, because upon walking to his office half an hour later, he catches you with a group of friends. He often sees you with them – attractive young Siblings, evident chemistry between all of you, and every week he suspects a different one to be in love with you. He recognizes the two Sisters he saw from his window earlier this week. One of them presses a loving kiss to the other’s cheek and he wishes he could just walk up to you and do the same.

His heart hurts. No matter how much kindness you extend to him, you’re a beautiful young soul who could never be romantically interested in an aging loner. Copia is not disliked per se, he gets along with pretty much everyone, but he struggles to build meaningful connections. Between working his butt off to satisfy the clergy and spending time on his mostly solitary hobbies, it’s hard to meet people. He had to actively put himself out there but neither online dating nor any of the singles’ events Terzo sent him on brought any results – only what the young Siblings call getting “ghosted” or “benched”.

His ad is his last chance. And even that failed miserably.

As he ponders his options, your eyes suddenly meet his and he swears you’re smiling. Then you lift your hand in a cautious wave. For a second, he’s too scared to wave back because there are people around him, all of which could be your target. Your hand sinks after a moment as your smile slowly straightens and he suddenly knows that you do mean him. He lifts his hand far too excitedly in a reciprocative wave. Your smile returns, a shy one, but before he can even think about possibly approaching you, his knees suddenly give out.

No, they don’t give out, someone rams a trolly filled with supplies for Black Mass into him. Some of the tall candles roll off the top and clatter to the floor, breaking in half just like his dignity. 

“Oops, sorry, Cardinal,” the Sibling says, scrambling to help him up. “It’s so hard to steer this thing.”

“It’s fine,” he chokes out, the pain in his knees anything but fine. “It happens.”

“I’m truly so sorry.”

He smiles, a hand on their shoulder now that he’s on his feet again. “It is okay, eh? No worries.”

When his eyes try to find you again, you’re not there anymore and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or sad. He prays to Satan that you didn’t see him fall but there is no way you missed it. His dream, if slightly watered-down, did come true after all and perhaps now you won’t want to–

“Cardinal, are you alright?” 

Copia, still dizzy and skittish, spins around so hard he nearly stumbles again. He smooths out his now crumpled cassock, the dust he collected on the floor even more visible on today’s black vestments. In an attempt to retain his dignity, he straightens his spine and looks right into your beautiful eyes. You have a tendency to startle him like that and he wishes he could be more smooth about these encounters.

“Yes, yes, Sibling, thank you. It was… it was nothing, just a little stumble, eh?”

“Are you sure?” You inspect him from head to toe, your brow creased in concern. “It looked painful. Your knees…”

“Oh, my knees are fine!” he lies. “I kneel all the time, Sibling. You know this.” Your eyes widen and he continues to stammer. “I mean in prayer. I pray a lot. On my knees. I am a Cardinal, yes? It’s my job.”

 You nod heavily. “Yes, of course.”

“So, ugh… I better just fuck off.” He presses his lips together to keep more silly words from coming out. “I mean I’ll go back to work. ”

As he tries to leave, your hand shoots up, squeezing the muscles in his forearm. He’s not as much startled as enthralled by your touch, so unexpected that he has no time to feel insecure but so welcome that it almost feels natural to have your fingers on his arm. He swears there is a hint of nervousness in your eyes now and despite knowing it’s silly, his heart wants to interpret it as bashfulness.

“Cardinal, please. I… ugh…” 

You look beautiful from up close. Even if you weren’t stuttering he’d have a hard time listening to your words. It seems like you stopped breathing, your cheeks now a sweet shade of rosy, and you open your mouth to speak but no words come out. Eventually, you shake your head and run your fingers over the fabric of his sleeve. He thinks he’s about to pass out, his nerves rising until he can feel his heartbeat all the way up to his neck. Your hand is so gentle, so… affectionate.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal. I don’t mean to keep you. I was just thinking that I really like the black cassock. It suits you.”

A compliment. His mind is racing. This is not what you really wanted to say, he can tell, but he grins anyway. You like his cassock? Well, you should wait until you see him in a suit. Maybe on a date. He should ask, he realises. This is the moment he’s been waiting for for months now. But as he continues to stare at you his tongue becomes too heavy to form the words, and then your hand is suddenly gone and takes his courage right with it.

“Thank you, Sibling,” he says instead. “I also really like your ugh… your outfit.”

Only when the words leave his mouth does he realise it’s the same everyday habit you’re wearing all the time. Somehow, the silly compliment still manages to conjure a smile onto your face and so he stops berating himself because he made you smile. The sight stuns him, butterflies erupting in his already nervous stomach.

“I’ll see you later, Cardinal,” you say then, your eyes leaving his to glance down the hallway where your friends are waiting, beckoning for you to hurry.

Copia nods and he looks down at your hand in silent fascination, staring at your fingers that are dangling by your thigh without any use as if he could magically make them touch his arm again. “Yes, yes. See you,” he mumbles. “Bye bye.”

When he looks back up, you’re already hurrying off. Copia stays frozen, his gaze trailing after you as though his eyes are glued to your form. Even when you’re out of sight it takes him a while to start moving, to start breathing again.

Around him, the hallway slowly empties as everyone starts to tend to their respective duties. Copia can’t help but feel the nagging disappointment about not asking you out. A chance like this won’t suddenly appear again and even if you refused him it would still be less humiliating than the untouched ad at the bulletin board. He should take it off right now, he figures.

Only when he enters the hallway leading to his office, something looks off about the postings. He notices the change from the corner of his eye at first as he walks past the large corkboard. More party flyers have appeared, someone took down the “diamond butt plug set missing” request that had been hanging there since an orgy in the Siblings’ wing went wrong last month. Instead, Copia notices a large poster promoting condom usage that partly covers the request underneath. Which is how he recognises it.

His ad. 

And one of the numbers is missing.

Copia nearly lets out a loud squeal as realisation dawns on him like the gentle spring sun rising over the hills every morning, bringing warmth and happiness after a cold, dark night. It seems like Cupid finally answered his prayers, like Aphrodite found sweet mercy for him.

Someone took his number. Someone wants to reach out to him.

For the rest of the day, he feels like he swallowed a swarm of bees, staring at his phone like it’s going to light up any second. Which it could. He could receive the message or call that changes his life any second now. Any second. Any… any second.

Nothing happens. Not in the next hour, not in the next two hours. All day, in fact, his phone stays quiet. His initial happiness deflates like a balloon. As he heads towards his quarters that evening, he observes how everyone piles into the dining hall, their happy laughter and cheerful spirits spoiling his usually solid appetite. He hates the sour feeling of envy in his stomach but he can’t help but suspect that everyone conspired against him.

Copia decides to skip dinner in order to cry into a big bowl of gelato. His nightmare might not have come true but his brain tortures him with pictures of your smiling face instead, with the phantom feeling of your warm hand lingering on his arm, and he can’t help but feel crushed anyway. He’d sell his soul to come home to you, to eat with you, sit with you, watch silly movies with you, fall asleep with you in his arms and wake up with your smile as the first thing he gets to see every day. It becomes increasingly clear to him that every day he misses out on being with you is a day tragically lost.

If only he was brave enough to change that.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

You’ve been pacing your bedroom for the better part of the evening now, back and forth and back and forth to the point where you’re seriously concerned about wearing down your carpet. The day passed uneventfully apart from your encounter with Copia in the hallway where you made a complete fool of yourself. You would have loved to skip all of the unnecessary fuss of texting back and forth but you barely spoke more than two words to him before you chickened out. Surely, if his interest in you was romantic, he could just ask you out instead of advertising himself on a public corkboard?

In any case, you’ve been typing out messages for over an hour now, deleting every single one of them only to throw your phone onto the bed multiple times before picking it back up to risk another attempt.

The reason you haven’t given up yet is that Lily knows you have his number now. Last night, when you thought everyone was asleep, you snuck out of your dorm feeling like James Bond with your torch and black clothing, tiptoeing down the empty corridors of the abbey. You didn’t want anyone spreading any premature rumors but a part of you was hesitant to take one of the numbers at all. Even if you called him, it wasn’t certain that he’d want to go on a date with you.

Still, you ripped off one of the thumb-sized pieces of paper and headed back – only to promptly run into Lily as she snuck out to meet Nora. You’re never going to forget her self-satisfied grin as she spotted you with the crumpled number between your fingers.

Begging your creative juices to start flowing, you stare at the empty message box. Perhaps you should be funny. You wonder if he knows the Piña Colada song. It is about a lonely hearts ad after all and he’s a musician. You type and type, delete and retype until you end on a rough draft to show Lily when she gets home. But no, upon rethinking, the joke is too silly even for you and there’s probably a better way to phrase this–

“Hey, have you called him yet?”

You jump, your heart rate doubling in shock. Lily appears in the open doorway and her voice startles you so fiercely that you clutch your phone to your chest. To your utter horror, the swishing sound of a sent message reaches your ear as your palm connects with the touchscreen, and when you glance down, the bubble with your typed out message sits at the top of your chat history.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I sent my stupid silly joke message to him.”

Lily picks your phone from your hands, reading the solitary message from the display. “Well, at least now you’ll know if he shares your weird sense of humour?”

You grasp her shoulder and release a deep, throaty groan. Her words don’t calm you in the slightest, if anything, they only make it worse.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Driving Miss Daisy can’t distract him anymore.

Every two minutes Copia reaches for his phone to check for any missed texts or calls only to have the gapingly empty home screen staring back at him. He never figured out how to change the pre-set wallpaper. Perhaps he could try again when he has a cute couple picture of him and his future partner. The thought makes him smile. It’s one of many little things he would change – if they only called.

Despite putting it on vibrate, he doesn’t trust the device to inform him of any news. He even carried it to the toilet twice already, just in case something happens while he’s gone. His ice cream doesn’t satisfy him tonight, everything feels bland and devoid of flavour, but he refills his bowl anyway. One big spoon and a bit of spray cream… and as he walks back over to his bed, he realises that he should definitely check his phone again because this took way longer than two minutes.

Right as he pulls the device out his pocket, it vibrates violently in his hand. For a moment he is so shocked to see a message pop up that he throws it away. It lands on his bed, bouncing a few times, display still lit up with one new notification glaring at him from the centre of his screen.

He takes a deep breath. This is real. He got a message.

No, he can’t look at it, he’s going to lose his nerves. A few more deep inhales and slow exhales, then he can’t fight the suspension any longer. 

Hey, stranger :) You don’t like coconut, so you probably don’t like Piña Coladas, but maybe I’m still the love that you look for?  I would love to go on a date with you, if you are still looking for one. 

It takes him a second, then another one. The ice cream melts in his bowl as it sits forgotten on the floor next to his bed. Suddenly it clicks and he chuckles, in relief as well as amusement, thinking that he knows that song, that he gets the reference. That means this person is funny. They made a joke. He smiles to himself. A funny person wants to go on a date with him.

He types back, deleting, typing again. After five minutes, he comes up with a reply.

Hello, stranger! 👋🏼 I do not like Piña Coladas 🍹 but I have many better things to offer if you want to go on a picnic 🧺 with me tomorrow? I will bring food 🥪 and drinks 🧃 of course. Hopefully we do not get caught in the rain 💦😀

He thinks about how he could sign the message but then his nerves start to kick in. If he tells the person who he is, they may reconsider their choice to go out with him and that’s the last thing he wants. Even if the date doesn’t go well, he wants to try his best, so he shoots another message after the first: 

Oh. It will be a blind date, if that is okay with you?

The next minute is the longest of his life. An eternity passes. He thinks he might have stopped breathing with how tight his chest feels. That is, until his phone lights up and shows the same number again, wringing a deep sigh of relief from him.

That’s fine with me. Where do we meet?

The squeal he lets out vibrates in his chest and bounces off the walls.

He’s got a date. Finally.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Copia hears his bad conscience somewhere in the back of his mind whispering that blocking the best spot in the gardens all day is selfish. Perhaps it is true, perhaps he feels a little selfish today. And yes, besides feeling selfish he also feels a little guilty. Is it fair to go on a date when he has such a horrible crush on someone else? No. No, it’s not fair. But he can’t let another chance at love run through his fingers like sand on the beach. He simply has to grasp this opportunity.

His red-checked blanket lays untouched underneath the tall chestnut tree, its big, hand-shaped leaves rustling in the soft breeze as he approaches. The head of a rat is stitched into all four corners  of the fabric – a gift from Sister for his latest birthday – and it’s been sitting here since nine o’clock when he took the liberty of… reserving… the spot. He picked the north-side of the tree so that the shade falls exactly where he’s going to be sitting with his date in approximately fifteen minutes. If they prefer the sun, he can just pull the blanket over a little, but he’d never forgive himself if they got sunburn because of him.

Copia took the day off, his first day off all year in fact, risking his next employee of the month award to spend all morning in town, running errands. With the end of May and strawberry season starting, he visited every grocery store within walking distance to find the ripest, juiciest ones they offered. He was lucky enough to obtain a small basket filled with the most delicious-looking red fruits and some additional fresh ingredients for his sandwiches. While he was quick-witted enough to ask about his date’s allergies yesterday, he completely forgot to ask them about their favorite snacks and so he’s decided to just bring anything he could think of that wouldn’t melt in the sun.

The basket he packed feels heavy in his hand for that exact reason and when he sets it down on the blanket, he can feel the strain in his arm. The past hour was spent obsessing over his outfit until he decided to just go for the white suit combo. Yes, white fabric near grass and juicy red fruits is not the most brilliant idea, but he wants to look his best and that means going the extra mile, even if he has to wear the tiny, itchy underwear underneath.

His heartbeat is going a mile a minute now. He can’t unpack yet, he doesn’t want the food to be out for too long, and so he sits and waits, his hands sweaty under his black and white leather gloves. The fact that the gardens around him slowly become crowded as the afternoon rolls around does nothing for his nerves. He can feel the curious glances, can hear the hushed whispers, and as the hour nears, he starts sweating even more despite the shade. If the unanswered ad had been embarrassing, being stood up so publicly would be even worse. 

And then the most horrifying thing ever happens.

Copia sees you walking along the path, wearing a weather-appropriate, slightly dressed-up outfit that makes his eyes involuntarily roam your whole form. But he can’t fully focus on your loveliness. At first, he’s panicking that you’re meeting your friends somewhere close by where you could see him with his date. He would be so embarrassed, so distracted, so uncomfortable. But you walk straight towards him and that’s even worse. If he has to tell you that he’s busy meeting someone else he might spontaneously combust, explode into tiny particles of humiliation. It would ruin everything, his date and his crush on you. What if his date shows up and sees you with him? What if–

Oh no, you don’t stop approaching, you don’t take a turn, you walk up straight to where he’s waiting – with a hint of hesitation, yes, but very directed steps. Copia jumps up immediately, his black hat nearly falling from his head.

“Oh, Sibling,” he stammers, lifting a trembling hand to adjust his fedora. “Hello, hi. Are you spending some time outside today as well?”

Your mouth opens and you wring your hands before hiding them behind your back. “Hello, Cardinal. I ugh… I’m supposed to meet someone here under the chestnut tree.”

Copia furrows his brow, slowly registering your words. “Meet someone. Under the chestnut tree.” 

“Yes.”

“Oh, Satan. It’s you?” He stops, stares, comprehends. He sounds incredulous, his voice a higher pitch than usual. “You’re my stranger?”

You nod, big eyes staring into his mismatched ones in silent expectation, hope and fear muddled together in the crease of your brow. He doesn’t know how to react, just rubs his thumb and index finger together as his mind races faster than speed limit.

“Is this… is this bad?” you finally ask, breaking the awkward silence.

“No!” Copia exclaims. “No, no, no. Please, please sit.”

You do, kneeling down on the blanket a little hesitantly. Copia joins you, still not fully trusting his senses. This feels like a hallucination. His disbelief has to be the only reason he hasn’t passed out yet. Is he really on a date with you right now?

After another moment of silence, Copia notices you eyeing the basket and snaps back into reality. His plans, his very detailed plans for how this date is supposed to go, flood his mind and he remembers the first step now. Swallowing his shock, he sits up a little straighter.

“Ah, eh… yes, I got you something.” He reaches behind the basket and procures three deep red roses he stole from Primo’s rose garden on the way here. Their intense smell hits his nose as he whips them past his face and hands them over. “These are for you. I hope you like roses. I know it is a bit cliché but also a classic, no?”

“I love them,” you assure him, holding them up to your nose with a smile. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

He smiles. “Good, good. Yes. So… I thought about what we could do and–”

“Cardinal,” you interrupt then. 

“Oh, no. No, call me Copia. Please.” He gives you a shaky smile. “We’re on a date, no?”

“Copia,” you try but feeling his name on your tongue doesn’t make you feel any better. Ever since getting here your bad conscience made it hard to fully settle into this date and with his visible distress upon discovering it’s you, you feel like now is the time to address it. “Before… before we do this, I have a confession to make…” 

He hums and wriggles his eyebrows. “Oh, really? Well, I would love to see you in confession soon…”

You blush furiously. “Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant.”

A flash of concern and you can practically see all of his insecurities mirrored in his eyes. You’re both tiptoeing around the same question, you assume, but it’s on you to take the plunge.

“What… what do you mean then?” he asks.

“About this date…” His lightheartedness completely disappears. You feel bad for ruining the mood but it’s too late now and you need to get it out, you owe him that much. “Copia… It wasn’t a blind date on my part. I… I knew it was you.”

“You knew it was me?” he asks and again his features change, eyes wide now. He really had no idea that people knew the ad was his and suddenly he feels like a fool.

“I’m so sorry, I should have been honest from the start.” You stare at his gloved hand but you’re too scared to take it. “I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you.”

“You knew it was me and you still… you still wrote to me? You still came?”

You furrow your brow. “I didn’t tell you because then I would have had to admit that it’s me and I was scared that maybe you wouldn’t want to go anymore.”

“Me? Not… not…” He shakes his head so fast that his fedora once again threatens to fly off. “Oh, tesoro, I would have… I would have been on the moon with joy, as they say. Yes, yes, I would have.”

You don’t correct him. Instead, an insecure smile settles on your face. “You know you don’t have to say that, Copia, it’s okay if you were hoping for someone else… That’s the risk of going on a blind date, right?”

He yanks your hand out of your lap, wrapping it up in both of his gloved ones. “Tesoro, can I be very honest with you?”

You nod. “Of course you can. Always.”

“I was hoping it was you.”

Your breath catches and steals your next words. The same incredulity that hit him earlier now settles in your chest and you can’t find it in you to question him.

Copia immediately fills the silence. “I never… I never thought…” You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, a nervous swallow, before he wets his lips. “Tesoro, you were always very good to me. I always saw your kindness, you understand this, yes? Don’t get me wrong, I just… I never thought you were interested in me like this. In such a silly old man.”

You have to giggle through your nerves. “I love that you’re a silly old man.”

He smiles shyly. “You are very sweet, tesoro.”

“I’ve actually had this crush for a few months now,” you admit, encouraged by his positive reaction. “And I want you to know that when I saw your ad I thought about calling even before I knew it was you.”

His smile grows impossibly bigger at that. “Did you?”

A nod. Copia squeezes your hand, then brings it to his face for a kiss. You feel his wet lips on your skin and they’re so soft, so gentle. When he sets your hand back down you see a trace of black lipstick on its back and instantly feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“Should we start then?” he asks. “I brought a lot of things, let me show you.”

The basket opens to reveal a plethora of food and drink options. Copia sets down a foil-wrapped plate with sandwiches that look a little wonky so you assume he made them himself, then some juice boxes, apple and orange, a box of fresh, delicious-looking strawberries, two bottles of water, reusable plastic cups and plates. At last, he hands you one of many different muffins he must have stolen from the kitchens.

“For my dolcezza,” he says with a smile.

More heat spreads in your cheeks as you take the little treat from him with a thanks. You’re both visibly losing your nervousness now, your postures less cramped, stretching out your limbs on the blanket with your bodies angled towards each other.

“Maybe we should… talk a bit about us?” Copia proposes. “To get to know each other, sì? I would like to learn about you.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds good. Do you want to start?”

He thinks on a good starter question, the pressure clouding his thoughts for a moment but then his silence grows thick and he has to say something. “So, ugh… do you like Star Wars?”

This is not one of the questions on his list of conversation starters. For some reason, every single meaningful thought suddenly leaves him. Luckily, this simple, safe question seems to put you at ease and you relax even more.

“I do,” you say. “I watched all the movies.”

“Oh, good! And what is your favorite?”

You pluck a piece from your muffin, popping it into your mouth. “Hmm… The Empire Strikes Back, I think.”

“Hehehe, sì, sì, I am your daddy.” His eyes widen. “Not that I’m… I don’t mean… you know, the scene with Luke… ugh. So, anyway, yes, that is my favorite as well.”

You giggle and he lights up, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. You reach for one of the sandwiches then. Copia helps, holding the plate up for you.

“So, these are all inspired by Italian foods. I have ugh… caprese. Mozzarella and tomato?”

You reach for the one he showed you. “That sounds great, thank you.”

Copia can’t help but stare as he awaits your reaction. You hum in delight and immediately take another bite of the soft bread. Satisfied, Copia allows himself to grab one as well now. Conversation slows down as you eat but you continue to talk about your interests between bites, finding more and more similarities as the minutes pass. 

Your little spot is beautiful, cool enough to sit comfortably but warm enough to feel the reviving effects of spring. The leaves above you rustle every now and then, birds and bees flying past, the odd ant crawling over your blanket in search of some crumbs. Neither one of you is bothered as you sip on your juice boxes in tandem and intuitively increase your proximity.

With your bodies gravitating towards each other like that, you end up sitting very close after a while. Copia reclines against the tree trunk, pulling his hat down to grant him more shade, a little bit like a cowboy leaning against the walls of a saloon. His white suit is an odd contrast to his relaxed pose, not the most comfortable outfit to lounge in. Without thinking too much about it, he pulls you close to him and angles you so you can rest your head in his lap. 

You’re only tense for a short moment. Copia gets rid of his gloves and you can feel his bare fingers running over your scalp. The steady pattern he draws calms you and you sigh, closing your eyes for a few minutes as a warm feeling of safety spreads out in you.

Copia can’t help but stare. Despite the initial hiccup, you’re so comfortable around each other that he feels like he’s known you forever. This is a dream come true for him, all his fantasies, his wishes, his longings, they all seem to come together in the lovely face dozing in his lap. You’re the most stunning sight he ever had the pleasure to behold. Every line, every hair, every mole, blemish or scar combines into the most beautifully painted canvas – and to him, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

“Do you want a strawberry, tesorino?” he asks then.

You open your sparkly eyes and they reflect a speck of sunlight breaking through the canopy. Blinking a few times, you shift in his lap to avoid being blinded. He tenses as your cheek narrowly misses his groin, but then you nod and he distracts himself by reaching for the box of strawberries. 

With careful fingers, he grabs one of the shiny heart-shaped fruits, making sure to touch the stem to avoid any stains, and then guides it to your mouth. He can’t help but stare as he sees your lips part for him, the tip of your tongue peeking out to welcome the sweetness. You sink your teeth into the red flesh, so eager, and spatters of juice stain your lips. They appear even more saturated as you lick them clean, wetting them with your tongue, and he so desperately wants to kiss you.

“They’re so sweet already,” you say, taking the rest of the fruit from his hand.

“Yes, I agree.”

You giggle. “Copia, you haven’t even tried one yet.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean the strawberries.”

You huff out a flustered breath, fighting the still evident smile on your face, and hold the half-eaten strawberry up to his mouth. “Try.”

He lets you feed him with burning cheeks, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As his teeth meet the flesh, a few droplets of juice fall astray but he doesn’t even care if they ruin his suit anymore. He can’t stop looking at you, thinking about your soft hand so close to his mouth. He wants to kiss it again, desperately, and so he traps it with his when you try to pull away. With his lips pressed to your palm, he closes his eyes, kissing all the way down to your wrist where he lingers.

You gasp softly, lips parting as Copia continues to drag his lips over the delicate skin. Your reaction brings a smirk to his face, another moment that he’s going to think about for days to come.

“I tried, dolcezza,” he says. “And I think you’re still sweeter.”

You blush so prettily at that. Flustering you is easier than he expected and he takes notes of every little thing that draws a reaction from you. You spend another hour like this, eating fruit, drinking juice, chatting about all sorts of things while you exchange soft touches and words of your blossoming affection. At some point, the gentle breeze that carries on throughout the afternoon becomes stronger, and more and more people head back inside to escape a possible weather change.

Neither one of you wants to leave but as you start to shiver more violently, Copia’s worry about you catching a cold wins over his desire to prolong your date. He proposes to head inside as well, running his hands over the goosebumps on your bare arms to warm you up.

When you reluctantly agree, he starts to pile your dishes and the leftover food into the basket. You move to help but he stops you with a tut. “I will pack this up, eh? Don’t worry about it.”

“I could help you, you know.”

“Ah, no no. I invited you, yes? It is my pleasure.”

It only takes him a few minutes to pack everything up. You grab your flowers in the meantime and he watches from the corner of his eye as you sniff them with a growing smile on your face, swaying slightly from left to right. As Copia shakes out the blanket, folding it messily in the middle, you hesitate by the edge of your little picnic spot.

“So, do you want to walk back together?” you ask.

Copia smiles, glad that you don’t want to leave him quite yet. “I would like that a lot, tesoro. Should I carry the roses for you?”

You hand them over and he places them on the lid of the basket before he carefully picks it up. When he’s by your side again, you stop him with a hand on his forearm, the same gentle squeeze you gave him the last time. Only this time you don’t leave. Instead you lean in and press a soft kiss to his reddened cheek, your lips lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary. Copia opens his mouth but he can’t think of anything to say. Instead he uses his unoccupied hand to fish for yours.

Hand in hand, palm against palm, you walk past the leftover groups of Siblings that make use of the last few moments of sun. Neither of you spares anyone else even a glance. Whenever your eyes aren’t focused on the path ahead, they meet each other, giddy, love-sick smiles gracing your lips.

As you finally pass the first archway and enter the cool stone corridors of the abbey, Copia suddenly stops. Your arms slowly extend as you take a few more steps but before your hand can slip from his, he pulls you back. Maybe he used a little bit too much force or maybe he just caught you by surprise, but you practically stumble into his arms. A gasp falls from your lips. You make no attempt at breaking away and so Copia gently guides you against the frame of the archway, setting down the basket in the process so he can place his other hand on your hip.

Big eyes look up into his. He leans in slowly. The rim of his hat catches the stone and it finally slips from his head, dropping somewhere. Copia doesn’t care because he can already feel your sweet strawberry breath on his lips and nothing could stop him from getting a taste. Your hands impatiently grab at his lapels, then, pulling him even closer, and he gasps at the force of your need. With your eyes falling closed, lips slightly parted and your chin tilted up, Copia feels like he’s in a dream.

“Please,” you whisper.

He has to fight a moan, the word resonating somewhere deep inside his belly. Still, he draws out  the moment for as long as he can, stalling as the tension crackles in the tiny space that separates you. He starts by nuzzling your nose while he pushes his hand upwards until he can grasp your jaw. As he angles your head just right, he feels your lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He fights off a giggle as they continue to tickle his skin and you shift slightly against him, growing impatient.

“Co–”

His mouth swallows your next syllable. You hum against him as his lips capture yours with gentle adoration. The grip on your waist tightens at the same time as his thumb presses into your cheek. Want, need, trickles into your belly and Copia feels the same way, moving his mouth against yours with slightly more pressure. The kiss is still slow, still tame, but it’s unmistakable how much stowed up desire for the other you both hold inside.

For a while you continue like this, your body trapped between Copia and the cool stone and the world around you a mere shadow. You open your mouth for air and that’s when you can feel his tongue cautiously pushing against yours. The sensation makes you feel even more fuzzy, the need for oxygen forgotten as you tangle your tongue with his. The taste is sweet, residues of fruit and juice, and underneath it all you feel Copia. Copia.

You only break away when you’re both struggling to keep up the pace. He’s a mess, his lipstick gone, black smears covering his chin and cheeks where his eye make-up rubbed off. You lift your hand to wipe some of your mingled spit off of his chin and the blissful expression on his face makes you smile. You love to see his face ruined like this, you decide. And Copia, seeing the lipstick-smears all over your kiss-swollen mouth, unknowingly thinks the same.

“We should do this again sometime,” you say. “The date but also… this. Actually, I think we should do it again right now.”

Copia chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “How about we never stop doing it?”

You nod your approval, wrapping your arms around him to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s soft, if a little bit sweaty, messy from the loss of his hat. “I would like that a lot, Copia.”

“I mean it, tesoro,” he whispers with a hint of insecurity. “I don’t want to stop spending time with you. Ever. We already wasted enough of it.”

A big smile breaks out on your face. Copia can’t help but return it, squeezing you a little tighter to his body, and you giggle happily as he kisses your nose.

“You’re right,” you finally say. “Let’s not waste another moment.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this silly little story – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

you set the papers aside, still not looking at ellis, knowing she's giving you an empathetic look right now.

ellis wonders, "i thought he finally built up the old-man courage and finally acted on his old-man feelings."

"well, i guess he just wants to be better friends outside of work." you shrug. "i'm the one who built it up. set expectations too high. because i got a crush on him and... i don't know. i haven't felt like this in a long time."

"that doesn't sound like it's just a crush."

you groan, covering your face with your hands. "i've never been so humiliated. i got dressed up for him. and he said he 'had dinner plans after this' so i pretended i did too, which was why i got dressed up. so fucking stupid."

ellis squeezes your shoulder gently, "look at the bright side, it means you're ready to get out there. there's a dozen other guys here that would love to go on a date with you, i know it."

you chuckle to appreciate her effort in making you feel better. but as you uncover your face, you see a familiar figure coming over from behind her and stiffen up.

"is it too late to call in sick?" you whisper to her, trying to hide yourself but you know he's already spotted you.

ellis turns to see who it is and sucks in another breath before leaving. "good luck."

you try to busy yourself with work, but he stops right in front of you, clearly looking to speak with you.

"hi."

"hi." you give him a brief smile.

"everything okay tonight?"

you nod, not looking away from the computer screen. "yep. nothing out of the ordinary at the moment."

jack nods, looks around for a bit to gather his courage before finally saying: "you uh... doing anything after shift?"

you stop what you're doing. he can't be serious, right?

then you slowly give him a questioning look, urging him to elaborate.

jack takes a deep breath, gulping. "i was wondering... if you'd like to go get food with me after?"

oh he's serious.

you scoff, then bite the inside of your cheek. fucking pins and needles. "look, you don't have to do all this, okay, jack?"

"...do what?"

"this." you gesture, "whatever this is you're doing. if you feel bad for me, or... or you're just trying to be nice, just don't. i get it, you're not interested, it's fine. just don't pity me."

"what? that's not--" jack sighs, rubs the back of his neck. he knows he fucked up. "look, i'm sorry about the other night. i..."

you wait for his response.

"i got cold feet." he admits.

your brows raise. "...you got cold feet?"

he nods, a bit shamefully. "i've been a widow for years and... i haven't been on a date since. i realized i was still wearing my ring that day and when i saw you..." he sighs, "yeah, i... kinda panicked."

you soften. as much as you try not to, you do. and you glance at his hand; there's no ring there. "why didn't you tell me?"

"because i haven't been on a date. my feet were fucking cold." he jokes, making his point. "...i have no idea what i'm doing."

and you have to smile at that. how can you not?

"i'm sorry," jack apologizes again, "you're probably expecting a guy who sweeps you off your feet, and i..."

"you already do that, jack."

that makes jack look up.

"i don't need a man who has it all -- of course, you should have some shit together --" you clarify, "--but more importantly i care about how that person makes me feel. how they treat me. and you've shown me just how much you care for as long as i've known you." you admit to him.

jack fidgets in his stance. "yeah?"

you smile gently, squeezing his hand. "yeah."

he nods, a relieved but also shy smile on his face.

"so," you chuckle, "how are your feet feeling now?"

"technically, foot," he jokes, "but pretty warm."

he almost growls when he takes you in—so pretty, perched on the countertop, legs parted so he can step in between. his massive hands slide up your thighs, under the hem of your dress and your skin is burning everywhere he touches.

both hands slide further up, skimming over your hips to rest on the curves of your waist.

"pretty little thing," he mutters, fingers gently kneading your skin. you gnaw at your lip, face flushed.

and when he moves to push your legs open fully he’s met with a scrap of bright lace and oh, you’ve nearly soaked through the tiny thong and that’s just from making out with him. you’re perched up on your elbows, watching all of his movements with bated breath.

he looks into your eyes as he slides his hands up the back of your thighs, spreading them wider and urging your knees up to your chest. he looms over you, so much bigger and taller. sporting his signature look, oh so mean.

and then he leans forward, his lips brushing over yours, not in a kiss, but just to feel the way your breath hitches when he finally runs his fingers along your clothed core. it’s such a simple thing, but it makes you squirm and he loves how fucking needy you are.

you feel him smile against your cheek, his hands still teasing the edge of your panties. and you’re bucking up, chasing his touch.

"impatient," he murmurs, his voice low. "you want something from me so bad, don't you?"

“please.” you whine.

"please what?" he squeezes your thighs. “use your words."

“please do something.” you whine again, sounding like you’re going to burst into tears.

his smile widens, a dark sound rumbling in his chest. he loves this— the way you're begging for him, desperate and breathy and so damn eager.

"do something? what do you want me to do, baby?" he murmurs, starting to pull at the flimsy material.

“want your mouth— p-please.”

his gaze darkens, a hum leaving him. you’re begging—pleading for him to make you feel good, and he's already addicted to the sound of it.

"yeah?" his voice is thick with arousal. "you want me to make you feel good?" your head is absolutely spinning because he’s got a filthy fucking mouth and that alone wrecks you. "you want me to make a mess of you on top of my kitchen counter?"

“fuck yes, bren.” you whimper and it’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever heard. he can’t remember anyone ever calling him that and it’s suddenly his favorite thing ever.

and he’s pulling the lace from you, watching your stringy wetness stick to the ruined material. god, at the sight of you he was a weak, weak man.

“prettiest little pussy i’ve ever seen, baby.” he hums. “fuck, i wanna see it wrapped around my cock.”

at his words alone, you’re tossing your head back, a little shocked when suddenly, he's on you. licking a long stripe up your core—mouth hot and insistent against your clit, sucking gently at first before flicking his tongue in fast circles.

you let out a choked sob, back arching off the counter as your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

he hums against you—low and satisfied—devouring you like a starved man. you lean up again, the sight before you purely sinful.

he knows you're watching him and he looks up, locking eyes with you as his tongue laps over you again. you can’t help the way your eyes flutter shut, and he clicks his tongue, smacking at your thigh because he wants you to watch.

Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.

Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?

It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.

The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.

You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.

Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.

You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city. 

Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need. 

You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs. 

He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know. 

You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.

You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.

You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.

Jack knows he's falling in love with you.

You know you're falling in love with Jack.

But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.

And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.

You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.

So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.

You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.

"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?" 

As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"

He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.

"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"

Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."

You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."

He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."

"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."

"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."

You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."

"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."

You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.

Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.

"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.

"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters. 

But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."

You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"

"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.

You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."

"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.

As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?

Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.

As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.

"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.

"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."

"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."

You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."

"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.

"Squirrel Hill South."

"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"

"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."

"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"

"Well, no. But, but that's-"

He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."

You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend. 

"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."

"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.

"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."

The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.

As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.

"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."

"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.

"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.

"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.

"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."

"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."

"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.

You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."

Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."

You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.

"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.

"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."

"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.

Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.

Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.

You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.

It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.

You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.

You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.

Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.

You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.

Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.

Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.

You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.

But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.

Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.

Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.

By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.

Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants. 

You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."

Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"

"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."

"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.

There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.

"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.

The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want. 

Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’

But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.

"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."

"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."

"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.

Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.

"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"

Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.

Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.

When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.

As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.

No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.

Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.

Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.

But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.

The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.

Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?

Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.

This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?

The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.

Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.

Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.

If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?

A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.

"Jack?"

You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.

"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."

He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.

"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."

"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."

"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."

"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."

The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.

Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.

"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."

"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."

"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."

He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."

You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.

You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."

"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.

"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.

"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."

"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."

You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."

As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.

Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him. 

And you’re not even fucking here. 

He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.

"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."

Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.

He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.

He's so astronomically fucked.

He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.

He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time. 

You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.

Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?

He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.

There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.

So he needs to get out of here.

"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."

He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie. 

"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost. 

As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.

You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.

"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."

Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"

"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."

"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."

You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."

Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.

"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.

Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.

"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"

The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.

You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.

Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.

You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."

Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck. 

You really just said that.

And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.

"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."

You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.

You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."

I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️

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"Aaron," you said as your fingers clung onto his t-shirt, concern growing in your eyes as you lowered your voice so Ellie wouldn’t hear. "Is everything alright?"

He nodded, drawing on every ounce of his profiler training to keep his tone level. "Fine. I shouldn't be gone long. I love you."

You studied his face for a moment longer, before you nodded as well.

He wasn’t planning on being gone long, but he wasn’t planning on being where he said he’d be, either. Instead of the store, he was headed in a completely different direction: to Roy’s. More specifically, he was headed to confront him.

Lying to you turned his stomach, the weight of it pressing behind his ribs. He couldn’t help it, though. He had to. It was the only way he could do what he had to and still protect you from the knowledge of it. Still, it kept him tense long after he left, his knuckles white around the steering wheel as his mind raced a thousand miles a minute. 

He could have told you the truth. Maybe he should have. You knew he was going to speak to Roy at some point. What would it have hurt, really, for you to know? But… he didn’t know. There was just something that held him back. 

He told himself it was for the right reasons - that he was protecting you. He clung to the hope that not telling you would make that possible, even if only for a little while longer. Especially since he didn’t know what would happen at Roy’s. He’d rather tell you the story once it was over and done, not allowing you to stew while waiting for the outcome. 

He just hoped it was over quickly. That went both for this conversation tonight and Jack’s personality shift in general. But hoping, sometimes, wasn’t enough. More accurate was the sinking feeling in his stomach that this wasn’t an easy fix. That this was only the beginning. 

-

Roy gave a low grunt as he opened the door and found Aaron standing there, distaste settling immediately into his eyes. "What do you want?"

"To talk," Aaron said, his jaw tightening despite himself.  "About Jack."

Roy held his stare, probably debating whether or not Aaron was worth his time, but stepped aside without a word. 

It was going to be an unpleasant conversation - sure, it always was with Roy. But Aaron didn’t care. Not in the slightest. Not when his family was in the middle of it, when Jack was caught in the crossfire, when your name - and Ellie’s - had already been dragged into something they never should have been part of. 

And Jack’s recent outburst only proved it had been going on for far too long.

"What about Jack?"

Aaron didn’t think for a minute that Roy didn’t know what was coming - or at least that he had some idea. This could turn bad fast, especially if he felt blindsided and threatened in his own home. 

"Why did you tell him he didn't love Haley anymore?" he asked, drawing in slow, steady breaths to keep his anger in check. He still wanted, after all, to try to be civil. The moment this turned into a shouting match, Roy would stop listening entirely and nothing would be resolved. "What gives you the idea that it’s alright to say that to my son?"

Roy took a seat, studying Aaron like this was an inconvenience more than a confrontation. "You couldn't have asked me this on the telephone?"

Aaron ignored the question; it was typical of Roy to deflect. "Why?"

Roy shrugged, bitterness in his tone. "Could’ve fooled me. That’s what it feels like. Because the minute you brought that woman into the house, he started acting like Haley never existed."

Aaron’s heart sank at the mention of you, even though he’d expected it. Roy never missed an opportunity to compare you to his daughter, only to make it clear what a poor replacement he believed you were.

"No. That’s far from the truth," he said, his voice tightening. Roy didn’t know every goddamn thing; Aaron wished he’d stop acting like he did and maybe they’d get somewhere for once. "We keep Haley alive every day. You don’t know how things are in our home."

He also wasn’t going to bring up Jack’s sudden avoidance of you or Ellie. He refused to give Roy the satisfaction of thinking he’d succeeded in anything. 

"Believe me, I don’t want to know how you do things in your home," Roy said, his tone coated with disgust. "I already know more than I care to. I don’t need to hear anything else."

Aaron’s eyebrows furrowed, crossing his arms against his chest. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Creating a new family, shoving Haley aside, brainwashing my grandson into thinking it’s okay to move on without his mother. How long is it going to take, huh?" His eyes were fixed, unforgiving. "Until he forgets about her?"

"That’s because it is okay for Jack to move on. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to forget, and it doesn’t mean we’re shoving her aside. I’m sorry it didn’t work out between Haley and I. I loved her. We wanted different things, I wasn’t around enough, and I take full responsibility for that. But if you think..."

He cut himself off, something tightening in his chest. Every time he looked at Jack, he saw Haley - in the smallest expressions, the way he treated others, even his mannerisms, all unmistakably like his mother’s. Haley would always have a special place in his heart; he wouldn’t be the man, or father, he was without her. He owed Haley everything.

"When she died, I never intended on marrying again." he said, steadier now. "But things change, Roy. They have to. It's another opportunity for another person to show Jack love. For him to have more, not less. He even gained a sister out of it." His eyes were almost pleading, hoping to somehow reach Roy, despite their differences, to get him to understand. "After everything he’s been through, shouldn’t that be a good thing?"

Roy scoffed, a very sarcastic, almost mocking, "should it?"

Aaron's voice turned sharper, his composure finally breaking loose. "You’ve taken that and turned it into something ugly. You told him he doesn’t love his mother anymore. Do you have any idea what that does to him?"

Roy’s jaw tightened. "I’m his grandfather. I think I’m allowed to-"

"No," Aaron snapped. "You're not allowed. You don’t get to put that in his head. You don’t get to make him question something like that because you’re uncomfortable."

"There are plenty of things I’ve been uncomfortable with and said nothing about. For example, I’ve held my tongue about your glorified nanny and that child."

Infuriated, Aaron had the urge to laugh of all things, probably because this entire thing was so absurd. "When have you ever held your tongue? You’ve been clear about your feelings toward the two of them since the beginning."

"Yes I have. You never see me talking to that woman, or that child, have you?"

"No, you’re right, I haven’t. I’ve seen our daughter try to reach out, to connect with you, and you do nothing but practically spit in her face. I’ve seen my wife try to be hospitable, to make you feel welcome, and you act like she doesn’t even exist. They’ve never done anything to you. They’ve done nothing to deserve the way you treat them." Aaron seethed, insisting angrily. 

"Why wouldn’t I ignore them? They’re not my family. I don’t owe them anything."

"That doesn’t justify treating them like they don’t matter." His voice tightened, rising but then dropping into something lower and dangerous as he struggled to keep it steady, a vein pulsing in his neck.

"And now, you’re pushing your beliefs onto Jack. He’s a sweet kid, a good kid, but these behaviors you’re teaching him are turning him into something he’s not." He exhaled, meaning every word with his entire chest. "I can’t allow that to happen anymore. I’m not allowing you to see him."

"You can’t do that." The words came sharply, Roy’s shock flaring into anger as he stared at Aaron, caught off guard by the defiance.

Aaron didn’t waver. His stance was steady, his words measured and firm. "I’m his father. You will not come over. You will not speak to him. Not until I decide you can respect our family." 

"You can’t-"

"What would Haley think?" Aaron shot back, knowing and not caring how low of a blow it was. It was something that was long overdue. "How would she feel knowing her father was saying such things to her son." 

"You have no right to put words into my daughter’s mouth. She raised Jack before you didn’t have a choice but to. You're the reason she's dead. You." His gaze burned with open hatred. "Mark my words, I will never let you forget it."

"Fine," Aaron snapped, his hands rising in exasperation. "Blame me. Go ahead - put it all on me if that’s what you need." His brown eyes hardened as he made his next, final statement. "But you keep Jack out of it. You keep my wife out of it. And you sure as hell keep my daughter out of it."

Aaron intended on leaving after that, to end it before it got any worse, but Roy’s next words caused him to stop.

"You’re making the same mistakes, Aaron," Roy said, his voice cold and certain. "And this new family of yours?" He gave a slight, humorless shake of his head. "You’re going to get them killed too." He paused, heavy with the weight of a future Aaron would do anything to avoid. "I won’t even have to say I told you so."

-

The door slammed behind Aaron as he entered the house, absolutely furious. His blood was still boiling, his heart hammering as if it couldn’t quite keep up. He tossed his keys onto the counter in a sharp, controlled motion, just careless enough to betray his temper.

It drew your immediate attention, from wherever you were in the house, and within seconds you were at his side.

"Aaron?" Your eyes searched his face for clues, something already uneasy in your voice. 

"Here. The groceries." He had stopped at the store on the way back, and only to grab what you had asked for. But the drive, the store, all of it felt blurred. He barely remembered walking through the aisles, mindlessly grabbing what you requested. It was almost a miracle he returned home in one piece.

"Thank you, sweetheart." While your words expressed your graciousness, it faded quickly as you noticed the lack of groceries - and then him.

He could feel it in the way you looked at him now, even without saying a word. He’d never been good at hiding things from you - you always noticed the smallest shifts in him, the tension or sadness he thought he could bury. Something wasn’t right. 

he’d started with smaller weapons first. easier ones. a knife tucked carefully into your palm while he stood behind you correcting your grip with growing irritation. unfortunately, you spent the most part of the session giggling. mostly because you know titus gets sassy when he’s frustrated and you find it adorable.

the training knife wobbles dangerously in your grip while titus adjusts your frame and stance for what feels like the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes.

“stop holdin’ it like you’re buttering toast.”

“i don’t butter my own toast.”

“yes darling, we know.”

you gasp dramatically, spinning around to smack his chest with the back of your hand. “that was classist.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart,” titus mutters, catching your wrist before you can hit him again.

effortlessly, his fingers wrap fully around your wrist and you immediately get distracted, staring at the size difference. of course titus notices. he notices everything about you.

the corner of his mouth twitches slightly as your eyes drift over the veins in his hands, the scars across his knuckles, the way his body practically swallows yours whole whenever he stands this close.

god. you think titus danforth might genuinely be the prettiest man you’ve ever seen, which is probably concerning considering you’ve also watched him come back from hunts with blood splattered across his face wearing that exact same sick smile on his face.

most normal people might see him as terrifying…or just plain satanic. you, unfortunately, had seen that smile once and decided it was undeniably attractive. deeply unfortunate for everyone involved since he's become your entire personality since.

“you’re distracted again,” he mutters.

“you’re standing too close.” you murmur, eyes flicking back up towards his own. 

“i hope you know you’d die in under thirty seconds.”

“not if i scream at the top of my lungs for my strong and scary titus,” you declare, voice half mocking, half sincere.

something shifts in his expression at your comment. visibly pleased in that dark, obsessive way of his. like the thought of you depending on him scratches something deeply unhealthy inside his brain. though, his mind isn't quite healthy to begin with. 

titus likes protecting you a little too much. everybody knows it. the way he shadows you through any gathering like a feral guard dog. the way he positions himself between you and strangers automatically. the way people stop approaching you entirely once titus walks into the room.

not because he says anything. honestly, titus barely speaks to most people at all. but everybody knows he doesn’t need much of a reason to snap and unfortunately for them, he seems to consider you his reason for everything now. which sounds romantic until you remember titus has killed for far less.

“okay,” you announce suddenly, grabbing a dagger from the grass. 

“hypothetically, if a creepy man came up behind me—”

“most men are creepy.” titus says it so matter-of-factly you almost laugh. mostly because he’s arguably the creepiest man you know.

“wow. thank you for sharing, titus.” 

“you’re welcome.”

you roll your eyes before lunging your frame dramatically through the air. “wouldn’t i just stab him like this—”

titus reacts instantly to your movement. his body tapping into some instinct, like the violence lives inside of him deeper than he can control. one second you’re attacking invisible enemies. the next, he’s caught your arm, twisted behind you, and dropped you flat onto the grass. not hard. just fast enough to make you shriek.

“titus!”

“that,” he says calmly from above you, “would get you killed.”

you glare up at him between startled laughter, your hair spread across the grass while titus kneels over your hips like some massive predatory animal.

he looks terrifying like this, but also so beautiful.

the sun catches the sharp lines of his face while he pins you beneath him with frightening ease, completely unbothered by the fact he could overpower you in seconds.

titus feels himself twitch against his pants. you look gorgeous like this. sprawled out like prey yet looking at him like you aren’t afraid at all. like you belong there, ready to be devoured by him. his breakfast, his lunch, his dinner and, good god his dessert. 

honestly, this stopped feeling educational an hour ago.

“you tackled me!”

“i’m just trying to be realistic.”

“you threw me to the ground!”

“you’re being dramatic”

you stare at him for a second before dissolving into a giggle fit again. titus exhales sharply through his nose, clearly trying not to smile. trying and failing just a little.

maybe it’s the heat or the boredom or the fact titus is hovering over you looking all dangerous and irritated, but suddenly you’re over this lesson entirely. so you fist the front of his shirt and yank him down into a kiss.

he makes a low groan before immediately kissing you back harder. possessive just like he approaches everything else. one hand slides into your hair while the other stays locked around both your wrists, bringing them up and above your head.

“mm,” you mumble lazily against his mouth. “this is way more fun.”

“no shit.”

you grin before adding thoughtfully. “you know maybe we should practice on somebody real next time.”

titus stills slightly, interested in your proposal. “yeah?”

you hum. “my family’s accountant, maybe? he gave me a lecture for using daddy’s card during my shopping spree yesterday.”

a pause hits you before titus laughs. actually, genuinely laughs. low and rough and a little bit unhinged but oh do you love the sound.