shivvy

He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all. 

He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.

Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips. 

God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants. 

It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.

But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.

Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you. 

The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days. 

Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast. 

Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.  

"My name is-"

But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again. 

Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.

For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.

And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.

He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. 

He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.

"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”

His eyes catch yours. 

“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."

You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants. 

The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty. 

Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs. 

And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room. 

What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator. 

As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring. 

You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut. 

You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.

But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt. 

Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina. 

By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting. 

But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.

Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.

He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.

After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.

At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.

He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled. 

"Could you stay for a moment?"

Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.

By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.

As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ. 

He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.

"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.

Jack clears his throat.

"Right. Yes."

Very articulate. 

"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."

You blink.

"The situation?"

"The fact that we've met before."

"Oh."

You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.

"Yeah. I noticed."

The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

Jack immediately shakes his head.

"No, it's okay. You're good."

Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening. 

"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."

Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.

"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."

His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence. 

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."

Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.

"Right," he says finally.

A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down. 

You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there. 

Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.

For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.

Then you nod, still staring at the floor. 

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, good."

Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.

"I should go."

"Yes, thank you for staying back."

You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him. 

“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”

Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.

The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff. 

That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.

Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.  

It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick. 

You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake. 

And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special. 

And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before. 

God you sound fucking pathetic. 

And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations. 

In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too. 

Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face. 

Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.

As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you. 

Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.

And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.

The feedback only makes it worse.

Critical analysis underdeveloped.

Needs greater engagement with course material.

More depth required.

Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.

Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.

Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.

You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.

Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.

Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not. 

Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes. 

And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.

The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.

Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.

After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak. 

Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.

Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.

You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.  

Fuck your life. 

His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop. 

“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name. 

“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”

You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him. 

You set your paper on his desk and mumble.

“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”

“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”

You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything. 

"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."

He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints. 

He sighs.

“Wait, let me get my readers on.”

You sneak a glance up. 

Oh fuck. 

He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles. 

Yeah, pussy exploded. 

You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart. 

When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk. 

"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."

Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.

"It's actually the opposite."

“What?"

"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."

The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.

"But?" you whisper.

His mouth twitches.

"But I don't think you pushed yourself."

Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”

Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-

“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?” 

You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap. 

Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”

He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.  

“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”  

He inhales. 

“Look, follow my breathing.”

You try to, but it comes out stuttered.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."

He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.

“In, and out, just like that.”

It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries. 

Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest. 

“You breathin’ better now?”

You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.

“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”

He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.

You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.

"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."

The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.

Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful. 

"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."

Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again. 

“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”

“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart. 

 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.  

“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”

You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.  

“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.

You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. 

“Good girl.”

Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices.  You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes. 

“I could help you, you know.”

You blink, confused. 

He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral. 

“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”

He pauses.

“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”

Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”

“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”

His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands. 

Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”

He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up. 

“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”

You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair. 

“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”

You nod again. 

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Dr Abbot.”

He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.

He’s so handsome.  

Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”  

Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under. 

“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”

“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?” 

He taps your head. 

You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’ 

You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.  

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”

“Please, Sir, please touch me.”

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”  

Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please. 

He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining. 

He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on . 

“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fuck- right there.”

You buck up in his hold. 

And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.” 

You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.  

You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.

You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.  

“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”

“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky. 

And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over. 

You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.

In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.  

“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”

The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you. 

Did he just… orgasm?

Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive. 

And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens. 

You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place. 

"Fuck."

The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.

You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you. 

“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”

The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.

“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows. 

What the fuck?

You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.

And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes. 

Fuck old men. You hate old men.

After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you. 

The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.

It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again. 

Because you get a text from an unknown number. 

Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.   That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.

Then two minutes later. 

And I wanted to check in.  Are you feeling better?

Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself? 

The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable. 

Stop.

Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm. 

And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant. 

So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half. 

Hey, i’m okay thanks 

Wow, look at you go. 

His reply is almost immediate.

Good.  Good girl. 

You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words. 

You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious. 

You type something.

Delete it.

Type something else.

Delete that too.

Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely. 

What are you supposed to say?

Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?

Sorry for crying in your office?

Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?

After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.  

Can I see you?  Please.

Your breath stutters. 

yeah sure When do your classes finish today? At 3pm Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.

Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once. 

But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes. 

And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.

So your dumbass agrees. 

Okay ! i’ll see u soon  See you soon, sweetheart. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, you're actually gonna kill yourself. 

Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.

He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.  

What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.

And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will. 

You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.

Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.

He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.

And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.

But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope. 

And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone. 

He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that. 

But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it. 

And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.

Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.

And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up. 

Abbot, no. 

But the words slip out as you reach him. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Dr Abbot.”

You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior. 

He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back. 

“Did you have a nice morning?”

He withholds a wince at the awkwardness. 

“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”

The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.

“Good, that’s good.”

Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.

For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

Get your shit together, Abbot. 

"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."

Your eyes finally lift from the table.

“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”

He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?

That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?

None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense. 

"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."

That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms. 

“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”

Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.

“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."

"I thought so."

You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.

"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."

His shoulders loosen slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You shrug.

"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."

The honesty makes him wince.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”

You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply. 

“Apology accepted.” 

The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.

Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously. 

"What?" you question. 

"That isn't coffee."

"It literally is."

"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."

You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.  

"It has espresso."

"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."

"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."

You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.

For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.

He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell. 

Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar. 

“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”

Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.

"Sweetheart."

"What?"

"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."

Your grin grows, eyes sparkling. 

"Why?"

"Because I'm fifty."

That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it. 

Interesting. 

Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.

And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.

Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.

Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice. 

"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."

The words leave his mouth casually.

Your eyes flicker up.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I could come see you."

"In my office?"

You immediately look embarrassed.

"Only if that's okay."

God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.

"Sweetheart."

Your eyes lift.

"It's okay."

The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.

"Okay."

"Okay."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.

"Dr Abbot-"

"No."

"I can pay for myself."

"I know."

"Then-"

"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.

Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”. 

Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life. 

So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor. 

Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt. 

Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes. 

Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so. 

Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare. 

He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit. 

You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek. 

“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.” 

But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.

“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice. 

And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.  

You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk. 

He’d made you lick it off. 

Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense. 

The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks. 

Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need. 

But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you. 

Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.

Surely he's put two and two together.  

And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck. 

He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.

Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.

A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.

You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.

He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.

And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow. 

Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you. 

Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.

And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.

And for now, maybe it is.

The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.

Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks. 

Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating. 

But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.

He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.

The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife. 

And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.

“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour. 

He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something. 

“What?” he huffed out.

Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words. 

“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”

He jolted, hips thrusting up.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”

You said his name again, more firmly. 

“Stop dodging the question.”

He paused. 

“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”

“Jack.” 

He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before. 

“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”

He stayed silent. 

You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him. 

“I want to taste you, please.”

Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.  

“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.” 

He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.  

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

“Get off, c’mon.”

Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.  

He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room. 

Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly. 

“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”

You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs. 

Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out. 

It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest. 

You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around. 

Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him. 

“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”

You smirked, you vixen. 

“Shove it in, I dare you.”

He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch. 

Until you gagged. 

Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually. 

“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”

You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth. 

Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.

“Just like that, sweetheart”.

“Yeah, grip it harder”.

“Suck the tip, just like that.” 

And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue. 

He had never come that hard in his life. 

Panting harshly, he patted your head. 

“Swallow.”

Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life. 

There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything. 

While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either. 

But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.

He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him. 

However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave. 

Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.

All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.

Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.

He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy. 

When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk. 

Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you? 

As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him. 

His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.

Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.

Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm. 

Fuck. 

Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.

But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy. 

Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.

Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.

Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.

After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.

Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.

Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it. 

He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance. 

If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you. 

By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.

Because what exactly are you guilty of?

Making a friend? Talking to somebody?

The answer is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight. 

Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you.  You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck. 

He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together. 

Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.

You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.

The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you. 

And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.

You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -  or maybe pretending to be shocked.

Instead he'd practically fled the room.

By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over. 

Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.

A gruff voice immediately answers.

"Come in."

You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.

His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.

And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.

He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.

“Who the fuck was that boy?”

You’re confused. 

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”

“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”

His jaw visibly tenses.

“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?

“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”

“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.

The correction slices straight through you.

“What?”

He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you. 

“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.” 

You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you. 

Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask. 

You swallow hard.

“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”

The words taste bitter.

“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”

His brows furrow immediately.

“That's not what-”

“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”

“Enough.”

You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.

You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.

“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”

Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.

“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.” 

You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid. 

Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave. 

“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.

You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.

“Please.”

You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.

Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown. 

His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye. 

“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”

Then he inhales deeply. 

“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”

Jack closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

You still. 

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. 

You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes. 

The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.

“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"

“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”

Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.

“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”

“Shh.”

His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.

“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”

Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.

You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him. 

Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human. 

Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.

But he stayed. And he saw you. 

You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately. 

A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.

Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.

Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.

Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.

That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating. 

Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.

And perhaps, you realise, so have you.

That’s when you know.

“I’m ready,” you breathe out.

Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”

“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”

He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.

“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.

“Yeah.” 

Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time. 

And God, its everything you fucking imagined. 

His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other. 

After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.

Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor. 

He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.

“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.

You moan, pressing against him harder.

“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

You nod.

“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”

He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.

His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love. 

You glance down at his prosthetic. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”

He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”

Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in. 

“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”

You whine.

“What are you waiting for then?”

He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you. 

“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”

A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.  

He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk. 

Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks. 

Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick. 

“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”

You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips. 

Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick. 

He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly. 

It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips. 

“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine. 

“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”

He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply. 

“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”

You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true. 

“Take your time, old man.”

He stills at that, grips your waist harshly. 

Looks up at you, his eyes darkening. 

“Fuck you,” he snarls. 

Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain. 

“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear. 

You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside. 

Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you. 

With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder. 

“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”

You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines. 

“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.” 

Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck. 

You nod, slurring your words.

“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”

“That’s it, good fucking girl.”

Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you. 

When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately. 

“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?” 

He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck. 

“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”

You shake your head, words muffled under his palm. 

“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!” 

He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”

God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk. 

“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”

Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw. 

“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”

You open your eyes, moaning. 

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”

“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”

He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.  

“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”

He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack. 

You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.

“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”

His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills. 

“What’d you just call me?”

Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit. 

You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”

“No. Repeat it.”

He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly

“What did you call me?”

“Daddy,” you whisper out.

He pouts mockingly. 

“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”

And then he starts thrusting, harder than before. 

“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder. 

Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him. 

He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.

“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?” 

You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard. 

His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

You moan at his words. But you still have to come. 

“Jack please, please keep going.” 

He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily. 

He grips your chin in his palm. 

“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.

And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes. 

He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.

You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”

You laugh softly nodding. 

“Mhm.”

He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms. 

After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.

“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”

Your brows immediately furrow.

“Jack-”

He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you. 

“Let me speak.”

You sigh, but nod. 

“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”

Your breath stutters. 

“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”

He pauses. 

“I wanna be the person you come home to.”

Your breath catches.

“As your other. If you’d want.” 

You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.

“I love you.”

Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.  

You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.

“And I’d love to be yours.”

Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.

Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you. 

As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly. 

You both still. Before you burst out laughing. 

“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   

“Fuck you, shut up.”

You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.  

“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.

His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.

“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”

You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old. 

Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out. 

“But my mouth still works,” he smirks. 

Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers. 

“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”

You whimper softly against his mouth. 

“Okay.”

“Okay, who, pretty girl?” “Okay, Daddy.”

He grins. 

“Good girl.”

omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.

A wounded stray. A miserable, mangy thing you are. Lost, directionless—hungry to be tamed. Your feet trek through the snow-ridden streets in search of salvation you can’t guarantee you’ll find.

It’s been some time since you’ve crossed paths with a mirror or glass to view your reflection. But you’re sure the image staring back at you would not be a pleasant sight.

The City of Steel, on the other hand, looks quite beautiful—paradoxically soft—covered in the thick blanket of snow. Snowflakes land on your lashes and the tip of your nose, and you wonder if it’d be all that bad to stay outdoors in your remaining moments.

Maybe not. It wouldn’t be so far a leap from what you’re used to. You’ve always been an outsider and are used to the cold—to being iced out. You walk instead of run because you’re tired, and no one will notice or care that you’re gone.

Empty streets littered with a path of your footprints converge to a park where the warm lamp lighting does anything but warm. Before you can sit on a dust-covered bench and stain it crimson, you see a man approaching ahead.

He's aged, grizzled, weary but handsome and walks with either purpose or a long gait because of his lanky proportions. His coat is incorrectly buttoned, as if haphazardly thrown on, his thinning hair a mishmash on his head from brushing his fingers through it one too many times.

He turns his head up from his boots, sees you, stops in his tracks—then his speed hastens as his limbs recover from their momentary lapse. Straight away he’s in front of you, holding you by your elbow, and telling you with concern etched across his face—

“Hey, you’re going to be okay.”

His grip tightens as he examines your wounds but slackens and hesitates when he examines your features (sees something he likes, something you thought no one ever could, perhaps?). Then he turns his head over his shoulder to eye the entrance of the hospital he just walked out of.

It only occurs to you then how close you are to safety. But the man got to you first. Primus inter pares.

He returns his gaze upon you, and his hesitation breaks. Something good inside of him breaks.

“Let's go. I'm taking you somewhere else. Hold on for a little longer.”

The sad, cow-eyed man on the wrong side of fifty decides to pluck you up off the street. You have to walk a little more before you make it to where you’ll be calling “home.”

Robby doesn’t do this. Not like this.

He’s picked up a mutt here and there, the occasional feral feline—nurtured them, then sent them on their way—but never a pretty, young—twenty-something—thing like you.

And this time, he thinks he’ll keep what he’s found.

He had the opportunity to do the correct thing. Walk the few yards back into the hospital with you and admit you as a patient.

But he didn’t want to hand you off to his colleagues. Or give you the opportunity to slip through his fingers. He didn’t want to be later filled with regret if he let you go, either.

He was as resolute in taking you as he was shameless in doing so.

He didn’t and doesn’t plan to ask what circumstances led you before him. They don’t matter to him. Your past will be overwritten.

You’ll only know… Robby.

Because as he leads you into his home, strips you of your tatters, bathes you, clothes you, licks your wounds, feeds you, allows you into his bed to rest beside him—he’s begetting you anew.

Fathers are meant to be everlasting. All-encompassing. The good ones are. A forever imprint left upon their progeny that defines who they are and who they’ll become.

Who you are is his. And who you’ll become is his to care for.

Caregiving suits him. Fatherhood... suits him.

Your eyes peel open against the harsh winter rays filtering in through the carelessly drawn blinds. Winds rap the window on the far side of the room, naked branches tap against the glass; both noises are a nuisance to you now that you’re awake. You sit up in bed, finding yourself in a much clearer state of mind than the night prior.

It’s to do with the lumbering man snoring softly beside you.

You don’t remember all of what occurred. But you do remember the important bits—the ones that cemented him as your salvation.

He stripped and bathed you. Bandaged you thereafter.

He pushed your hands away when you tried to pry your rags off on your own and instead did it for you. Filled the tub and sprinkled in bath salts in lieu of roses you remember whispering you wish someone would do for you. He said he’d remember it for next time. You fought hard, writhing beneath his heavy hands as he scrubbed his wash rag over your dirt-caked and bloodied skin.

He wrapped loose pieces of gauze over your bigger wounds—band-aids everywhere else—and kissed them reverently when you flinched in the instinctual fear that yet another would hurt you.

His words were like a lullaby—calming your racing heart.

"I’m just trying to make it better. Let me.”

He changed you into his clothes.

You remember his lithe fingers dancing over the skin of your ribs as he slipped his large cotton T-shirt over your head. The same fingers trailing up your legs as he settled his sweats over your hips. The hesitation in both actions when your breasts and pussy were exposed, wet with drops of bathwater, enticing before his eyes. Something you’re not used to—being wanted. Lusted after.

At least, that was what you told yourself his eyes were communicating to you.

He fed you.

Though he doesn’t seem to be the most gifted cook, the food, while visually unappetizing, came to life when he himself dug his fingers into the slop to slip it in between your lips. Your gums, teeth, tongue, the space he could reach past your uvula without choking were thoroughly examined and memorized by him by meals’ end.

He told you, “You don’t know how precious you are, do you? Even on the inside,” to which you responded with heat rushing to your cheeks.

He led you to bed.

He fluffed your pillow, tucked you in before slipping under the covers with his chest pressed to your back. Caged you in his arms and littered kisses over the nape of your neck before whispering, "Goodnight, sweetheart."

Sleep seemed to come easy for you, as you hadn’t had much of it in the days, weeks, years, or life prior—prior to him. And when you fell asleep, you think the man finally did too.

You cut to the now as the man stirs beside you, pulling you from your musings. But the memories linger, their effects having taken root in you.

He was so kind to you. Too kind, to no one less than a stranger.

You owe him your life.

Robby wakes to you staring down at him, sitting on your knees, hands clasped in your lap. His shirt is loose at the collar, exposing your bit of shoulder he would like to leave bite marks on.

An idle morsel of thought. One he shouldn’t feed into. It isn't something a father does to their daughter.

He has a conscious desire to share his depravity with you, invite you to indulge in his dreams of being so needed by someone that even his faults can’t push them away. Bestow upon you the knowledge that he's who you should consider your keeper. But you’re still too fresh off your bender.

Who knows how you’d react if he asked you to call him “Dad?”

A good sign, though, that you’re still in bed with him. In this large, lonely house. In a prayer position like he’s your heavenly father.

He knows he’s not God. Nowhere near close. And God knows not of Robby, as their line of communication was severed too many years ago now. Still, if it’s you—and only you—who views him this way, he’ll allow himself to pretend.

Fatherhood. Godhood. One could argue they’re similar states of being.

He reaches a hand from tucked under his pillow to cradle your cheek and thumb away the tears that dried down overnight.

Poor thing, crying away your pain, knowing you were safe with him to do so.

In all his years of treating patients, animals, he’s never encountered a living being like you. People yell, scream, kick out their feet, refusing help. Animals whine, nip, bare their teeth in fear of it.

Not you. No war was fought with him. Structurally unsound, you effortlessly buckled under his concern. He pulverized your only choices—to die or to be saved by another—in the palm of his hand when he held you by the nape of your neck to guide you home.

Your eyes rake over his face with innocent curiosity, in appreciation, and maybe in guilt that you might be burdening him. He’d never think that.

He barely registers your words when you suddenly say—

“You never told me your name.”

He’s too busy admiring your features: your eyes, the slant of your nose, your lips. He's engrossed, enraptured; pride blooms in his chest for who he’s been gifted.

You proceed to place your palm over the back of his hand while he continues to rub your cheek, snapping him back to reality.

Pondering for a moment, he responds, “What I want you to call me isn’t something you’re ready for yet, honey. But why don’t we start with Robby?”

Your brows furrow, but you don’t press for an explanation. “Rob-ee. Robby. Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Robby.”

You must find his name odd. Unassuming for the man you placed your utmost trust in in your time of need.

But ‘Robby’ is all he’s willing to offer at the moment.

His name is like overcooked meat sliding between canines; it takes some time to chew and break connective tissue before you can taste the savory flavor hidden and packed within.

After you’ve had your fill of him, he volleys back, “What’s yours?”

He didn't have time to ask, nor were you able to offer it to him last night. His heart breaks when you seem surprised—as if you don’t think it’s worth anyone knowing your name.

You tell it to him anyway—beautiful, he thinks—then chew on your lower lip. Robby abhors that—sees it as a way of covering yourself up. He thumbs your lip free and rests his hand by his side again. Yours slips back into your lap to join the other.

“What now, Robby?"

It's Robby's turn to furrow his brows. “Stay,” What else? “that's all you need to do. Stay and forget last night. I'll take care of the rest.”

Forget last night and beyond. But remember him.

You hum, nod, and he pats your knee. The matter’s settled.

Your life passes you by in twelve-hour intervals.

From when you wake to sundown—when the space between every wall is tinged blue from the frigid cold outside—you wait for Robby.

It isn’t as isolating as one might think. A far cry from a past life when you were kicked out, abandoned by the people who you thought loved you but only ended up hurting you.

They’re long forgotten now.

The gap Robby's employment creates is filled with literature: many words collecting dust in his library consumed by the fireside on days when you miss him, feeling the flames lick against your skin as you curl up in his reading chair and flip through pages.

You run out the clock with the mundane. Chores around the house and the occasional walk to the corner grocery store so he can fail in making you yet another recipe that you devour in delight anyway.

"Make sure you’re bundled up, baby. And be careful. There’s bad people out there. Get yourself something sweet.”

You always find something to do. And when he finally comes home, you drop those somethings and run barefoot across the hardwood floor into his arms.

“What’d you do today, sweetheart?”

His rare time off is spent in bed with you. Tracing geometry into your back and counting the number of lashes on your lash line.

When your stomach grumbles, so does he, and he makes the arduous journey from the bedroom to the kitchen to attempt his next dish for you, with you nipping at his heels the entire way.

If he’s feeling up to it, some days he takes you both somewhere. Anywhere. For him to get away from the sterile hospital air, which he swears he feels inflating his lungs even from home, and for you to get away from the monotony of it all. Though, you’ve yet to complain.

The force of your weight upon the blade of your ice skate melts a thin layer of the glacier beneath, allowing for an easy glide across the rink.

Robby's content in watching you from the sidelines—bouncing like a water strider from rink fillet to fillet, occasionally stopping to stare at the large Christmas tree planted in the center.

It’s not as fun without him. You skate past beginners and experts alike to stop in front of him, spraying the glass boards with powdered ice.

"Robby, why don’t you join me?" you pout as you clasp the board directly in front of you.

He scoops your hands in his and warms your gloveless fingers. "I like watching you, honey. You're so good at this.”

You pull your hands free from his and say before resuming your skate, "Join me, Robby. Please?"

He does because he can’t say no to you. You have to hold one of his hands while his other clutches the boards as you slowly make your way around the perimeter.

You feel as though you have a new lease on life. You’re cherished and cared for after believing for so long you were undeserving of love.

You want for nothing. Money matters little to him when it comes to you—the expensive clothing and jewelry and skincare products he buys for you make you certain of that.

But… it isn’t long before you start to feel a dull ache deep inside the innermost layer of your heart. The money, the material, the nourishment, the warmth he provides you have developed a rot that harrows its way inside of you. Robby's spoiled you rotten. You want more of him—

More more more more more

As weeks pass, the malady intensifies and your heart is eaten through. Degenerated. You’re bedbound, shackled by chains of linking tears. You miss him too much. Time spent without him is too much. Starting and ending the day with him in bed isn’t enough. Nor are the platonic hugs and kisses he dares not indulge in.

Despite never having known this kind of love—never having experienced it—your affections for Robby have evolved into a marrow-deep, soul-crushing craving that can only be described as romantic.

Something has to give. He has to give.

Robby leaves the hospital after a double shift he had no choice in working. He follows his routine path home through the park, faltering when he notices you sitting on one of the benches.

It's spring now. Early spring. Fuzzy sepals encasing flowers on the verge of bloom are coated in ice—as temperatures are still below freezing. Especially now, not too long after dawn has cracked.

He jogs up to you when he sees you shivering.

How long have you been sitting out here waiting for him?

Leaning down to meet you at eye level, he asks, with admonishment in his tone, “Baby, what’re you doing here?”

“I—I was waiting for you, R-Robby. Y-you’re late,” you say with chattering teeth, then pout as you wrap your arms around yourself.

Robby huffs, shakes his head, and looks to the ground at your boots. He'll need to have a discussion with you about this once you both get home, but for now…

He glances back up at you and warms your cheek with his palm. “I’ll make it up to you. But let’s get you out of the cold first, okay?”

He offers you his free hand, and you take it.

Once through his front door, he hangs up your coat on the rack, gets down on a knee to unlace your boots, shimmies them off, and directs you to turn on the fireplace.

He comes over just as you’re setting aside the fireplace lighter and poker, taking a seat in his reading chair and patting his knee with a curt “sit.”

As you place yourself comfortably in his lap, he asks, “Why’d you wait for me out there? Freezing your butt off for no good reason.”

“I missed you,” you sniffle.

The wood slowly burns—the promise of heat yet to deliver—and in the meanwhile, you unzip Robby's sweater so you can warm your hands under his shirt and on his soft, furry belly.

You’ve been downcast as of late—your heart fond and aching in his absence. He’s so attuned to you, he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the change if he tried. While he understands your plight, he’s responsible for your well-being. He can’t let what you did slide and allow it to become common practice.

“You can’t do that. You’ll get yourself sick. I want you to wait for me at home.”

“You were gone too long this time, Robby.”

Fat tears well up in your eyes, and you bury your face to cry into his shoulder, the feel of them landing heavy on him tugging at his heartstrings. He cradles the back of your head with one hand, the other settling low on your hip.

You continue, voice muffled, “All I ever do is wait for you.”

He turns his head to whisper directly into your ear, “You don’t think I miss you too, sweetheart?”

A downpour of tears before you respond, “Then why am I the only one crying?”

Something akin to remorse clips him, tears a hole right through him. He wasn’t expecting the guilt to come now... or ever.

Ample time has passed since that fateful night he met you. You're conditioned to him. Robby has you wrapped around his finger—so much so that you’re stretched thin.

Despite the pang of guilt he feels, it invigorates him to know you need him so wholly. This is what he wants from you.

Sweet for him. Helpless without him. Like any daughter should be without her father.

He can’t go back—rewrite history. He doesn’t want to do that.

He does think, however, that maybe now is a good time to prove how devoted he is to you. Reassure you you’re his sole purpose in life. That he can’t imagine going on without you.

It’s time to bring you in on the fantasy he’s been watching play out so perfectly.

“I have something I want to try with you. Will you hear me out?”

You look up from his shoulder, furrow your brows from the sudden change in topic, but nod. He shifts the hand cradling your head to thumb away a few of your stray tears, then sucks the appendage into his mouth, humming at the salty tang.

A wet pop, then his lips are free to ask, “Remember when you first asked me my name? How I told you there was something else I wanted you to call me?”

It takes you a few harsh blinks to recall the memory. “I remember. You said I wasn't ready yet.”

“That's right. But I think you are now,” he takes in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils, and on the breath out asks, "what if… what if you called me Dad, hm?”

“D-Dad…?”

“Yeah, baby. Dad.”

A head shake before you respond, “But—but you… you aren’t my dad.”

“Really?” he cocks his head in faux confusion, “I thought I took care of you. Keep your belly full and your hands warm. You don’t think I do that?”

“No—I mean… of course you do, but—"

“—So Dad it is then.”

Your instinct to chew your lower lip makes itself known as you consider his response. Robby despises that. Hasn't he told you that already? But he doesn’t get the opportunity to do anything about it because you ask,

“You’re not Robby anymore?”

He chuckles lightly, forgiving and forgetting your crime. An innocent question from such an innocent girl. “I am. I will always be Robby. But when it’s just you and me, call me Dad, okay?”

Like a curtain being paged to reveal a prized jewel at an auction, the uncertainty in your eyes washes over, revealing what Robby can only interpret as pure, magnificent acceptance.

“Okay... Dad,” you giggle as the title rolls off your tongue.

He praises, “Good girl," then squeezes your hip harshly, making you yelp. He can’t help himself. Hearing you call him Dad triggers a cuteness aggression in him like no other. Makes his cock sinfully twitch and his balls throb too.

The princess has crowned her king, and all feels right in Robby’s world.

With the flip of a switch, Robby's back to getting his point across to you. “I know you miss me, sweetheart—but I gotta work so I can keep taking care of you. And just because I'm not a crybaby like you doesn't mean I don't miss you. I don’t want to see you out there waiting for me again.”

You laugh lightly at his teasing and nod, looking down to where your hands move beneath his shirt, stealing his warmth. "Alright, alright. I won't do it again. I promise."

It seems you’re appeased and think the conversation is finished, because your head dangerously jerks back up to meet his eyes when he says,

“Good. Now give me a kiss, and we'll put this behind us.”

Robby thinks you deserve it after holding back from acting on your urges for so long.

He doesn’t miss how you lean into his touch whenever he graciously gives it to you. How you rub against him like a pampered cat in bed. Or how your sweet pecks of hello and goodbye linger and feel more charged than they should between a dad and his girl.

And with every day—since the day he met you—he too feels the gnawing inside of him grow. A hunger so profound only you can satiate it. He does his best to be fatherly with you, but perverted thoughts pass him uncontrollably by, and all he can do to tamp them down is stroke his cock and pump his load into the toilet or shower.

Only one kiss. It should relieve you both. After months of pining, of being such a good father to you—and you such a good girl to him—you both could benefit from something a little... forbidden.

Both of his hands reappear on your hips, and he waits for you to claim your reward.

When he sees your hesitation as clear as day on your face, he urges, "Go on, honey. I know you want this."

The gears start turning, and you slowly lean in, Robby willing himself not to close the distance. Your breaths mingle—his controlled and yours hot and heavy—and then your lips are on his.

The kiss is chaste, innocent—a peck in disguise. You soon pull back but immediately plant another one on him in regret for not taking advantage of the opportunity he’s giving you.

The second time, you press into him more forcefully, pillowy breasts to chest, nails dragging down and low near the waistband of his pants, mouth opening slightly against his as he loses himself in you and returns the kiss with fervor.

You pull back again—almost as quickly as the first time—he thinks to tease, but in honesty because you’re overwhelmed with joy and paralyzed by nerves. But you just as quickly kiss him again. And retreat again.

And you repeat the pattern again. And again. And again—

And suddenly (he doesn’t know if it’s you or him that takes it further), he’s nipping your lower lip, you’re sucking on his tongue, and you’re both swapping too much saliva.

But it’s Robby whose fingers dimple your ass as he gropes one cheek, his other hand holding the back of your head to stop you in the event you want to separate again.

Robby's hunger only seems to grow with the kiss, not abate. Breakfast needs to be prepared soon, but it isn’t food he’s keen on devouring.

He’s aware enough to know this is an appropriate time to stop.

But... your lips are so soft, your whimpers are like a medley of his favorite music spinning his head and spurring his groin, your hands sear him as they bravely dip fingers below his waistband—

This needs to stop immediately. Because if you dare touch him, even barely, you both will go—no, he'll take you both—to a place you can't come back from.

He lets the back of your head go and breaks the kiss, fanning your name across your lips. He'd like nothing more than to take this further. Much, much further, but he's decidedly being good.

His voice rattles out of him, gruff and a little breathy, “Okay, that’s enough.”

“Rob—Dad, please. I missed you so much today," your sneaky fingers dance along his pubis area as they tug on his bottoms, ruffling the untamed tuft of dark hair there, "I—I think if you let me kiss you a little more, I'll feel better."

He huffs a laugh as he encloses your wrists with his fingers, pulling them away from him. He finds delight in your neediness and humor in your clumsy attempt at manipulation, but he’s already made up his mind. “Don’t be greedy, honey. It isn’t proper.”

He shifts and adjusts you so that you’re the one sitting in the chair and he’s standing in front of you.

The sight of you before him nearly makes him fall to his knees. You look wrecked: eyes blown out, lips swollen, sweaty and flustered, and not because of the burning logs right behind him.

He doesn't fare any better. Besides the blush he feels creeping down to his chest, he also—

Robby excuses himself, “Gotta start on breakfast. Let me shower and get changed first, alright?”

But your eyes quickly shift from his down to his crotch before he can step away. “D-Dad, your—your…”

He glances down at the dark spot on his cargos, then palms himself through the thick material, catching how your eyes widen in his periphery. He feels his cum start to leak down his shaft and balls, sticky and plentiful, and winces,

“Yeah, baby. Hence why I gotta shower. You made your dad fucking come in his pants.”

Robby hasn’t kissed you since then. But you don’t protest. He was right before.

It isn’t proper for you to want more with your dad. You should be grateful you had the opportunity to share breaths and feel his thin lips capture yours.

Your malady’s healed. Or rather, has stopped spreading. The little bit of intimacy Robby gave you was enough to block it from eating the rest of your insides.

For now. But one day not so far in the future, you know it will return with a vengeance.

You’re greedy for Robby. You need him like you need air. Your feelings for him are absolute—as guaranteed as the sun rising every morning. He’s unwittingly made your yearning for him worse, despite the improvement in your ailment. He’s given you an inch, and at some point in time, you’ll be wanting a mile.

Luckily for you, one evening, against his better judgment, Robby decides to take advantage of your desires.

The front door slams shut. Robby's home. And you can feel the fury radiating off him in waves.

You greet him by the foyer with an uneasy smile. He doesn’t normally allow himself to be upset around you. Bad shift after bad shift, and the worst you’ve ever seen him afterward is tired, maybe on a bit of a short fuse, but not like this:

He's red in the face. Pupils blown out—eyes darker than the cozy brown you’re familiar with. His hair is a mess as per usual, but even the skin around his graying beard looks raw with how much he’s pulled it.

He callously tosses his bag onto the floor, toes off his sneakers, and tromps toward you. When the bulk of him is only a hairsbreadth distance away from you, he looks down into your expectant eyes.

You’re not sure what he sees, but you notice the dark clouds in his eyes lift, as if enlightened. The wrinkles around them soften, and his shoulders loosen.

Maybe his change in demeanor is because the weather’s finally right for the season: spring is well underway. You're out of his sweaters and sweats and in a flowy shift dress. He likes you barefoot around the house, and your toes are manicured in a shade of his favorite color—blue.

One long look at you—all of you—and his hard exterior is shucked, leaving behind his warm, gooey center.

Still, it’s plain to see Robby's had the kind of day that needs a little good to offset the lot of bad.

He greets you, cupping the nape of your neck with his large paw and weighing you down, “Hi, sweetheart. My angel. I just had a shift from hell. Wanna do me a favor and make me feel better?”

You nod adamantly, replying breathlessly, “Yes, Dad.”

He curses a quick "fuck" beneath his breath at your eagerness, then urges you down onto the floor. “'Kay. Get down on your knees then, baby.”

As you do, he emphasizes, “This isn’t a thing you should be excited to do with your dad. Remember that. It’s just this once.”

Your knees hit hardwood floor as you nod your agreement, and Robby directs you, “Pull out my cock. Get the tip wet.”

You unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants, all while thinking to yourself: he’s being… crass.

Robby’s trademark is to be appropriate with you. He’s your dad. Of course, there have been times where exceptions were made, but it’s only as of recently as the kiss that you’ve noticed a dramatic shift toward something he always reminds you is wrong.

Settling his hands under your nightgown to rest low on your warm belly overnight, you wake to find a hand cupping your sex.

“Your cunt’s warm, sweetheart. That's all. She’s like my little hand warmer.”

Joining you in the shower after a shift that ran long one evening, he rubs your nipples and spreads your ass under the guise of rinsing you.

“Sorry Dad was late today. I know I interrupted your shower, but it’s faster this way.”

Again, you don’t protest. Even if Robby's being unfair.

Pathetic and desperate as you are for him, you take what little he decides to give you and ask for naught in return.

Even now, as you pull him from his briefs and wet his glans with your tongue, you won't take more of him into your mouth unless he says to do so.

Seeing you kitten-lick his cockhead appears to spur him on, and he’s run dry of patience.

Instead of guiding you, letting you do all the work, he grabs the sides of your head and starts a relentless pace, fucking your throat with the sole purpose of bruising your esophagus—forcing himself so deep you'll have no choice but to swallow when he comes.

Your eyes sting with tears and your nails claw into Robby's thighs, yet you moan and feel yourself slicken by being used like this. The sound of your chokes and his wet thrusts in and out of your mouth make you forget the bite of the floor sinking into your knees.

This is what you want from him. For him to use you. To find pleasure in your body. To treat you like you're more to him than his to care for.

All it took was one extremely awful shift for Robby to allow himself to be taken care of by you instead. He deserves your worship—he saved you. But he’s been too good of a dad to allow himself to seek solace in you.

Until now.

One of Robby's hands moves from the side of your head to your throat, feeling himself distend the delicate skin there with every harsh snap of his hips.

“Fuuuck,” Robby, close to coming, rasps, “your mouth is… fucking—amazing. Shit, Dad’s going to… come.”

Your throat muscles constrict around him as you fruitlessly attempt to breathe, careening him over the edge. He pushes you into his pelvis, your nose landing heavily against his musky, sweat-soaked pubes as his cum floods your throat.

The scent of him is heady, salty and dirty yet addicting, and makes your eyes squeeze shut to isolate your senses and focus solely on it. As predicted, his cock is shoved so far down your throat you’re forced to swallow his spend.

After what feels like minutes of Robby unloading in you, he extricates himself from your warm mouth—a mixture of saliva and cum leaking from his shaft to the floor—and hooks your mouth with a single finger, forcing you to loll out your tongue and open wide.

The sight of his cum coating your tongue and stringing between your set of pearly whites makes his eyes roll into the back of his head and his softening cock spasm against his thigh.

“Fuck, sweetheart. I—you don't know how badly I needed that. You did so fucking good for me. I—I love you.”

Be still, your beating heart.

You've known you've loved Robby since the day you met him, and he's confessed it to you too... but not like this. This seems honest. Beyond parental.

Where will things go from here, you wonder?

You can only hope that soon enough... he'll give in and take you to bed. If he really loves you, he'd help offset your insecurities with the promise that what you have is more than transactional.

While you need Robby, Robby needs you to need him. Beyond that, can you say for sure he loves you?

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and giggling, you say, sweet and saccharine, “Anything for you, Dad. I love you too.”

It’s the cusp of summer.

And Robby has done everything under the blazing sun with you except slam you down onto his cock. Barring the single, ultimate stone, every other sexual act has been unturned.

He lied to you.

After you sucked his cock, he couldn’t fathom going back to how things were: laughably "virtuous"—laughably "familial." He’d punish himself, berate himself, and say he’s been a bad father, but who’s he kidding?

Things were always going to lead here with you.

You’re more to him now than the first someone who stuck around. More to him now than his sick need to care for someone other than himself because it’s easier than facing his own problems.

No… he loves you. He'll forever be Dad to you, but he also wants to be your beloved. He wants to introduce you to his colleagues as his wife, kiss you in public—not paying mind to the insurmountable age gap—and when you're both home, hear you call him Dad when he fucks you.

His last thread of restraint is pulled when he comes back home after his last shift before his and your vacation together.

You’re not by the door waiting for him like you usually do. He settles in and makes his way upstairs. Maybe you’re packing.

You’re both getting away from the City of Steel for a week, heading out west to explore the north rim of the Grand Canyon. It’ll be your first time out of state, let alone out west. He's more excited for you than himself.

Though your loneliness has abated since the start of your sexual escapades, he knows it’s not completely disappeared. A vacation with no one else but each other to keep company will do you some good but is not a permanent solution.

An invasive thought has been rearing its ugly head as of late: knocking you up.

A more permanent solution that may solve both of your problems. Robby doesn’t want you to be lonely, but he can't quit work. He’d love to be a daddy to a fat baby, and he reasons you’d have a purpose beyond waiting for him to come home every day.

But this isn’t something he can force upon you if it isn’t what you want.

He trudges up the stairs. The loud sound of the soles of his feet connecting to the floorboard should alert you to his arrival, but you’ve yet to make an appearance.

Odd. Even if you were packing, you’d have come out by now.

The door to your shared room is closed. Another oddity. He opens it, and the sight before him makes his insides feel like molten lava.

No... you're not packing. You’re masturbating. Not even under the covers through your clothes, but completely naked and exposed on the bed, comforter thrown to the floor.

You whimper with eyes squeezed shut, “D-Dad… Dad, please, fuck me.”

You don’t even realize Robby's watching you fuck yourself pathetically on three fingers.

He considers himself a lenient father. You're a good girl. Rarely does he have any trouble with you. But he’d be stupid to think you don’t touch yourself when he’s gone. He's never enforced any rules saying you can’t, but he never thought you’d have the gall to do it like... this.

Still, he isn’t upset. Rather, this perfectly tees up the opportunity to discuss with you his solution to your problems.

He crosses his arms over his chest as he stands before you by the foot of the bed. "Whatcha doing there, pretty girl?"

You unsurprisingly gasp upon hearing him, shooting up from the bed and glaring at him while knuckle-deep in your own cunt.

“D-Dad? You’re—you’re home?”

Robby jerks his chin toward the clock on the nightstand.

You should know he gets home around this time. And if he were running late, he would’ve told you ahead of time.

He’s already learned that lesson.

“I’m usually home at this time. You know that. Now answer my question. What’re you doing?”

You wince as your fingers pull out of your wet, twitchy, tight—

“I—I was just…”

Robby sighs, shaking his head. “You miss me again today? Even after ate your cunt last night? You’re spoiled rotten, sweetheart.”

You sniffle and gather yourself up to hug your knees. Your legs fall open the slightest, and he can get a peek of his shangri-la, the eighth natural wonder of the world—and far better than the Grand Canyon—right in between your legs.

Your essence seeps out of you onto the bed, and all Robby can think about is licking you clean.

“Are you disappointed in me?”

“No, honey,” he coos, “in fact, this is good timing.” He pulls you closer to the edge of the bed by the ankles, and you squeal. Now leaning over you and caging you in by his arms, palms resting by the sides of your head, he asks, “What say you to us having a baby?”

Your eyes go wide, and he chuckles. “A-a baby?”

“Yeah,” he pokes his tongue into his cheek before expanding, “think you’d be less lonely with a little us running around. Wanna make your dad a daddy, sweetheart?”

You lungs collapse on an exhale, and you whimper, the prospect of it apparently appealing to you, which Robby is happy about, but then—

“B-but… I thought you said dads don’t fuck their little girls.’”

He cocks his head and exhales through his nose with closed eyes, “I know what I said. Dad isn’t supposed to be touching you at all, remember? But we’re past that, pretty. You gonna let me fuck a baby in you or not?”

His eyes open to you nodding, a bright smile adorning your face, and he chuckles, mumbling, “Giving me lip when you’re the one who wants this as much as me.”

Robby doesn't do you the justice of stripping. You both have to sleep early tonight for your trip tomorrow, and there’s plenty of packing and check listing to do until then.

He hooks his hands in the crooks of your knees and lifts until your legs dangle in the air, allowing him space to get between them.

Your cute—paid for by him—manicured feet hang by either side of him, and he can’t help but lean down and kiss each delicate arch, regretful he can’t pay them any more attention. Not since your wet hole winks at him, punily stretched open on your fingers that don't compare in length to his, begging for his fat cock to fill her up.

He instructs you, “Get your dad’s cock out. Put it in that sweet pussy of yours.”

There’s plenty that Robby doesn’t know about you still. Most mysteriously, the circumstances that brought you to him bloodied and on the brink of death all those months ago.

He stubbornly refused to pry—and you stubbornly refused to open up—but… he can admit to being curious of your past as of late.

He doesn’t need to know if you’re a virgin, though. He can make do with pretending you are. It doesn’t matter. As far as he’s concerned, you haven’t had sex if it wasn’t with him.

“Letting Dad take your virginity, honey? Ohoho,” he chuckles, “you’re bad.”

You don’t confirm or deny; simply smile as you reach a hand to pull him out of his pants, then rub his length over your viscid folds to lubricate him. Your hand is wrapped around the thickest part of him as you guide him into your dewy entrance, and he slowly pushes inch by inch in.

You release a shuddering gasp as you feel Robby punch past your inner walls, stretching you to your limit. He’s impressed you haven’t scooted up the bed to run away yet and have managed to take him this far.

He’s had partners in the past who were, frankly, too scared to allow him to stick his dick inside them. Amusing as it may be, it’s affected him—marked special moments like these with shame and embarrassment.

You’re truly his one and only.

Once his cock is sheathed inside you, and his cockhead is nestled comfortably against your cervix, you gift him his ninth natural wonder:

The sight of you coming untouched, moaning unabashedly, legs quaking in his grip, toes curling, death gripping the sheets, only the sheer size of his pulsing length inside of you making you reach your peak.

He coos sweetly while shifting your legs so they wrap around his waist and his hands are free to grope your tits, “My angel, my cock feel that good inside you, huh? Who knew you’d come. So. Fucking. Easily. It’s okay, enjoy it. ‘S what I’m here for.”

Your pussy clamps down on him, sucks him impossibly deeper inside of you, and even he can’t help but lose his grip a little.

You feel like fucking heaven.

"Fuck—shit. I gotta start moving, honey, or I’m gonna come inside without having fucked you."

And he can't have that. He’ll never forgive himself if that’s how you get pregnant. Simply dripping his seed into you without having put a little effort to fuck it into you himself.

Robby tweaks your nipples one final time, earning a whine from you, then settles his palms on the globes of your ass to ground himself but also to lift you up slightly from the bed to adjust for your height difference.

“I’m gonna start slow, okay? I’ll be gentle.”

At your slight nod of approval, Robby withdraws from your hole just so his cockhead is still stretching your lips, then eases back in until he’s to the hilt.

He repeats the process a few more times, each time easier to sink inside you than the last.

All the while, he makes sure to take note of your facial expressions, your noises, the way your pussy loosens around him—and greets Dad like he’s coming home.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes, Dad. Please—go f-faster.”

Robby is not one to disappoint.

He speeds his thrusts and grips your fleshy ass so harshly he’s sure he’ll leave bruises, just so you don’t rock up the bed.

Your hands have disappeared from where they were clutching the sheets and reappeared on his biceps, clutching the fabric of his sleeves, stretching them to their yield point.

“D-Dad… ngh—fuck—holy—it’s—it’s too much!”

Robby’s spine tingles with his impending orgasm—buzzes in combination with the sound of your voice and his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your ass.

Though still fresh off your previous orgasm, Robby pays ample attention to your clit, forgoing squeezing one of your ass cheeks to blaze a trail to the swollen nub, massaging it with the pad of his coarse thumb.

You have a lapse in thinking and nearly call him by his name as your mind moves a mile a minute trying to keep up with his rough pace and his incessant rubbing.

“Rob—Dad… fuck! Pleasepleaseplease—”

To think that someone he took in to be a father to is beneath him, asking him for his babies, drunk on lust and sober in love, is beyond what he’s ever imagined for himself.

Fuck, he loves you. And he knows he had a major part in shaping your love for him, but seeing you out there, bleeding in the snow… you needed someone like him to sweep you off your feet.

Every dog has its day, and that was yours.

Your dumb babbling suddenly silences, and he has to look up from where you’re connected to understand why.

You’re biting your lip, muffling the pretty noises he likes so much. He loathes that. It’s the last time he’ll allow it.

He neglects your clit in favor of forcing his thumb into your mouth.

“Stop fucking biting your lip. You need something to do with your mouth? Ask me. That’s what good girls do.”

Your eyes shut in pleasure as you suck on his thumb, tasting yourself on him, and he grins.

Pretty. And impossible to stay mad at.

Once you’ve cleaned your juices off his thumb, he abruptly pulls it from between your lips to grip the side of your face, his huge hand encompassing your entire cheek and chin.

“I’m getting close, sweetheart. Want to hear you say it.”

He doesn’t have to explain what he means.

As you clamp down on him, you squeal, “Fuck—Dad, please! Please come inside me! G-give me your babies!”

"Christ, sweetheart. Okay. Touch yourself. Want you to come with me."

Hearing you call him Dad, hearing you beg him for his babies, does unspeakable things to him. It hurtles him over the edge—his care for what’s right and wrong long gone—and comes inside his sweet girl.

He makes sure to fill you as deeply as he can, grinding his pelvis into you so it’s more likely you take, enjoying the feel of your walls sucking him in and pumping him of all his cum.

Balls empty, he pulls out of you and lets you go after unhooking your legs from his waist and depositing your ass back onto the bed, where you soon follow with your own orgasm—after swiping a few fingers over your twitchy, pert clit.

Robby watches in awe as you let it wash over you. You're a spasming, sweaty, gorgeous, cock-drunk mess, and he can feel his cock stirring again.

Remnant dribbles of his cum and your essence have creamed around the base of him and lead up to his glans, where his tip is ruddy and swollen.

He winces as he swipes a finger over his slit, smears the juices over your parted lips, then scoops you into his arms and flips you so you’re lying over him in bed.

Many exhausted, shared breaths later—

"We still gotta pack, sweetheart. Big day tomorrow."

You make a noise of complaint in the back of your throat. "I know. I'm sorry I didn't finish while you were gone. As you already know, I got distracted doing... other things. But can we just lie here for a little longer first?"

He chuckles and kisses your sweaty forehead. "Sure. Just a little longer."

For the first time in what's been a while, you fully address Robby by name, surprising him. "Robby, do you... do you actually want to have a baby together? And not just because you want to give me something to do?"

"Yeah. I do. Because I love you."

You wrap your arms tighter around his neck, shivering from the sweat drying down on your bare skin. Robby holds you closer to him.

"We could've started with a dog or something first," you joke, "but, um, a baby works too."

The corner of his lip twitches into a smirk when he feels your smile forming against his chest. "We have a whole week to make sure it happens."

You deadpan, "It's our vacation."

Robby huffs a laugh and explains, simply, "A few loads in you a day won't take away from our vacation, baby. And we can talk about getting you a pup too. I have a habit of picking up strays."

Giving up on the tie, Jack tossed it aside and walked up next to you. The mattress dipped as he sat down, and he gently placed a hand on your lower back.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you replied, voice altered by your hand supporting your chin.

“It was ‘nothing’ this morning, too. And yesterday, and the day before that. It’s obviously not nothing.”

You sighed heavily again. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” You couldn’t see how that made Jack clench his jaw. 

“Nope,” he said shortly. You looked up at him in confusion, only to be met with his stern face. “We can either talk about it, or you’re going to cut the attitude. You’re not going to mope around on this nice trip over ‘nothing,’ understand?” 

You suppose he had a fair point. It’s not that you didn’t want to open up to Jack; you just didn’t really know how to raise the subject of your unrequited feelings for another man.

“It’s just…” You trailed off, trying to find the words that didn’t make the situation seem so pathetic, so juvenile.  

“Boy troubles?” he asked with a slightly raised eyebrow. He always saw through you. 

“Stop, that makes it sound so stupid,” you whined, hiding your face in your hands.

Jack began to rub your back, fingers soothing the skin exposed by your dress. “Any boy who would give you trouble is stupid, baby. Shouldn’t waste your time with them.”

“But I like him, and I thought he liked me. He does like me; he’s just… scared, I guess?”

Jack hummed. “If he’s scared, that says something about him, not about you. Aren’t a lot of guys who could handle trouble like you,” he teased gently.

You rolled over onto your back so you could look up at Jack without having to crane your neck. He cupped your cheek, and you leaned into his warm, calloused touch that always brought you comfort. No matter how much your heart ached for Robby, you knew that he would never take care of you as well as Jack does. Kind, caring, loving…

“I’m not trouble,” you mumbled against his palm. He smiled softly.

“Nah, you’re not. You’re just spoiled. A little needy.” his hand trailed from your jaw down your throat and rested at the base of your neck. “But you’ve got a man who will give you everything you could want.”

He was right, mostly. Jack could give you all the material possessions, beauty treatments, lavish vacations, and free housing you could want, but you would never have his love. That was the one thing he couldn’t give you.

You pushed yourself into a seated position, keeping Jack’s hand around your neck. You held his wrist gently as you looked at him with wide, bright eyes. That look could crumble Jack to dust. 

“How about I help take your mind off this guy, baby. My princess shouldn’t have to worry about anything.” He leaned in a bit closer. 

“What do you have in mind, Daddy?” you asked, rising to his flirtations. 

“I want to see what you have hiding for me under this gorgeous dress.”

As he laid down in the center of the bed, he pulled you on top of him. You were straddling his waist and, from where his head was propped up on the pillows, he had a perfect view of your body in the expensive dress he bought you. He ran his hands over the fabric, then over your thighs, then he pushed them under the hem and raised it to sneak a peek at your panties. They weren’t new, but they were ones that Jack had gotten you. Hell, most of your stuff was bought by Jack. 

They were a nude mesh g-string that paired perfectly with the delicate fabric of the dress. No panty lines. Jack was practically drooling. 

“This,” he said, breathy, “shouldn’t be wasted on a guy who doesn’t appreciate it.”

He pushed the hem of your dress into your hands, and you held it up so he could admire all of you. Your thighs, your hips, your lower stomach, your mound. 

“I need to taste you, baby.”

He urged you forward, so you walked on your knees over his chest until you were hovering over his face. He allowed the position for a moment so he could look at your ass as well, but then he tugged your hips down so you were resting on his face. 

Jack would always start with your panties on. He kissed over your inner thighs, nose brushing your lips ever so slightly, his hot breath fanning over your even hotter center. He focused on everywhere except where you needed him. 

His fingers dug into the sides of your thighs and, despite trying to be patient, you were his needy girl. You ground your hips, rubbing your clit against the point of his nose.

“Daddy, please,” you whined. If Jack’s mouth wasn’t occupied, he would have made a comment about his girl already being so demanding. 

“Pull ‘em aside,” he instructed. 

You reached between your legs, hooked your finger in the gusset of your panties, and pulled them off to one side so Jack could have access to your dripping hole. He lapped up your wetness eagerly and moaned at the sweet taste of you that he craved. 

His tongue was relentless as he pleasured you, switching from swirling through your folds, circling your clit, and plunging inside of you. When you began to rock your hips again, he knew you were getting close. He focused more on your sweet bundle, careful not to overstimulate you. You were delicate. 

“Daddy,” you breathed. You hated when you got whiny and desperate, found it embarrassing, but you couldn’t help it when it came to Jack. 

You threaded your fingers through his freshly styled curls and tugged. The sensation made Jack groan into your pussy, and the vibrations pushed you over your edge. You came with a cry, your body folding in on itself as Jack continued to suck gently on your clit. 

He didn’t stop even after your body sagged with relief. He kept tonguing you, and his grip on your hips grew firmer in anticipation of you squirming away. He kept at it until you were cumming again. It wasn’t as powerful as your first one, but it wracked through your body nonetheless. 

He helped your limp body up and laid you down on the bed next to him while you caught your breath. It didn’t take you long to recover, and you were reaching for the fly of Jack’s dress pants. 

“Don’t worry about me, baby,” he said, sitting up. “I was taking care of you.” He took your hands in his and pressed kisses to your knuckles soothingly. “Let me worship my girl.”

You sat up beside him and smoothed your dress out, not wanting the wrinkles to set in. You basked in the afterglow of your two incredible orgasms while Jack peppered kisses over your forehead. You sat in silence for a while until your creeping feelings of doubt returned. 

“What do you do for work, Jack?” you asked. His brows furrowed, and a slight, confused smile formed on his lips.

“Baby, you know I don’t like to talk about work,” he said, stroking your wrist with his thumb.

“I know, but… we’ve known each other for so long, and we know so much about each other, except that. I feel like there’s a big piece of who you are that I’m missing.” 

Your words made you cringe. Jack opened a can of worms, getting you to spill your feelings. Jack cared about you; you knew that, but you also knew that he would never have feelings for you past that. You were his companion, not his lover, and if you made things messy and complicated, he would push you away just like Robby did. 

“Where’s this coming from?” Jack asked instead of answering. His posture shifted into something more rigid. He was on guard.

“I…” You held yourself back from blowing your whole agreement up. “Really like you, Jack.” You blinked your glassy eyes at him, and he stared back, lips parted. You didn’t need to say the words out loud for Jack to hear them. 

“Oh, princess.” He frowned a bit and reached up to hold your face again. “I really like you, too. I love your company. I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” You appreciated the praise, but he delivered it as if he was defusing a bomb. “I just don’t have time for any more commitment than this. Plus, it’s not fair to you to be tied down to some old man while you’re living out the best years of your life.” He snipped the red wire. 

“I know,” you replied, voice hollow. You refused to cry in front of him, not over this. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Jack’s voice mixed with the echo of Robby’s saying the same thing. They bounced around inside your brain, sat as a lump in your throat, and twisted into a knot in your stomach. They were both so worried about hurting you. Did they not realize that by pushing you away, they were doing exactly that?

“Let’s get your shoes on, baby. We’re gonna be late for dinner.”

You nodded wordlessly and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Before you could get up, Jack was picking your legs up and putting the designer heels he had bought you that morning on your feet for you. He fastened the small gold buckle around the ankle strap with ease, but you weren’t paying attention to his deft fingers. You were studying the deep, twin lines between his eyebrows and his silver curls. 

Once your shoes were on, Jack gently lowered your feet to the ground, then helped you up. He slung his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. Foolishly, you allowed yourself to melt into his hold. 

You didn’t eat much at dinner. You picked at the calamari Jack ordered, nibbled on some bread, ate all of the exciting vegetables out of your salad, and had some bites of fish that Jack fed you. You weren’t very hungry to begin with, having spent most of the trip at different cafes and bakeries, but your self-deprecating feelings suppressed any remaining hunger cues.

What you did have, however, was wine. Nearly a whole bottle yourself. Jack was a wine lover, so he bought two bottles for you to sample and share. You couldn’t have cared less about the age, dryness, notes, or price tag. You just wanted, no, needed to get drunk. 

Jack regarded you carefully from across the table as you quickly drained your first glass, then moved on to your second. He assumed that you must have really liked it, but as you continued to drink, he grew suspicious that it wasn’t the flavor you were after, but the alcohol content. He advised you to slow down, but you ignored him. Now, you were a bit past the socially acceptable level for wine drunk, at least at a fancy restaurant such as the one Jack so generously brought you to. 

Everything was hazy and rose-tinted, and before you knew it, a completely sober Jack was ushering you out of the restaurant before dessert was served. You tried to fight him to stay, but he wouldn’t budge.

“But I want ice cream,” you whined.

“We’re going back to the hotel.”

He firmly held onto your side, more so to keep you upright than to show affection. You were stumbling in your heels, but you didn’t have another pair to change into, and Jack was not going to let you walk the city streets barefoot. He muttered something about needles and hepatitis, but you weren’t entirely sure what he said. You were distracted by the bright lights of the gelato shop you were passing. You squealed and yanked Jack toward the door, begging him to take you in.

“Baby, easy, take it easy,” he said, trying to calm you down. “You want some?”

“Yes, please!” you grinned, easy and wide in the way you only did when you were drinking. Jack couldn’t help but smile at your beaming face.

“Okay, doll, I’ll go in and get you some, but you have to promise to be good and stay right here, got it?”

“I’ll stay right here,” you parroted obediently. He gave you another firm look before he started toward the door.

“I’ll just be right here, okay? I’ll keep my eye on you, so just wave if you need me.”

With Jack inside, you were alone with your thoughts again. Thoughts of Robby freezing you out after sex. Thoughts of Jack, who would never let you fully know him. It was suffocating and utterly humiliating, how you were allowing yourself to be played by these men. No, that’s not fair. They weren’t playing you; they had told you upfront what the expectations of your relationships were. It was your fault for wanting more.

As you were lost in your thoughts, you began to wander down the street. The buildings there were beautiful, but you found it hard to appreciate the architecture and culture in this state. You weren’t sure how far you walked; all you knew was your feet were sore, so you sat down on the front steps of some apartment building. You nearly fell asleep with your head in your hands, too spacey to notice that Jack’s voice calling your name was echoing down the street. Jack’s voice sounded so sweet saying your name. You wished it didn’t make your heart ache so violently. 

He said he didn’t want to tie you down, to prevent you from living the life you deserve, but the life you deserved was by his side. Being his girl, his wife. Not just being taken care of, but being loved and getting to love him back. You started to wonder if maybe you were the problem. It had to be statistically impossible for two men to reject you for the same reason. It’s not you, it’s me was the biggest bullshit line in the book. Maybe you weren’t worth more than a fuck, at least not to Robby. Jack thought you were worth spending money on, but not any kind of commitment, not even worth being seen in the daytime. 

Tears sting in your eyes, but you could no longer fight them. You were so close to having everything with Jack, but he refused to give you the one thing you wanted most. Now, here you were hours and an ocean away from home with the man who was breaking your heart. However, at home, there was a different man who was destroying you. You thought that drowning your sorrows in fancy wine would make you feel better, but it served to make you more sensitive and needy for something you couldn’t have.

“Baby?” Jack said, voice full of relief when he rounded the corner, holding a cup of strawberry gelato in his hand. “God, baby, I told you not to go anywhere. I looked up, and you were gone.” He sat on the stoop next to you with a groan. “Had me so worried.”

You angled your knees away from him, the universal sign that you were upset. You didn’t want him to see your tears. You didn’t want to have to explain yourself. He didn’t let you turn away; he put the cup of melting gelato on the ground and used his cold, wet hand to turn your face back towards him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’” Jack didn’t often break out the Daddy persona outside of a scene, but he knew it would get you to pay attention. You sniffled and discreetly wiped your nose on the back of your hand. He forced you to look at him, but with the way the wine was making your head spin, you found it difficult to make eye contact.

“Boy troubles.” If you were any more sober, you would’ve been embarrassed by your watery voice. 

“I told you, baby, that guy’s an asshole. If he can’t see what he has, then he’s a fuckin’ idiot.” He cocked his head to the side and looked at you carefully. As you looked back at him, your lower lip trembled. “A man is supposed to take care of his girl. Make her feel like a princess, not make her cry.” You realized that you were no longer upset about Robby, but about Jack. 

“I love him, but he doesn’t want me like that. Don’t know what else I can do.” You had to look away from him; his gaze was too intense. 

Jack gently wiped your tears away with his thumb, careful not to smear the makeup underneath. “You’re the sweetest, smartest, best person I know, baby. Don’t waste your time with a guy who won’t give you everything you want.”

As Jack brushed his tear-stained thumb over your lips, he realized what he was saying. He was the one who couldn’t commit. He was the one squandering the opportunity to be with you. He was the one who didn’t love you. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He brought his hand back to his side and stared down at his feet with deep creases between his brows. “I think we should get you to bed.”

Jack got you into your satin pajamas with clinical precision, keeping his hands where it was strictly appropriate. He gave you a big glass of water and watched you drink it all before he brought you to the bathroom, helped you brush your teeth and take your makeup off, and tucked you into the center of the king-sized hotel bed. Instead of joining you, Jack took off his prosthetic, stripped to his boxers, and sat in the chair in the corner of the room. He didn’t sleep, wasn’t even tired; he was too occupied thinking about your arrangement. 

It’s not that he didn’t love you. He did; you were his whole world, but his world outside of work was very limited. His world was dark, grimy, fucked up, and chaotic, and you were far too precious and sweet to be corrupted by him. You deserved better than what he could give you.

“Jack,” you whined, stirring from your place in bed as you blindly reached for him. The desperate edge to your voice made him ache.

“I’m here, baby,” he said. He used his crutch to make his way over to the bed and lay down next to you, on top of the covers. “I’m here.”

He trailed his fingers over the bare skin of your arm, watching as goosebumps appeared in his path. He felt like a monster for putting you in this position. He was a selfish, lonely old man who took advantage of a young girl. He knew he couldn’t cut you off completely; your entire life would be upended. He pays for your lifestyle. He would continue to do so, but he would have to be careful. 

You rolled closer to him and cuddled into his side. Jack was a weak, weak man, because he let himself melt into you. He looked down at your relaxed face, your eyes rimmed with the smudges of your eye makeup he couldn’t remove. You were so sweet, his girl. 

You have a recurring dream. Or is it more of a nightmare? You can't tell.

In your dream, your human form transforms into that of something markedly inhuman, a grotesque thing to see unfold behind your eyelids.

Your skeleton shrinks to a size just a fraction of what it is now, the excess skin, with nothing to cling to, spreading in a fleshy pool on the floor. Your spine bends out of shape like a pole vaulter's pole over the high horizontal bar, canted forward at an extreme angle and forcing you on your hands and feet. Bones break; your pelvis shortens, your arms lengthen, and what were two hands become two feet. Like the dinosaurs that evolved to carry their massive weight, you've become quadrupedal.

The excess skin retracts, like the tape of a leash being pulled back, and snaps securely into place. And you have a little tail, starting right around the sacral region, an extension of the canine spine.

Metamorphosis: the worst part of the dream. Becoming something other than human. The simulated pain that comes with it. But after, you're happy. Loved and cared for by a shapeless owner. You're a dear thing to them.

A pet.

But distantly, even while using your baser brain, you can tell that something is wrong. You're not meant to be like this.

And yet, you're happy.

So. Nightmare, or not?

You don't know, but you don't have the time to dwell on it. Your half hour lunch break is almost up, your ramen cup is empty, and today you're stationed at the cash registers.

It's a slow day—slower than usual, at least—though. Pittsburgh is just coming out on the other end of a big, freak snowstorm, and there is but one customer in the store right now.

You clock back in on the employee app and exit the break room to tend to him, tossing your empty cup into the bin on your way out.

"Ready to check out, sir?"

So, even though you told yourself to drop it, as you scan and punch in his purchases for dog food, chew toys, and other assorted items, you think back on your dream.

Being employed here should explain its origin. You see these kinds of owners all the time: people who cherish their pets, spoiling them rotten. Who wouldn't want to be doted on? Loved? Asked for nothing but companionship in return.

Hey!

The snapping of fingers rings out, cutting and sharp.

Are you there? Can you give me my receipt already?

You startle, and you're brought back down to earth. You shake your head.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir." You rip the glossy paper from the receipt printer, holding it out to him. "Here's your receipt. Thank you for shopping at Animal Kingdom."

The man scoffs, snatching it out from your hand. He collects the handles of his paper bags and murmurs, "space case," before leaving the store.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were daydreaming again. In front of a customer. If your boss had happened to see that exchange, you would have never heard the end of it.

You can't lose this job. You don't have much else going for you.

The next day.

Or the next week.

Does it matter?

Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

That is a short summary of your life as of the past near decade since you graduated high school and have been working at the pet store. It's not much, but you make do. There is the noticeable absence of a social aspect in your routine...

nothing new there, though.

You do not hate your life, but there is not much to love. It flashes by, but it is also stagnant. And it is lonely.

You peer into a tank, sighing when you see a dead one. The black of the comet goldfish's eyes stare inanimately at you. Its brethren clear the way as you scoop it out, then bag it, throwing it into the dumpster in the back of the store.

Goldfish do not have a three-second memory, as the myth suggests, but retain memory for up to three months. Its brothers could be mourning it in its death, for all you know.

Sometimes, you daydream about the ocean. Seahorses come to mind. Being one in a pair of mates. Having a partner for life. It's a heartwarming thought, but you imagine that the ocean is one hell of a scary place for a pair of frail seahorses.

You can't have it both ways. Tank or ocean.

So, then, maybe instead of a seahorse, what you are is a remora in need of a shark. Feeding on its bacteria and dead skin, you'd be set to roam the big blue, accompanied and safe. Survival by way of symbiosis. A sad existence, though, to need a creature so much more than they need you.

Scratch that. Tanks are safe. Not the ones here, but a good owner would take care of their fish.

The PA system squeals with feedback as it's turned on.

Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup. Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup.

You sigh. More dead goldfish.

You're stocking shelves in the avian aisle when a customer softly calls out to you. Finches and parakeets chirp in the background, rowdy in their cages.

"Excuse me, miss?" he says, approaching you, his steps audible and heavy.

You turn around and almost drop the bag of birdseed you're holding.

Hazel-green eyes and a sinful scruff. Middle-aged or so.

The man is handsome. More handsome than anyone you've ever laid eyes on in the store. Maybe even in the small world you live in between here and your apartment and the bus ride to the grocery store. You've never seen him before, but you get the feeling that you recognize him from somewhere.

"Let me help with that," he offers, taking the bag from your hands and placing it on the bottommost shelf beside you where it belongs. He shifts his weight to his left foot when he stands to full height again, a flicker of pain sweeping over his features.

"Thank you, sir. You didn't have to—"

"It's not a problem. Mind helping me with something in return?"

You nod, clasping your hands in front of you. "How can I be of assistance?"

The man holds up a dog collar from his cargo pocket.

"I'm adopting a dog soon. Want to make sure that I'm gettin' the right size."

"Oh, well, all our collars are adjustable and should be able to fit any size dog. May I?" You hold your hand out palm up so he can pass it to you, but he shakes his head.

"This one isn't. I think I got the right one, but I'd just like to check."

You're not sure where he got the collar. You look at it more closely and are stumped when, yes, it's a slip-on. Non-adjustable. It tightens when the leash is pulled, a corrective action, and is loose-fitting otherwise when the dog is compliant. There must be a new supply of them that was put up that you were unaware of.

He clears his throat and clarifies, "could you try it on?"

"Try it on?" you repeat, stunned. "Uh, that's..."

Your eyes widen slightly when you catch sight of your boss standing a few feet behind the man, nodding his head and giving you two thumbs up, as if he had heard the conversation and were encouraging you to... try on the collar.

The customer experience is our number one priority.

You gulp. Why does this make you nervous? Just get it over with.

"Sure. Anything to help."

The man releases the tension in his shoulders, relieved that you agreed. "Thank you, miss. You're a lifesaver." He stands closer to you, raising his hands up to your head to collar you.

You duck down a bit to make it easier for him, looking at the gray vinyl floor. You think of your dream, your body breaking and bending and twisting from a force beyond your control.

The dog he's planning on adopting must be a larger breed, because though you would consider yourself to have an average-sized head, it does in fact fit.

It sits, weighty yet comfortably, around your neck. You instinctively touch the cool, metal sliding ring resting at the hollow of your throat with your fingers.

"Beautiful," he says.

You're starved enough for attention that you pretend he's saying it to you and not to the fit of the collar itself.

He winks cheekily. "I think this'll fit my girl nicely."

He's adopting a female dog, then.

"Will that be all?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to check out."

You go to remove the collar yourself, your fingertips brushing the polyester material of the climbing rope, but he interrupts you.

"Here, I got it."

His fingers, thick, you note, graze the sides of your neck when he removes the collar. You smile shyly at him once it's no longer around your neck, your faces a bit too close to be polite.

You follow him to the register to ring him up, making idle conversation, "the weather's been nice lately, hasn't it?" "It sure has. I hope you take advantage of it, miss," and hand him his receipt, and then he's gone.

That was not the strangest thing you've experienced in this store, but it was strange.

You double-check the aisle with the collars, rubbing your fingertip along the circumference of the metal ring of the exact one the man had purchased. You don't know why you felt the need to confirm that they were here.

What attracted you to this position out of high school was that it had decent benefits, decent pay, and it was one bus ride away from your parents' home and then, when you moved out, walking distance to your apartment.

What's keeping you here now, though, you're not too sure. You planned to go to the community college at some point when you had saved up enough money to study something, but that never came to pass. You got trapped in the comfort zone.

A little too late now to regret not having done more for yourself, so you try not to. There's still time if you were to somehow get the courage to change your life.

The bell rings as a couple strolls in. You recognize them as two kids, now adults the same age as you, who went to your high school. It's been years since you've come across anyone from then, and you had almost convinced yourself you were the last of your class in Pittsburgh.

They don't recognize you when you ring up their cat food. A few cans of the wet variety.

It's better they don't. You don't have the fondest memories of your high school years.

"You two are a cute couple," you say, bagging the cans. Not for any reason besides to make some small talk.

Engage with the customers. Communicate. Connect. That's what separates us from them.

"Thanks! We just got engaged," she says, holding her left hand out, a giant, gleaming rock on her wedding finger. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Me?" you ask, almost appalled. "No, I haven't had the, uh, best of luck in the dating department."

She beams. "There's this speed dating event happening soon. I'm one of the organizers. You should consider signing up."

She hands you a flier from her purse, and you skim through the details before folding it up into squares, placing it in your pocket, knowing you'll likely find it in the washing machine later, torn to shreds.

"Thanks. I'll think about it." You pass her the receipt and bag of cat food. "Have a great rest of your day, you two."

Your boss, Mark, tends to hover. And in his hovering, he tends to overhear.

You're eating lunch in the break room with Katy, a woman who's long in the tooth and has a mean bite. She tolerates you, though. You're not sure what that says about you as a person, but you won't shoo away company.

Mark takes a seat beside you in what was an empty chair, and Katy stands up, her chair screeching as it's pushed back. She doesn't like Mark, so her lunch is as good as over.

He stares holes into her retreating back before turning his attention to you. "I happened to overhear that customer inviting you to a speed dating shindig. Are you going?"

You shrug, twirling your soggy noodles over and over again in the cup. "Um. I dunno. I haven't thought about it, to be honest."

"You have to go. How many years have you been working here, and you're still single?"

You're taken aback. "Why does that matter?"

He shoves his phone in your face, a selfie of him and his wife lounging on the deck of a beach bungalow, sick in love.

You remember when Mark went away on his honeymoon last year. You were temporarily assigned manager. It was one of the worst weeks of your life.

"You have to take chances. Put yourself out there. I swore off the apps, but I gave it one more chance, and look. I got married."

You don't know on the dot when you two got close enough for him to speak to you like this. But you are his longest-lasting employee and younger than the rest, so maybe he feels paternal toward you.

You do see him more than your actual father now that you think about it.

You sigh, yielding. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out."

What do you have to lose? The event is Friday, and you're not scheduled to work. You can dip out the moment your anxiety spikes too high.

Mark claps a hand over your shoulder. "Excellent!"

He leaves you alone in the break room, and soon enough you can hear him getting into it with Katy.

Looking down into your cup, you frown. Your noodles are not only soggy but have now turned a ghoulish gray. You wouldn't feed this to your pet.

An elderly man brings in his sick cat, thinking that the pet store is an animal hospital. He's dizzy with worry and scarcely gets his words across. You feel bad for the pair of them and look up directions to the nearest clinic.

The cat, cradled in the arms of its owner like a baby, then pukes all over the front of your shirt and on the floor, some splashing onto the toes of your sneakers. Mark takes over, directing the man two streets down to a veterinary clinic, and you excuse yourself to clean up, using the paper towels in the employee restroom to fruitlessly wipe away the stains on your shirt. Of course you don't have spare clothes in your locker. You smell like cat puke the rest of the day.

One day, you're going to quit this place.

Mark and Katy get into a spat about pricing inaccuracies.

"I only label the prices. I don't set the prices. Don't pin this on me, Mark."

"But you're supposed to check that it matches the one in the POS before you stick them on the merchandise!"

And when you try to break up what is looking to become a fistfight, Katy accidentally slaps you across the face.

"Look at what you fuckin' made me do! Are you okay, hun?"

You're going to quit this place.

Today nothing bad happens. You clock in, and you clock out. But all through your shift, you have this crushing, despairing feeling in your chest because you know you're never going to quit this place.

Tomorrow is the speed dating event. As you think about what you're going to wear while mopping the floor along an aisle, a pair of boots comes into view.

The same ones he had on last time. You look up, and there he is, the man who collared you.

"Hey, there. Remember me?"

How could you forget? That interaction didn't leave your mind for days afterward. Every time you passed by the shelf with those collars, you thought of him.

"Of course. Is everything alright?"

You don't see too many repeat customers. Customers in general, quite frankly. Big box stores and online shopping and pet subscription boxes are forcing stores like these to close. It can be a ghost town at times. The dirt and dust tracked in from the outside are more imaginary than real.

You almost want it to happen—the store closing. Then you'd be forced to move on. You're not so lucky, though.

He rubs the nape of his neck. "I need to return the collar I bought."

You peer out past the endcap and look to the cash registers crowded in the middle of the store, a few aisles down.

Empty.

"Someone should be manning the registers. So sorry about that."

You set the mop and bucket to the side, the wooden handle leaning against a shelf with a wide array of cat and dog treats, and place down a wet floor sign.

He shakes his head. "I'm in no rush."

You lead the way to the registers and process his return, typing codes into the computer. You ask, curious, "is there a reason why you're returning this? Something wrong with it?"

He mulls over his answer. "No, it's not that."

You glance at him, quirking a brow. The cash drawer pops open, and you hand him his cash back, his fingertips skimming yours.

"The adoption fell through," he explains, shrugging. "Have no use for it now."

You wonder what made the adoption go sideways. Was it a behavioral issue, or was it simply a matter of personality? "Sorry it didn't work out. But I'm sure there's a dog out there waiting for you to be their owner."

He huffs a laugh. "You might be right."

You're home, immobile on the couch, when you should be on the bus that goes downtown. There's another one arriving in twenty minutes.

You showered and put on some makeup, but if you don't get dressed now, you're going to be late. And if you're late, you'd rather not go because then you'd be giving a bad impression.

Is anything good going to come out of this, though? Speed dating, as far as you know, is hit or miss. And you're like a magnet for misfortune.

Your phone vibrates in your lap. A text from Mark.

I want to hear all about your dates tomorrow!

You groan. You should've switched your schedule around to have tomorrow off of work.

Though you drag your feet, you get off the couch and get dressed. At the very least, you can tell him you went and showed your face. You make it to the bus stop just in the nick of time and are the last to board.

It rained earlier, and the inside of the bus smells like the aftermath of getting caught in it. Except worse. Like a damp dog instead of damp human skin intermingled with petrichor. You hope it doesn't rub off on you.

The speed dating is held at a small party venue. You feel out of place among the other women, who are dressed in nicer clothing and have bigger, prettier smiles. Your dress is itchy, and your heels pinch your toes. Already, you're regretting this.

You arrived a little too late to get yourself a drink at the cash bar to untangle your knotted nerves. You get signed in and are given a nametag, then are seated at a table by one of the volunteers. You're told to wait.

"We'll be bringing out the other half of the participants soon. Your first date will be here shortly."

The other half being the men, you suppose. The flier said this was a straight speed dating event. Currently only women are seated at the tables.

They must be waiting around in one of the connected rooms. After a few minutes, a set of double doors on the far end of the room open, and a diverse group of men file in. Skinny, heavyset, short, tall, black, white, and everything in between. All in their twenties to fifties. All handsome.

Last to enter is someone you least expect. It's as if he can tell you're watching him, because his eyes cut to yours instantly.

The man from the store heads straight toward you and sits across from you. The man isn't just "the man" anymore, though. His name is Jack, according to the name tag stickied onto his polo shirt. It's funny. How he has known your name from the moment you met, pinned to your work shirt right above your breast, but only now are you learning his.

"This is unexpected," he says, chuckling in a low, deep voice. "Looking for love too, huh."

In this slant of light, much more vibrant than the dull fluorescent in the pet store, his eyes look wolfish, almost. Angled at the inner and outer corners. An almond shape. The outer iris is a dark, forest green with flecks of amber splashed around it. The full, gray head of hair on his head and white, scruffy beard round out the animalistic look.

His shirt fits him like a glove, the bulge of his biceps glaring and distracting. The topmost buttons are popped open, and you sneak a peek at the skin of his chest, flushed pink. A little white fur there, too.

You snort, a heat rising to your cheeks. Your heart is hammering. Meeting him here has to mean something. Doesn't it?

You allow your delusions to take root, your confidence seemingly growing and blossoming from nowhere.

"Maybe I've found it already," you tease. "What are the odds we'd meet again here?"

The corner of his lip ticks up. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Let's see how well you can hold a conversation."

Each couple has ten minutes together before an alarm rings and the men are shuffled to the next table. 

Two minutes, everyone! Start wrapping up your conversations!

You've managed to hold yourself above water for eight of them. Jack is easy to talk to, though, so you give him most of the credit.

You're amazed he doesn't just up and leave.

On top of his looks, after learning he's an emergency physician over at PTMC and a decorated combat medic veteran, "medically discharged on account of my leg being blown off. It's okay. You can laugh about it. I do," you think your chances with him are even lower than where they're buried six feet under.

"Do you have any pets?" he asks. "Maybe take advantage of an employee discount?"

You huff a laugh. "There's no discount, unfortunately. But no, my apartment doesn't allow pets."

He hums. "One of the nice things about owning a house."

You nod. And a whole lot nicer to live in than your shoddy apartment, you're sure.

"So, um..." you start, floundering.

Time is running out. You should make the most of the minute and thirty seconds you have left with him, but you don't know what else to say.

He picks up the slack. "A few more things I want to ask, sweetheart."

The pet name stirs up something in you. Makes you feel like a lovestruck puppy. You try to keep calm. "Go for it."

"What would you consider your biggest strength?" His elbows on the table, he interlocks his fingers, resting his chin on his hands.

You choke on a laugh. He arches a brow.

"Sorry. Just feels like an interview question."

He chuckles, the fine lines around his eyes creasing. Your face lights up because you made him do that. You want to see what he looks like when he smiles big and wide, his canines exposed.

"You can interpret it as one. Isn't that what speed dating basically is?"

"Good point." You chew on a fingernail. "Maybe loyalty? I've been at Animal Kingdom for almost ten years and have no intention of quitting." It's not loyalty as much as it is you chickening out of handing in your two-week notice time and time again. You hold back a grimace. "And, you know, if we were to be in a relationship, I'd be loyal to you, too. But that goes without saying."

"Loyalty," Jack repeats, mumbling to himself. "And your biggest weakness?"

"That's… harder to answer," because I have so many, all equally detrimental, you don't say. "I tend to daydream a lot? Get lost in my head," you decide on. "It's a thing at work. My coworkers tease me about it. It's not really been an issue, though."

He shakes his head. "That's not a weakness. I find that endearing. The world needs more dreamers like you."

The alarm sounds out, almost shocking you out of your chair. Time is up.

He watches you for a moment, glued to his chair when he should be moving to the next table.

"Why don't we get out of here?" he asks. "You said you rode the bus, right? I can drive us back to mine."

Your brows shoot up to your hairline. "What, really? Don't you want to talk to the other women?" You gesture around the room.

"I don't need to. I found you, and I'm taking you home, if you'll allow me." He stands, offering his hand to you, and adds, "my perfect match."

Jack brings you back to his house. A one-story rancher with a sleek, gray shingled roof and a manicured lawn. You wonder with his schedule if he does the upkeep himself or pays someone to do it.

During your date, he told you that on the weekends, or his version of them, anyway, he used to volunteer for TEMS as a SWAT physician. He has healthier hobbies now, though. "Got shot one too many times." But with how long his shifts run at the hospital, it's a miracle he has free time at all.

You shut the passenger door of his truck and follow behind him as you walk up the stone path. He unlocks the front door and gestures for you to enter.

As you remove your heels in the doorway, you take in the view of his house. The walls are professionally painted, and the floor is waxed. Open concept with ample room for him to navigate in his wheelchair. The couch is made of natural fabric and is gorgeous, especially compared to the tattered one you have back at home. The coffee table is bare, save for several open and scattered medical journals with their pages dog-eared.

On the minimalist side. Not a photo is hung up in sight, like all he has space for are the bare necessities. A home absent of traces of anyone but him. It seems he's been on his own for a long time.

"Come on," he says, leading you gently by the elbow and nodding his head at the couch. "Sit. Let's talk a little more. You want somethin' to drink?"

"Water, please."

Your glass of water is left untouched.

Conversation is a pretense for what Jack wants to do with you. Part of which involves capturing your lips with his and slipping his tongue into your mouth. Running papillae over the white of your teeth.

When was the last time you kissed someone?

He doesn't let go of you when he guides you toward his bedroom, clumsily walking backward in the hallway, his arms wrapped around your waist and his lips on yours, not giving you a chance to catch your breath.

"Ever been with an amputee?" he asks, parting from you, humor in his voice.

You fill your lungs, chest rising and falling fast. You're so out of practice it's embarrassing. "I can't say that I have," you admit. "But it doesn't bother me at all."

"Good."

You make it to his bedroom, and he gently guides you to sit back on his bed. It dips as he plops down beside you. He lifts his right pant leg and, with a stifled groan, works the socket loose and removes his prosthesis, along with his socks and liner, and massages his residual limb, rough hands rubbing down swollen tissue.

His wheelchair sits by the bedside as well as a pair of forearm crutches that lean against the nightstand.

"I've been on my feet for too long today. Usually take it off as soon as I get home." He tuts. "Skin is irritated as all hell."

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask sincerely.

He smiles wryly, a combination of hurt and relief on his face. "You can come 'ere."

He draws you in with an arm around the waist for another kiss, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. His lips feel warm on yours. Rough from being slightly chapped, too. He bites your lower lip, and you feel those canines you wanted to see in a smile earlier. Hard. You gasp into his mouth.

"Sorry, sweetie. Just got a little excited," he mumbles. The skin of your lip punctures, splits open, and is raw. His teeth are sharper than you would've expected from a red-blooded man. He swipes his tongue over your throbbing lip. "Forgive me?"

You can smell the blood like a bloodhound. You nod. You don't mind the pain.

"Is it okay if we take things further?" he asks, resting his forehead against yours.

"You want to?" Though you feel a bit stupid for asking. What else would he have brought you back for?

"Course. Unless you don't. We can stop here, and you can stay the night, sleep in my guestroom. Don't want you going home at this hour."

"Jack, I'm flattered, but... why me?"

"Why not you?"

You stumble over your words. "I—I dunno. I just. You didn't even give those other women a chance." You shrug. "It's just hard to believe ten minutes was enough to decide you wanted me."

He pats your thigh, giving it a little squeeze. "I think you're special. This was meant to be. Maybe you don't see it, but I do."

You look down at your lap, unsure. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger.

"Look at me. Don't get lost in your head. Just try to enjoy this. I'll make it easy," he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

You whisper "okay," wrapping your fingers around the thick of his wrist.

You trust him. Maybe too implicitly.

A tiny drop of blood wells up from your lower lip. He swipes it away with his thumb and brings his thumb to his mouth, streaking red across his lips before kissing you again.

You haven't had the most sexual partners. But of all the ones you've slept with, this time with Jack proves to be the most... white-hot and passionate.

You were more than happy to accommodate any position he was comfortable with. You offered to be on top, but he wanted to "see what you look like panting under me."

A pillow is placed under your hips to give you a bit of lift, which puts less pressure on his knees as they support his lower half, his body draped over yours. His forearms are braced by the sides of your head, and he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss.

His thrusts are punishing. You can barely reach far enough into your mind to pause to ask if his stump is causing him discomfort, let alone string together words. He seems fine, though. Or more so focused on your pleasure than on his pain.

Then again, he's been fucking like this for as long as he's had his amputation, and that was some time ago—years of experience under his belt during which you were in high school. The thought spreads more heat to your belly.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. Sweat sticking you together, a drop trailing down the valley of your breasts. His pelvic bone grinds into your sensitive, swollen clit, fat with arousal, insistent with every rock of his hips.

When Jack had undressed and you got sight of his cock, flushed an angry red, you couldn't contain your moan.

He asked, honestly, "see what you do to me?" while stroking himself to full mast. "How can you think I don't want you? Just need some cock to set you straight."

You whimper into his mouth as his cockhead punches far inside of you. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving welts in their wake.

He parts from your lips, breathing out against your ear. "Gonna let me come inside this pretty cunt? Give me a litter?"

You whine, nodding, crystalline tears falling freely down the sides of your face to your ears when the head of his cock hits your cervix. You're distantly aware that you're on birth control, but that doesn't come to the front of your mind when you tell him, "yes, come inside me, Jack."

And he does. His come spits out of his cockhead and sprays your inner walls, flooding your cunt. Your inner muscles work his length, work as much of his come into your womb as they can.

Once your heart rates have settled, Jack rolls over and carefully scoots himself onto his wheelchair by the bedside.

"I'll be back. Need to wash up my leg."

You sit up, covering your chest with the comforter. "Would you like any help?"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me—you should rest."

"I'm not worried. I'm offering because I want to."

Your straightforwardness surprises you both.

He smirks, chuckling softly. "Alright, then."

He bends forward at the waist to collect his boxers from the floor, shuffling into them, and then tosses you his t-shirt to wear.

You throw him a toothy grin as you put it on and follow him into the ensuite, willfully ignoring the come slowly leaking out between your wobbly legs.

You slide the glass shower door and help him from his wheelchair onto the shower bench, one of his hands clasped in yours, his other around a grab bar.

You reach for the detachable showerhead and open the tap, check that the temperature is a comfortable warm, and then hand it to him. You sit on the edge of the tub as he proceeds to lather his stump with antibacterial soap, rinse, lather, and rinse again.

He watches you watch him, a glint in his eye. "You're a good girl, aren't you."

"What—what do you mean?"

"Watching and learning my routine, I can't help but think this is you preparing for the future."

"The future? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

"No, because I'm hoping this isn't going to be just a one-night stand. I want to take you out. On a real date." He reaches for a towel on the nearby rack to dry off his residual limb, now clean. "One turns into two, two into three, and the rest will be history. You'll let me wine and dine you, right?"

You scoff, though mirthfully, not quite believing what you're hearing.

"So?" he urges. "Don't leave a man hanging."

You shake your head, laughing. "I'd love to go out on a date with you, Jack."

"So, what happened with the adoption?" you ask. It's not been bothering you not knowing, per se, but the question has been bouncing around in your head, and your curiosity has gotten the better of you. "Like, was the dog misbehaving or something?"

He beats around the bush. "We just, uh, didn't see eye-to-eye."

"Explain that statement."

He rubs his palm down your back, kneading tense muscles. "She was more… high-energy than I was prepared for. I don't think she would've been happy with me. It's not good to force a dog into a home."

That feeds your curiosity, though you can't come up with a worthwhile response. You yawn and cuddle up to his side, dropping the subject. His thick fingers manipulate your body with ease, loosening hard muscle that connects to tendon that connects to bone. Sleep takes you.

He prepares you both a light breakfast before he leaves for his double shift. He lets you spend the better half of the morning here, asking that you lock up before taking the Uber he ordered for you home, which will get you back in time to get ready for your midday shift at the pet store.

He kisses you on the cheek goodbye. You capitalize on the moment and steal the shower for yourself. You use his products. They smell like him. Woody sandalwood and vetiver and something inherently masculine. In the bedroom, you get changed into a pair of boxers, a plain t-shirt, and some sweats he left behind for you, your underwear conveniently missing and your dress rumpled from last night.

Your Uber is arriving soon.

You make sure you have your phone and purse before you leave. On the ride home, you have a stupid smile on your face.

The text reads, when are you free for our first date?

You start seeing each other casually.

Matinee movie showings to bottomless mimosas (and manmosas) at brunch. It offends him when you pull out your wallet, so he pays for everything.

Normally one-night stands are just that, but somehow you have beaten the odds.

He picks you up for coffee, and afterward, you both decide to take a stroll in a park a little drive away, which has a number of benches throughout in case his leg aches.

You've been here before when you were but a child. There's a pond in the near distance that serves as the marker for the halfway point for the trail. You rush ahead of him to get to it.

All you hear is the gust of the wind blowing past your ears as you run, excitement bubbling up within you like you're that child again.

Then, he whistles. Loud and piercing; enough to make you stop in your tracks. Birds caw as they fly from the surrounding trees.

You're such an idiot. It's an unconscious thing but a behavior you'll need to correct: leaving him behind because he can't walk or run as fast as you can. On account of the prosthesis and, well, his age.

You turn back around and jog to make up the distance between you.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I wasn't thinking." You offer your hand. "So I don't run away again."

He grunts, interlocking your fingers. "Careful, or I might have to put you on a leash next time."

A farmer's market on a Sunday. You stop at a stall to sample the pierogis, rich and warm, the scent of buttermilk and clean dough lingering like the press of a kiss on your forehead—a cozy, nostalgic kind of scent.

You're a messy eater, you. You get sour cream all over your chin, lips, and fingers and lap the tang clean. He watches the pink tip of your tongue coat itself in white as if hypnotized. Dips his finger into the dollop of sour cream on his own plate and brings it to your lips. You laugh, but then suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, humming around the sun-warmed salt of his skin and sour-fresh goodness.

He pulls his finger out of your mouth with a pop and dips it into the sour cream again. Offers it to you again.

"Lick it this time," he orders. "Slowly."

A blur around you; the stall and the market are too busy for anyone to notice or care that you're licking cream off his finger like a kitten with a bowl of fresh milk. You are in your own world.

He invites you over for dinner on one of his nights off. After some back-and-forth, you wear him down enough that he relents and lets you help him prepare it. Next to the pot, on the kitchen counter, is a film packet of De Cecco spaghetti. On a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, two halves of a loaf of fresh Italian bread with garlic butter spread on top.

You excuse yourself to the restroom while he watches the garlic bread bake and the spaghetti boil, standing in the kitchen on his forearm crutches.

At the dining table, you recreate the iconic Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene, as cheesy as it is. When your lips meet, it's a little gross: the grease of meaty tomato sauce coating lips, pieces of pasta trapped between teeth, saliva dribbling down your chin when he kisses you like he's trying to swallow you whole.

He chuckles when you pull apart. "You look a mess," he teases. He wipes the lower half of your face with a paper towel.

You can't remember the last time you were this happy. Jack tells you the same.

A half turn of the season since you've started dating. He offers you a key to his house.

You're a bit worried about how fast your relationship is progressing and refuse it, but you're over so often that he says, "might as well," and presses it into your palm.

"Thank you for trusting me." It's not as if he's asking you to move in. Still, you don't take advantage of it. It's left dangling on your keyring, untouched.

That is, until you decide to treat him after a miserable week of work. He should be coming back from his shift in the next ten minutes or so. You spent the morning preparing a feast of all his favorite breakfast foods.

As you dry the last of the dishes with a towel, you hear the jangling of keys and the front door opening. Jack is home.

He calls out your name, sensing your presence, and you smile as you walk up to him.

"I knew it was you," he says, the corners of his lips curling up. His nose scrunches up as he inhales the salty smell of bacon. He looks to the dining table, whereupon lie heaps upon heaps of food. "Sweetheart, did you make us breakfast? For the week?"

You nod, giggling and stealing his backpack from where it's slung over his shoulder and hooking it onto the rack. "I did. And I did it after finally using the key you gave me."

With a hand to the back of your neck, he brings you closer, planting a kiss on the tip of your nose, dusty with pancake mix.

"I love coming home to you."

Your pupils dilate and your heart leaps.

If you had one (dreams don't count), your tail would be wagging.

Man has a total of two hundred and six bones in the body. Canines have approximately three hundred and twenty-one. Yours crack, splinter, pierce internal organs as they fragment to make up for that one hundred and fifteen number difference. In the first few minutes, you feel nothing. You just hear the snap, crackle of collagen yielding to the force of the transformation.

Then, devastating pain. It is the worst pain you have ever felt. And in the liminal space between wakefulness and sleepiness, you can register it all along your body.

You wake up breathless, swiftly scanning your torso and upper and lower extremities under the covers.

Human.

You turn to Jack. He is fast asleep, puffing out soft breaths. You sneak out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, chugging it down to calm yourself.

You return to bed and, after some tossing and turning, fall back asleep, picking up where the dream left off. The pain is gone. You're something dog-like again. Your owner comes into view.

They have a material quality to them now. Not shapeless and indeterminate like they were before; the shape of a man. But like a mannequin in shadow, he has no discernable features.

He pets your head and tells you it's going to be alright. You roll over, show your belly to him. He is proud.

In the morning, you wake with a yawn and a stretch, feeling much better than when you had woken up in the middle of the night.

Jack is looking down at you, resting his head on his hand, his elbow propped on his pillow. He pets your head, swipes his thumb across your sleep-glossed cheek.

"G'morning. Sleep well?"

Lunch at work is spent not with a ramen cup but with finger foods and cake.

Mark is throwing Katy a retirement party.

Though she's been here just shy of five years, she's old enough now to receive benefits and has decided, "I'm fuckin' done with this shit."

Mark was over the moon when she came to him with the news, and he hired someone right away to replace her.

Animal Kingdom is small, one of the smaller branches in the small food chain of stores. There's a total of ten employees, and the others are a mix of full- and part-timers.

Everyone is here today for the party, though. Except the new kid who's watching over the store in the meantime. You feel a bit silly wearing the dog ears headband you were handed at the breakroom door, but the others have them on, and you don't want to be a spoilsport.

You wish Jack were here. And at the same time, you don't. This place has its way of sinking its teeth into you. And he has better things to do than be your shoulder to lean on at a work party that you'd rather clean out litter boxes than be at.

As people gather around Katy as she says a few parting words, "good fucking luck, the lot of yinz," you're tapped on the shoulder.

You turn around, your eyes widening.

"Jack? What are you doing here?"

He regards your dog ears with mild curiosity before his eyes drop to yours. "I thought I'd stop by and bring you lunch. Young man at the register led me back here. Is this a party?"

You pull him by the wrist to the corner of the room before anyone can spot him. "Yeah, one of us is retiring." You look down at the lunch bag by his side. "What'd you get?"

"A sandwich and chips from that place you like."

You hold up your plate of half-eaten pigs in a blanket, sticks of carrots, and sheet cake. "You should've told me you were dropping in. I would've saved my appetite."

He shrugs. "It's fine. You can eat it later. I really just came here to see you. I missed you."

You flash a smile. "I missed you, too."

He jerks his chin toward the group exchanging war stories. "Do you have to stay?"

"I mean, it's either this or I go back to work."

"How about a third thing?"

He encloses your wrist in his hand and leads you out of the room. None of your coworkers notice, too wrapped up in Katy's commemoration.

"Is there a storage closet or somethin'?" he asks, looking up and down the hallway.

You giggle. "Seriously, Jack? Here? I could get fired."

"Would that be so bad? You could just stay home with me," he says nonchalantly. "In fact, why don't you quit? You know I'll take care of you."

"I can't just quit. This job is all I have besides you."

You're joking. But not really. But Jack, he is joking. Or at least you tell yourself that. But he doesn't really seem to be joking, either.

"Uh-huh. Well, tell me where we can get some privacy, and you won't get fired."

You point to a room a few doors down from the break room, walking toward it. You hand him your plate and fumble with your set of work keys, singling out the one to the storage closet. The door opens, and he ushers you inside, locking it behind him.

The plate and the sandwich get set on a shelf among some cleaning supplies. Immediately, Jack is pushing you back against the wall, untucking your work shirt from your slacks, which he then unzips to pull your underwear down around your mid-thigh.

"Fuck, Jack, slow down," you whisper. "We have time. The party won't be over for another, like, fifteen minutes."

"'m sorry. Just want you," he mumbles before pressing his lips to yours.

He frees himself from his jeans and boxers and pumps himself to hardness. You can hear the slick motion of his fist moving up and down his shaft. You clench your thighs, your cunt sticky-wet.

He secures a hand on your hip, and with the other, rubs his cockhead through your folds, gathering your slick to line himself up and sink into your cunt. Once he's to the hilt inside you, his hand goes to cradle the curve of your jaw, his fingers making contact with the temple pieces of your headband.

"Fuckin' love seeing you wear this. So cute. My puppy," he emphasizes with a sharp thrust of his hips. The ears flap with your movement.

His words simultaneously make your stomach turn and a heat spread across your cheeks.

"You like it? I thought it was silly," you half giggle, half moan against his lips.

His hand reappears on your hip to join the other, his fingers bruising your flesh in a tight squeeze as he all but spears you onto his cock. The wall at your back prevents any escape. Your hands grip his shoulders, fingernails digging in, barely contained moans tumbling past your lips.

"Why don't you be a good girl and give me a little bark, huh?"

It's not lost on you how bizarre this is. The headband is bad enough, but Jack's request is a little too on the nose. What was an ambiguous, happy, and horrifying dream is bleeding full tilt into reality.

The dreams have not stopped and, in fact, have persisted since meeting him. Have become a closer mimic of reality, however uncanny.

And yet, you do it anyway. You indulge him with a pathetic bark.

"Ruff!"

He throbs inside of you, picking up the speed of his thrusts. His pubic bone bullies your clit, and you clench down on him, an orgasm pulled out of you embarrassingly fast.

"Fuck. That's it. That's my good puppy. Come on your daddy's cock."

He slaps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as you keen, your eyes squeezing shut and your legs shaking like jelly as he fucks you through the tail end of your release.

He spills inside of you, and after, he asks you to "get on your knees, puppy. Wanna gag you on my cock."

When you return to the break room after seeing Jack out of the store, the salt of him lingering on your tongue, the party is over.

"Where have you been?" Mark asks, transferring the leftover sheet cake to the fridge. "You know what? Never mind. Can you take over for the new guy? He let someone walk out with an aquarium."

"Turn around. I wanna see you," he says.

Facing him, the spray hits your back and shoulders. Warm, soapy water cascades down into a swirl at your feet.

Jack is just in front of you, sitting on his shower bench, lathering shampoo onto his head of curly hair. By his side is the detachable showerhead, the flow of water reduced to a trickle. He presses the button, the flow returns in full force, and he rinses his hair.

"You're so pretty, puppy," he says, voice throaty with lust.

After the tryst in the supply closet, the pet name stuck.

His eyes scour your body, and instinctively you cross your arms over your chest and cross your legs, despite him having seen your naked body more times than you can count.

He pats the empty space next to him, setting down the showerhead. "C'mere."

You sit beside him, mumbling, "this is such a waste of water."

He chuckles. "Forget the water. You're right where you belong."

He pulls you closer so you're half seated in his lap and cups one of your breasts, slippery with soap, squeezing the curve of it until the fat plumps up in his hand. He leans down to suck a bruise onto the side of your neck as he thumbs your nipple.

You whimper, your spine tingling, your sore cunt clenching down on nothing. It seems no matter how many times he makes you come, no matter how many times he fucks your cunt full, you can never get enough of him.

Just before this, he took you from behind, his body weight like an anvil on your back, your neck trapped in the crook of his arm. Yet it was tranquilizing, as if you had been slipped something; you were too high off his body heat and the drag of his cock along your walls to know fear.

With one word, one snap of his fingers, one puppy-dog-eyed look, you come crawling. And when he's away during the day, your brain is so wired to him that even the scent he leaves behind on his pillow makes you salivate, your clit throb.

He stops the attack on your neck and angles his head lower to lick along your collarbone, but you pull him by the scruff of his neck before he can get carried away.

You level him with a serious look. "Please don't take what I'm going to say the wrong way, but I feel like... I feel like I'm getting Pavlov'd by you. Calling me 'puppy' doesn't help matters."

He stares at you, unblinking. Like he's stuck processing what you just said. Then he laughs. You laugh, too.

A ridiculous notion after saying it out loud. No, if anything, what you feel for him is closer to love than a response to classical conditioning.

Still, maybe it's easier to swallow, to say you're no better than a dog, than to admit such big, human feelings.

"What are you trying to say?" he asks.

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. "I think I like you too much. Is what I'm trying to say. It's not a bad thing. It's just. You make me a little crazy. Is all."

He laughs again, his chest spasming against your back. You fight the urge to press your thumb into the tip of his canine to test how much pressure you need to apply before it bleeds.

"If we're pouring our hearts out... I also think I like you too much."

He says it so sincerely your heart nearly beats out of your chest.

After a second, he adds, "I can stop calling you puppy. Just tell me what you want," he murmurs, nosing your pulse point, fingers gripping your thighs to pull them apart.

He thickens beneath you, the head of his cock poking your ass cheek.

"No, I think—" You break on a moan when his fingers run along the seam of your cunt, splitting you in two. You can hear how wet you are with every upward and downward motion, even over the running shower water, and your face feels like it's on fire. "I think it's growing on me."

"Good," he rasps, teasing the rim of your hole before breaching it with the tips of his fingers, stretching you open. "Let's get out of the shower. I want to eat puppy's cunt."

You are at his house more than you are at your apartment. Before his shift tonight, he fucks you nearly into an early sleep.

Puppy, puppy, puppy—

It rolls off his tongue so often you're not fazed by it anymore.

He ruts into you from behind as you lie on your side, cocooned by his strong arms and thick thighs. His chin hooked over your shoulder, he pants heavily onto the side of your neck, licking stripes up along delicate skin, and then the stabbing of possessive, sharp teeth breaks skin, ensnaring you, like he's a dog with a bone afraid to lose the one good thing he has.

Daddy, daddy, daddy—

He comes inside you and lazily grinds his hips against your ass, plugging you up.

Daddy and his puppy. Daddy and his puppy.

After, he sits by the bedside in his wheelchair as you're curled up under the covers, thumbing the apple of your cheek. You worked a closing shift last night and an opening shift this morning. You're bone-tired.

"Catch up on some sleep, puppy. I'll be back to wake you up in the morning. You're off tomorrow, right?"

You nod, murmuring something nonsensical. He presses a light kiss to your hairline, and then he's wheeling out of the bedroom to the ensuite to take a shower.

On the cusp of unconsciousness, you hear him return and rifle through the drawers for his scrubs, roll his liner and socks onto his stump to attach his prosthesis, and return his wheelchair to its spot. A routine so familiar to you, your ears are sensitive to the slightest deviation in it.

It's odd. He's moving slower than usual this morning. By now he would be in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee and tuning in to the evening news. lagging behind not on account of his prosthesis but as if he were delaying getting to work.

You're already asleep before you hear him shut the front door.

When you stir, you feel something wrapped around your neck.

You impulsively scratch at it with one hand, panic chipping away at the corners of sleep clouding your mind, and with the other, push the covers back to get up to check the mirror in the ensuite.

Why does it feel like...

You stop dead, your eyes popping open, wide awake, once you see what it is that is encircling your neck.

You gingerly press your fingers to the black choker collar, the word "pup" written in cursive across the front of the titanium heart-shaped lock dangling in the center of it.

You must be dreaming still.

You pinch yourself, rapidly blinking at your reflection.

No, you're not asleep. This is life.

A million questions pop up in your head at once:

Did Jack put this on while you were asleep? How did you not wake up? How did you sleep through the night with it on? Why the fuck did he collar you? Again?

With shaky hands, you reach your fingers to your nape, checking for a buckle or clip. You feel bile rising up your throat when you don't, though you guessed as much.

The keyhole on the heart isn't just for aesthetic purposes. You need the key to unlock the pendant and take off the collar, which you suspect Jack has somewhere on his person. The leather band is thick, and unless you want to risk nicking your carotid artery using one of his kitchen knives to cut yourself out of it, you're left with no option but to wait for his return.

Pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit into place in your mind but bring with them more questions.

The collar he had you try on at the store. Was that so he knew what size to get you to fit into this one? But that would mean he had planned to pursue you before that encounter, wouldn't it? The adoption. Was that a lie fabricated to talk to you or a genuine truth that preceded this turn of events? You don't know for sure. His fascination with calling you his "puppy." At least that seems cut and dry.

The implication is becoming clear. All this time, Jack has been waiting for what he thought might be the right time to collar you and make you his.

He didn't bother asking permission to do it. He didn't have to. In his mind, you had already given it.

This is too much. You are disgusted by his violation of your body. And yet, you feel as though you should be more disgusted than you are.

The line is blurring. You ask yourself again, is this a dream or a nightmare?

You grip the sink and take a deep breath, your mind made up, your heart not so much. You've never picked a lock before, but it shouldn't be too hard to learn. At home. You hastily gather what of your things you have sitting around the house into one of Jack's old army bags and order a rideshare back to your apartment.

Just your luck, though, that as you're about to run out the door, he walks through it.

He eyes the duffel bag in your grip and the choker collar around your neck.

"Sweetheart," he drawls, hands held out in front of him, careful to approach, like any sudden movement of his and you'll bolt. "I can explain."

You shake your head. "Let me go, Jack. Why don't you give me the key and—and let me go. Please. This... this isn't working anymore."

He steps closer. "I thought you would be open to it. We've been dancing around this for a while now. Got it custom made for you and everything."

"You can't just collar me while I'm asleep and not expect me to freak out!" you shout.

The skin of your neck itches. Sweat creeps up along your nape. You grip the heart-shaped pendant, pulling it side to side, rubbing your skin raw as the collar rotates.

"Let's talk about this, alright? I wasn't planning for—you woke up earlier than I thought you would." He curses to himself. "I should've been here."

You scoff. "Like it fucking matters whether you were here or not. You don't... you don't do this without discussing it first! Please, just give me the key. Now."

You stare each other down for a few more seconds before he drops his hands by his sides and sighs, digging one into his scrub pocket. He flashes the key and then tosses it to you.

"I wish you'd hear me out, but I won't force you to stay." Below his breath, just within earshot, he mumbles, "I thought you were the one."

You don't respond. Instead, you pocket the key and shoulder past him to rush out the door. A far enough distance away from his house, on the walk down the street where your ride awaits, you sling the duffel bag over your shoulder and fight with the lock to take off the collar.

You feel like you can breathe again once you hear a click. You unhook the shackle of the lock from the loop, and the collar comes loose. You're tempted to throw the collar, lock, and key into one of the neighbor's trash bins, but for some inexplicable reason, you don't.

As you hop into the backseat, tears roll down your face.

Jack was the one good thing you had.

He doesn't reach out to you, and perhaps that's a good thing.

But despite doing what you thought was right in leaving, it hurts that he let you go in the first place. But it doesn't hurt as much as it should because you see him every day. At least you think you do.

On the walk to the pet store, you see a head of curly hair in your periphery, a bit of natural copper clawing through the silver.

At work, you catch a figure passing by the storefront window out of the corner of your eye, too quick for you to be sure it was him. But how else do you explain the sudden swivel of your head if not pure instinct?

On your day off, while at the grocery store picking up ingredients for the week, you stumble into the arms of a man after being pushed by the cart of a rambunctious kid recklessly steering it for his parents. He catches you by the waist, asking, "are you okay?"

You nod absently, turning your head to the apologetic-looking kid behind you. When you face the man again, he's already disappeared, the heat of his hands on your waist gone with him. Only then do you register that his voice sounded familiar.

That same evening, you look out the window of your bedroom. The shrubs bordering the sidewalk shake, and you watch as a man-shaped shadow stretches out along the pavement, growing in size as he walks away from the street light.

You're either seeing what you want to see, or Jack is keeping tabs on you. You're inclined to think the former, but pitiably, you wouldn't be too put off by the latter. Though you tell yourself you're done with him, inwardly you feel conflicted because it's possible you overreacted.

He was right, after all. You two had been circling around a specific dynamic, for lack of a better term. And instead of catching your tail, you tucked it out of his house.

Prophetic, almost, what with the dreams you've been having to enter into a relationship with him. But the way he went about collaring you frightened you, as it would anyone. This fallout could've been avoided had he just communicated his desires better.

Since leaving his house that day, your dreams haven't felt much like nightmares. When you wake, all you remember is the latter part of the dream. Head scratches and belly rubs and endless, endless praise.

What truly is there left to be afraid of, you wonder.

The mold spreading out on the ceiling is the tipping point.

It is fascinating, though, despite it being a nuisance. How little it needs to subsist on to stay alive. How it branches out to seek more decaying organic matter to feed its belly, voracious.

The unit upstairs reportedly left the water in the kitchen sink running overnight, clogging the compromised, fragile plumbing system that runs through your apartment building and causing it to leak into your bedroom ceiling.

When you turned in for the night, there was nothing but an off-white popcorn ceiling. And like magic, when you woke, there was nothing but diseased black and green tucked between all of its bumps and ridges.

For the sake of covering his ass and not for the sake of your health, your landlord is asking that you spend a few nights elsewhere. The mold remediators won't be able to come in for another week.

It's been just over a couple of weeks since you broke things off with Jack and a little less than that since you stopped seeing him in every corner.

You are tempted to call him, but call your father instead. Your childhood home isn't too far from here. You haven't spoken to him in months now, but this is an emergency. You can't afford a hotel.

I'd love to have you, but now's not a good time. You should be able to figure something out. Why don't you crash at a coworker's? You're still working at the pet store, aren't you?

You hang up. It'll be another few months before you call him again, if that.

Another night sleeping under the mold won't kill you, you suppose. But you'll have to figure out something soon.

You fall asleep. You dream. You are already transformed.

Your owner appears, and he—

He went through a transformation, too.

Back when the dreams started, he was incomprehensible—an enigmatic entity that was felt more than seen. Then he was the shape of a man, a mere silhouette. Now he is just man.

He has hair on his head and eyes and a nose and lips. Freckled and sun-spotted skin. Two arms and two legs, one of which is a prosthetic leg.

But maybe he was always this way. You just couldn't see him for who he was. How could you have. You hadn't met Jack yet.

He says something you don't understand, but you know he's disappointed in you; his voice is lower pitched, drenched in resignation.

Bad dog. 

You wake up feeling nauseous and have a rotten taste in your mouth.

The mold smells. The mold is alive and breathing and healthy, and it smells. The mold is affecting your dreams.

The mold is why you reach for your phone on the nightstand and call him.

He picks up, and immediately you start.

Can I stay over for a few days? I have fucking mold on my ceiling, and it's making me sick, and I don't have anywhere else to turn.

The line is silent for a few seconds. Then, do you want me to pick you up?

Yes. If it's not a bother.

I'll be outside in thirty.

Both of you are silent in his truck; he steals glances at you at every red light, but you look straight ahead.

Out the window, from the corner of your eye, you see a man walking his dog, which stops at a red fire hydrant so it can take a leak.

As soon as you walk through the front door of his house, you say, "we need to talk."

He nods and gestures to the couch.

You throw your (his) duffel bag stuffed with a week's worth of clothes onto the floor by your feet as you sink into the cushion.

"Do you want to start, or should I?" he asks, settling in beside you, not too close, but not too far, either.

"You can start." You wring your hands. "I'm still figuring out what I'm going to say."

"You sure?"

You nod.

Alright. About what I did—"

"You could've asked me," you blurt out. His maw snaps shut. "You could've asked me what I thought about wearing a collar. About incorporating kink into our relationship. Instead, you forced it on me while I was asleep like a creep."

His shoulders sag. He looks so tired. Lifeless, almost.

He must have been hurting as much as you were in your absence, doubly so because of the guilt you can clearly see reflected in his eyes.

A stab of pain washes over you.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should've talked to you about it first. It was shortsighted of me not to."

A dry laugh. "It was. I would've heard you out."

He sighs. "It's not an excuse, but a small part of me thought you might run if I had brought anything up." His hand hovers over yours, but after a moment's hesitation, he sets it back on top of his knee. "I fucked up. We were still new and fragile, and I should've waited until we had that discussion. But as soon as I had the collar in my hand…" he trails off. "I was overeager. An old, overeager creep, as you put it."

"I didn't say old," you murmur.

"If all you want is a place to stay, then please, stay. Take the guest room. I won't bother you while you're here." He pauses, his stare burning a hole through you. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you every fuckin' day."

You're the one reaching your hand to his this time, as calloused, familiar, and warm as you remember.

"I—I missed you, too, Jack. Maybe I should've let you explain your side of the story before storming off, but I was… overwhelmed."

He shakes his head. "No, I get it. I don't blame you for it. It was my fault."

You angle your body more toward his, your knees brushing. "Look. I'm willing to pick back up where we left off. Even… try some things, if you catch my drift—as long as we're on the same page at all times."

He raises his brows, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah? You're sure?"

"Part of why I'm here is because I have no other place to go… but I've also had time to think. I want to do this with you. I guess the mold was the push I needed to clear the air. We'll start slow?"

He brushes his thumb over the pulse point of your wrist. Your pulse ticks.

"Whatever you want."

With that, you gently pull your hand away from his to rifle through your duffel bag, retrieving the collar and giving it back to him.

You reattached the heart lock, though you lost track of the key's whereabouts.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, turning it around in his hands like it holds some world-shattering secret, before meeting your eyes again.

"You kept it?" he asks.

"I couldn't get myself to throw it away," you admit.

"But what do I with it? It was supposed to be for you."

"I dunno. Save it as a memento? It's pretty, but it's not really my style. And I'd like to pick my own."

"Pick your own," he parrots, stupefied.

"If and when I'm ready for one, yes."

You take off work for the week using the last bit of vacation time you have. He does the same (though he has a lot more time to burn than you do).

"I'm not lettin' this week go to waste," he says. "Gotta lot of catching up to do."

That first night, you sleep in the same bed like no time has passed, cradled in his arms, his broad chest rising and falling against your back, soft breaths puffed out along the sensitive shell of your ear.

At sunrise, you feel him hard and insistent, slowly grinding his cock against the curve of your ass, a pathetic wetness pooling between your legs.

"Mornin'," he grunts, anchoring a hand on your hip, drawing you closer into the bulk of him.

"Good morning to you, too," you tease, pressing back against his erection, voice soft with sleep and longing.

Too impatient and with a cunt too empty to take your time, you turn around in his arms and push him onto his back, hovering over him, fumbling to pull his cock out of his boxers.

With some spit and a few strokes of your hand, he's stiff, bobbing up toward the ceiling, pre-come dribbling from his slit.

You peel off your underwear and sink down on him inch by painstaking inch, a pleasurable fullness curling your toes once you're seated on his cock.

You've never felt as complete as you do when he's inside you.

"Take what belongs to you, baby. Fuck, this cunt missed me, didn't she?"

He grabs fistfuls of your ass and bounces you on his cock while thrusting up into you, watching your breasts shake beneath the cotton of your sleep gown, your hard nipples poking through the thin fabric.

"Gonna come, Jack. Oh God—please, please, please—"

"My pretty baby. My pretty baby and her tight, puppy cunt—"

Hearing "puppy" again tightens the coil living in the pit of your stomach, a dormant, hibernating thing if not for Jack. A choked cry, and then you're falling apart, landing on his chest, bawling into the crook of his neck because you have him again.

You do away with slow. You just can't help yourself when it comes to him.

He orders a collar—strictly for play, a removable one—and leash set online. Not custom-made quality like the collar before, but it will suffice.

The material of the collar is black leather with gold-plated metal used for the buckle and the O-ring. The chain of the leash is the same gold-plated metal; the handle is the same black leather.

The set arrives the next day.

Breakfast (and brunch and lunch and dinner) at home because he doesn't want to share you with the world just yet if he can help it, hoarding the sweet, honey-ripe scent of you so no one can get a whiff.

Like a dog caching his prized possession.

And afterward, hands fisting the sheets, face down, ass up, you're a sticky, syrupy mess of sweat and slick.

His hands are like hot stones over the flesh of your hips, deliciously warm, fucking you back onto his cock with every thrust, a pillow placed under his residual limb for maximum comfort, his weight distributed more to his left side to put less stress on his right knee.

You feel him more deeply in this position. Digging through your stomach, clawing up your throat.

He wraps the excess length of the chain around his hand and tugs, forcing an arch to your back, choking you firmly yet tenderly, his grip taut but controlled. You grow lightheaded; it's a difficult thing to breathe around the thick of his cock and the tug of the leash.

Adrenaline pumps through your veins. Your cunt clamps down on him, your hole leaking with nectar.

He loosens his grip on the leash, and your head drops forward onto the mattress. Oxygen enters your bloodstream with every ragged intake of breath.

Your brain feels fuzzy. A warmth settles over you. Your orgasm is indulgent, saccharine, so much so you can taste it: fresh spring air and sifted sugar and milkweed nectar. You're a trembling, twitching thing under Jack, who continues to ram your cunt, chasing his release.

"Who's daddy's good girl, huh? Tell me."

He slaps his hand over the skin of your ass cheek when you don't respond.

Your tongue thick in your mouth, your voice wrecked, but you manage to cry out, "me—I am—I'm your good girl!"

"That's right, puppy."

It starts when the headband makes itself at home on your head. A reminder of the years you spent working with Katy that you brought with you because you knew he'd love seeing you wear it again.

He's thick in his hand, pumping himself as he sits in his wheelchair, cockhead leaking and swollen, a slick glide of his fist along his shaft, wet with pre-come and a copious amount of your saliva.

Kneeling by his feet, your tank top is pushed up over your breasts, your nipples stiffened into little peaks. The chain of the leash dangles between you, clink, clink, as he grips the handle.

You suck on the tip of his cock as you massage his heavy balls with one hand, the other gripping the armrest on his chair. A frothy, milky mess coats the base of his cock, dripping down to his balls and soaking your fingers.

"Sit back," he grunts, his voice a thick rasp.

You obey. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers itching to touch him again.

He continues to stroke his cock with one hand. He stares at your breasts, the saliva dripping down your chin, your glassy eyes, your furry little ears, the collar around your throat. "Fuck, puppy." He spills into his hand, a strangled groan passing between his lips, come sticking to his fingers. He scoops as much of his seed as he can, reaching his fingers to your lips.

"Lick me clean."

And you obey.

The sticky salt of him coats your tongue as you wipe his fingers clean, sucking them into your mouth from pointer to pinkie. He pets your tongue, pressing his fingers into the pink meat of it, and then shoves them as far down your throat as he can until you're a blubbering, choking wreck.

"That's my good girl," he praises. "How about I feed you daddy's come in a dog bowl next time? Would you like that?"

The white of your eyes goes bright, and you nod.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping the spit on your heated cheek. "I can't hear you, puppy."

"Ruff! Yes, daddy."

After a scene, there is a comedown.

You bathe together in the bathtub, bubbles floating in the water, foamy, thick, and dreamlike, seated between his legs, your head resting on his chest, your fingers tracing the lines on his palm, reading what offshoots led him to you. To this.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," he says, his chest rumbling when you adjust yourself in his lap, the hand you're not occupied with, resting on the soft curve of your belly, possessive and protective, squeezing in warning.

"Were you really adopting a dog? When you first told me about it in the store, I mean."

He shakes his head. "No. That was just an excuse to talk to you. And…" He hesitates for a second, and you crane your neck to meet his eyes. "And get a measurement for the collar I had planned for you."

You huff a laugh. He's such a freak.

What does that make you?

"Okay, I thought that might be the case. And when you came back to return it?"

"Another excuse to talk to you," he says, smirking.

"So, then, what about the speed date?"

"That was a happy coincidence. A work buddy of mine forced me to go because he said my loneliness was depressing him. I couldn't get out of it. It took one minute for me to know I had made the right choice in chasing you. The rest of the date was just a bonus."

You sit with that for a moment.

"Where did you first catch wind of me?"

"Take a guess," he says.

"PTMC?"

You last went when a coworker got bit by a dog someone had brought in for grooming and were the one to drive them (in their car) to the emergency room. They ended up quitting, and grooming services were discontinued.

He hums in affirmation. "I was passing by as one of the interns stitched up the dog bite on the patient's forearm. You were there on the other side of them, holding their hand. You caught my attention. Somehow I knew you were who I've been looking for all my life."

"Huh. I guess I was too distracted to notice you," you muse. "But you… you sensed something in me."

"You could say I sniffed you out. Part of me was impressed by how calm you were. It was a nasty bite, but you didn't flinch."

You shrug. "I wasn't the one who got bit, though. I'd have more than flinched if it were me. But dogs bite. That's what they do if they're nervous or scared. It's not fair to blame them for following their nature. All I could do was try to be there for my coworker."

He holds you tighter to his chest, the heat of his palm searing your water-slick, slippery skin. "But you're a good puppy," he whispers in your ear, teasing. "You wouldn't ever bite me, right? Give me a reason to muzzle you?"

You giggle. "I could. Dogs also bite out of love, you know."

"Or possessiveness," he grunts.

He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, as if proving his point.

What he likes, you like, and vice versa. You feed off each other. One continuous feedback loop of codependency tying you together.

He can't keep his hands off you.

Father-like, in the way that he takes care of you after unmaking you like no father should. Whispers of praise after "taking my cock like a good girl." Epsom salt baths he runs for you and your sore muscles after stretching your body like a rubber band. Feeding you at the dining table because you're still a messy eater and "daddy's messy, messy girl." Like some owners feel their pets are, to them, their children.

Though, at times, it feels like he is the feral mutt.

In his wheelchair parked right at the edge of the bed, he eats you out as you lie on your back, your legs thrown over his shoulders, ankles digging into the wide expanse of his back.

His fingers dimple the fat of your thighs, bruising them in his firm grip. His tongue laps your folds, swirls around your swollen clit; his teeth nip at the delicate, divine crease of skin that separates inner thigh from cunt, half man, half beast. You yank the hair on his head; to push or pull him away, you don't know, but regardless, he doesn't separate from you until you're crying against the flat of his tongue.

He likes you best naked, or as close to it as possible, your body accessible to him at all times.

"This cunt is mine," he growls when he splits you in half with his cock. "No one else's."

His, his, his, his, his.

He likes when you crawl to him naked on all fours, collared, your asshole stuffed with the fluffy tail plug he ordered along with the collar and leash set, the chain of the leash dragging along the wooden floor behind you.

He twists the bulb of it around inside you, pulling a mewl from your lips.

"Such a dirty pup, letting me play with your asshole like this, huh? Maybe I stuff her with my cock next time."

He likes watching you piss yourself on his boot outside in the backyard like the filthy pup you are, a sobbing, hot-cheeked, and humiliated, inconsolable mess after a full day of being plied with water, letting go in just your panties and a little T-shirt that is translucent and clings to you after he jerked off and pissed on your chest. Animals being animals.

You like pleasing him. You like being the sole proprietor of his attention. You like being his.

He whistles as soon as he gets through the door. He left for a few hours, though you begged him not to.

"You're supposed to be on vacation, Jack. You're supposed to be shacked up with me."

"They called me in for an all hands on deck. I have to go, pup. I'm so sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Wearing just one of his oversized T-shirts, you come crawling and stop a few feet from where he stands in the foyer, hooking his backpack up on the rack.

He whistles; you crawl.

"There she is, my good girl," he greets. "I thought about you all day today."

You giggle. "Oh, did you, now?"

"Yeah," he grunts. "And that pretty cunt of yours."

He has a smirk on his face, but a flash of something hurting crosses over his handsome features, and you notice.

You cock your head, your brows furrowing, and drop the act. "Jack. Do you want a massage?"

He sighs, holding his hand out to help you up from the floor to lead you to the bedroom.

"You always know just what I need, sweetheart."

He perches himself on the edge of the bed, and you kneel by his feet, looking up at him with a compassionate smile, lifting the pant of his scrubs to release the locking mechanism on his prosthesis and shrug it off his residual limb.

You step away for a second to retrieve the prosthetic ointment in the ensuite so you can lather it on his skin.

Massaging his limb for him, hearing his groans of "pup" and "that's a good girl," steepling fingers into sore muscle, rubbing prosthetic ointment on his residual limb, on the scar of his suture line, his hand on your nape to tether himself to you, you know this is where you are meant to be.

Your landlord says the mold has been removed, and you can return to your apartment unit.

The past week felt like a fever dream. Skin-to-skin throughout most of it all. Waking up with the sun and falling asleep under the moon together. There's no part of you that Jack hasn't claimed.

But all good things must come to an end. You both will return to business as usual. Though, fundamentally, things have changed.

You're with Jack. And he won't be letting you go. Mold or not, you won't be seeing your bedroom ceiling again except to say goodbye.

On your first day back at the pet store, you're tasked with overseeing the adoption event that has been planned for a few months. A big playpen in the middle of the store near the cash registers, where puppies of various breeds chase each other's tails and nap under the sticky heat of a pet store with the rooftop HVAC unit shorted out.

Perhaps it's the swelter stalling the cogs where your rationality functions, but one puppy in particular stares at you like a baby or a child would when it's processing new information, and it seems to follow you around with its eyes as you circle the playpen to help customers fill out their adoption applications.

There must be something about your face it finds interesting. Or maybe it sees the invisible but common thread between you, as if it knows what you and Jack get up to in your free time.

Laughable how your mind plays tricks on you, but you're a touch unsettled regardless. It's too much, isn't it? Working at the pet store. Walking through the door to a man that calls you "puppy." The dreams.

You hope all of them get adopted today. They deserve good homes.

Yours is with him.

It seems like Jack will be getting his wish, after all.

"I quit."

Mark looks up at you from a stack of paper over the rim of his glasses. 

"You quit," he repeats, dropping the paper and interlocking his fingers on the desk. "On the spot, or are you giving me notice?"

Your throat bobs.

Mark has been a good boss to you, but it's high time you get out of here, preferably before you hit a decade spent in this time sink. 

"On the spot."

He clicks his tongue.

"I can't say I expected this, if I'm being honest. Especially since we lost Katy not too long ago. But I'm happy for you, truly. The question is how quickly can I find a replacement…" he mumbles.

"You're happy for me?"

"Of course. I think you're a bright young lady. The world is your oyster, and I believe you can do whatever it is you want in this life."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, wow. That's… that's very kind of you to say, Mark."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what are your big plans?"

Trade one leash for another.

You can't tell him that, though.

"Well, remember the speed date I told you about? Um, I've actually been seeing the same guy for a while now, and, uh, I dunno. I dunno what's in store for me. But he'll be there to help me figure it out." 

Mark smiles. "Good for you. Aren't you glad I pushed you to go to that thing? Don't say I never did anything for you."

The dreams have stopped. It doesn't matter why, but you speculate it's because you quit your job and moved in with Jack. There is no reason for a prophecy to mask itself as a dream anymore if it has been fulfilled.

Your dreams are as boring and mundane as they can get nowadays, but at least when you wake, you have him.

Late in the summer, in the Spanish villa he rented out with a view of the sparkling sea just outside the balcony doors; the position you first had sex in all those months ago, except the backs of your knees are hooked over his broad, freckled shoulders.

Over the past two weeks you have done nothing but tan half naked under the sun, sipping on tinto de veranos by the beach with Jack by your side, his standard prosthesis switched out for his waterproof one.

One of your hands held in his, his other around the handle of his cane padded with a sand tip, he strolled with you along the shoreline, gawking at you as you wore the little bikini he then ripped off you later, biting into the sun-kissed skin of your ass and breasts and tracing tan lines with his tongue.

Now, though, he bears down on you, and he fucks your cunt mean, a bit viciously, an arm wrapped under your waist, his other hand gripping the side of your neck, forehead to sticky forehead, your collar glinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window.

He went alone to the local square to get bocadillos for dinner: crusty, fresh bread smeared with tomato pulp and drizzled in olive oil, stuffed with jamón serrano and Manchego cheese.

"I know you're up to something, baby. But fine, I'll indulge you. If I come back to you touching yourself like the horny pup I know you are, we're going to have a problem."

When he returned, you were in bed, naked, and in your hands was the day collar you chose and bought for yourself a few weeks prior—paid for with his money, because you're his pup, his responsibility, his baby—as well as the key and screw that went along with it.

You were waiting until the last day of your vacation, a vacation he couldn't be pulled in to work from, for him to put it on you.

A subtler choice than the one he initially picked for you, a dainty, thin chain laced with diamonds that stops just above your collarbone. No one will bat an eye at it unless they look close and see that the only way to remove it is with a hex key the size of a toothpick.

He dropped the sandwiches on the floor and didn't bother taking off his prosthesis, too emotional about collaring you, about having your trust to wear this symbol of his love and his ownership around your neck at all times. With trembling hands, he fastened the ends of the chain around your neck, tightening the screw with the hex key, and then pressed a kiss to your nape.

You've been wearing the play collar for so long it's become something of a comfort to you. You started to miss the feeling of it around your neck when you were done with a scene and went to bed in his arms.

But now, you have this.

You angle your head down to bite his neck so hard ripe blood pours into your mouth, so hard he groans, his chest rumbling, his thrusts stuttering. Along with the iron of the blood, you taste the meat of him: sun-screened, Spanish sun-shined, and sweat-slicked.

"Fuck, puppy. That's—that's a bad fuckin' girl. This is the thanks I get?" But you know he likes when you mark him. "Maybe what you need is a time-out. Put you in a cage." But you know his threats are empty.

He's a sucker for you. If you were to be thrown in a cage, he'd throw himself right in there with you.

You smile wide at him, your teeth stained red. "I love you, Jack. You can't blame a dog for telling you that in the only way she knows how."

He bites you, too, on your collarbone, on the stretch of skin right below your chain, though a lot more delicately because "I fuckin' love you. My baby, my puppy."

You tremble like a leaf in his arms when you come, and he spills inside you not long after, a trail of your combined release leaking down the cleft of your ass, your legs scrumptiously sore after being folded in half and fucked through the mattress.

Your love for each other, a sick kind of dependency, obligate mutualism. One species can't survive without the other. You need him, and he needs you.

He's man and beast and yours all at once.

And you're his baby pup.

You're his.

Your schedules never seemed to align to both have a day off, and Jack was getting antsy at the prospect that he had kissed you days ago, but couldn’t take his girl out for a date. 

A particularly stressful case one evening broke his patience. 

An MVC trauma case had rolled in just before his shift was about to end, the man was in his late-thirties and the crash seemed to have paralysed his lower limbs. He worked to treat the most imminent problems, but Jack could tell the man knew what had happened to his legs, and was grieving silently. 

Not long after he’s finished treating the man, a tall, blonde woman rushes into the trauma room just as Jack was about to exit, and the look on her face was fear followed by complete devastation. He watches her sob as she rounds the table to sit next to her partner, moving strands of hair away from his face so she can lean in and press her forehead against his.

Jack stands off to the side watching the scene unfolds, and his breath hitches as he hears the couples’ cries, their pleas of love for one another, the fear that she had almost lost him; lost him before they could finally get married, he overhears. 

The woman promises that nothing could ever change the love she has for him, begging to scrap the big, fancy wedding they’d planned, wanting to elope, not bearing to waste another day of not being married to him.

Something twists low in his chest, patience wearing thin and excuses himself from the room, desperately needing to find you.

He couldn’t wait.

Jack’s shoulders are tight when he exits the trauma room, shaking his head and searching for you, hoping you hadn’t left for the day.

───

You’re zipping your bag up where it rests on your chair, when a low, familiar voice startles you from behind. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

“Uh, going home and sleeping. You should try it sometime, y’know–” You begin to tease back, turning to look at him, but his face is serious, tight, making you falter. You’re about to ask what had happened, never having seen him so disturbed.

He speaks before you can ask, shaking his head and commanding,

“No. C’mon, we’re grabbing food.” His voice is gravelly as he grabs your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, before picking up your coat holding it out for you to slip into it. Your heart warms at the sweet, domestic gesture. Nervously, and heavily blushing, you turn, and let him drape you in the coat. You move to take the bag from Jack, but he shakes his head, holding it tighter. 

“Let’s go.” His voice is low, and you feel his hand rest on the small of your back, guiding you to the exit. You almost just let yourself fall into the comfort of allowing Jack to take over, enjoying not having to think for once.

“Jack– hold on.” You say a little flabbergasted. Shen and Lena give you both an amused look as you pass, clearly they seem to know what’s going on whilst you’re left in the dark.

“We’re exhausted, I look a mess right now– we just finished a 12 hour shift!” You try and reason with him as he hurriedly leads you to his truck. 

“So?” He gives you a look that implies what you said has no grounds for protest, whatsoever.

You scoff, completely taken aback, and swivel to face him once you reach his truck, searching his face for an inkling of an idea as to what’s up with him.

“Jack–” You try, but he just leans past you, and opens the truck door for you, nodding his head signalling for you to hop in. 

“First of all. You ain’t a mess, sweetheart.” He says, almost offended by the notion. 

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you watch as he reaches for the seatbelt and buckles you in, and before pulling away, he rests his forehead on yours and whispers, “You looking fuckin’ amazing all the time.” 

You can't help but let out a flustered whine at his praise, blush covering your face as you meet his intense stare. His expression begins to soften once he looks you over, realising you’re finally here with him. He softly brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“Diner food okay, doll?”

───

You feel the car come to a stop across the street from a 24/7 diner downtown, it’s cutesy, it has a retro feel to it. You go to open the door, but his hand gently catches your wrist mid-movement. 

“Ah ah. Stay.” He commands with a soft-but-stern tone, willing you to obey. 

You smile to yourself as you watch him round the hood of the truck, you’ve never received this kind of princess treatment, and your heart clenches. You thrum with anxiety as you wait for him to open your door, begging yourself to not make a fool of yourself and somehow faceplanting out of the truck.

Checking that no cars are passing, he opens the door and holds his hand out for you to take. You can’t stop your smile from growing or the heat covering your face, utterly touched by his gentlemanly gestures. 

“You don’t have to do all this, you know?” Your voice is quiet, but slightly teasing as you hop out of the truck, holding his hand. “I already like you.” 

Jack sighs when looks down at you, wrapping an arm around you to rest on your hip before moving you to the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the road. 

“I ain’t doing this to impress ya.” He grumbles out, bringing his lips to your temple. “It’s how you deserve to be treated, honey.”

You’re speechless. 

He needs to stop making you blush, you’re already flustered and overwhelmed by all of his actions within the short span of time you’ve left the ER, and the date has barely begun. 

You’re barely able to focus or think straight, which is why when you reach the doors to the diner, you mistakenly make a move to open the door, and Jack almost hangs his head in soft frustration

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” He says in disbelief. You look up at him with a confused expression, watching as he enters your space, and opens the door for you. God, he’s so traditional. Your grin is wide as you stare at him, unable to keep it off your face as you enter the Diner.

You let him order first, as you stare up at the menu above the counter. You’d heard him order a savory dish, something with eggs. It’s healthy, and though you’d wanted something sweet like pancakes you start overthinking, not wanting to look unhealthy or childish in front of Jack, completely baseless worries. 

He turns to look at you, seeing your brows are furrowed and a worried look paints your face as you’re trying to decide. He reaches back, squeezing your hand tilting his head. “Honey, get whatever ya want, yeah?” 

Your smile is tight and shy again when you order the pancakes, nerves wracking your body for no good reason, just another moment anxiety seems to spike randomly.

“Will that be separate or together?” The cashier asks about payment whilst finishing up the order, and both you and Jack speak at the same time.

“Separate–”

“Together.”

His tone is final as he looks at you with an incredulous expression that you even tried to offer to pay on your first date. You begin to shake your head, feeling guilty about making him pay for you, but he taps his card and gives you a stern look.

While you’re waiting for the food he wraps you in his arms and whispers into your hair.

“Let me take care of you. Please.” His voice is gentle but pleading.

Your heart clenches as you look up at him from where you’re wrapped around him, face touching his chest. Vulnerability flickers in your eyes, unsure if you should admit to Jack just yet, how hard it is for you to let go and be cared for. 

But he just smiles, patting your hair, and silently, you think he already knows.

Grabbing your food, you look for a place to sit, but you notice Jack is… walking out? You frown again, catching up to him with confusion painting your face. Did he not want to eat together? Had you completely misinterpreted this as a date? Maybe he just wanted to grab food before going home.

He snorts at the confusion, back tracking a little and cupping your face with one hand, a thumb stroking back and forth across your cheek. 

“You think I was gonna take ya to a diner for our first date?” He croons, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, kid, who have you been hanging around with before me?”

───

What you hadn’t expected was for him to bring you to a remote spot that overlooked the city. It was still early in the morning, a fresh spring fog coating the city from above as you sat on a bench and had breakfast.

You’re too in your own head, you know this. But you can’t stop. You’re painfully aware that this is a date, you want to act the right way, say the right things, be charming, be funny. But it inevitably leads to complete silence from you and jumpy eyes darting around focusing on anywhere but him.

Sighing, he sets his takeout container on the bench beside him, before scooting closer to you. 

“Hey, what’cha worrying about over there?” He nudges his knee with yours. He meets your eyes and finds insecurity and so much shyness. He tilts your head up using his fingers on your chin, making sure you really hear him when he speaks.

“You still get me so nervous.” You breathe out shakily, laughing a little at the prospect knowing he’d already kissed you stupid days ago.

“You got no one to impress, yeah? S’just me.” He teases a little, recalling your words from earlier. 

“Plus, I already got a taste of those lips, doll.” This raises a shy laugh from you and you groan while you nudge his knee back playfully, clearly calming down. He has a way of easing you, making you comfortable around him like no one ever has. You lean your head down against his shoulder, bringing your hand to trace patterns on his scrubs. 

In the comfortable lull between you both, you break the silence.

“What happened today? Why were you so… worked up?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment by bringing up negative emotions.

Jack pauses, you feel him tense beside you. But he places a hand on your thigh and rubs his thumb back and forth comfortingly, searching for the right words.

“I just… didn’t wanna waste any time.” He admits softly, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“I know what I want, and we’ll go as slow as you want– but I’m not waiting around to miss key moments with you.” He leans down to where you rest on his shoulder and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lingering there for a moment after his admission. 

Your breath hitches at his intensity, realising how serious he is, that he really wants this, wants you.

“Now,” he pauses, using his hand to lift your head off his shoulder. “I’ve been dreamin’ about kissing you again for days.” His rough voice whispers, searching your eyes for permission, any indication you want this as much as he does.

You don’t give him time to find it.

Immediately, you lean in and crash your lips to his, faster and passionate than your first. 

Jack is genuinely taken aback by your little show of confidence, and he makes a surprised whine at feeling your lips again. 

You pull back, wide eyed and shocked at what you had done. “Fuck–”

He growls at you having broken the kiss. You don’t get time to sit with embarrassment at how desperately you’d kissed him, you notice how blown out his pupils are and he immediately cups your face bringing you back in. 

He had so effortlessly taken over, comforting you and pleasing you with one kiss that your worries dissipate, your body relaxes into him, and you let yourself feel it.

For the second time, Jack had kissed you stupid.

First Personality Shifts

Slowly, but surely, Jack was getting you to come out of your shell. He was discovering parts of you he hadn’t known existed, and loved it.

He was encouraging you to grow, to flourish, which is how he discovered how sassy you could get. 

The night shift were working overtime, wrapping up cases here and there, during a particularly brutal shift. You’d been working around 15 hours now, exhausted but powering through.

You and Emma, a day shift nurse, were assisting a trauma case led by Jack and Dr. Robby, much to the dismay of Shen and Ellis. It was a particularly tricky case, you’d all been in that room for ages, holding your breath during a risky procedure as the room stays silent. 

After a while, you watch Jack and Robby step back from the patient, letting out a breath of relief before Robby raises his thumbs, signalling everything went perfectly. You see them smile, their eyes crinkling from under the mask.

Small cheers and laughs filter through the room, the tension easing out.

“You’ve still got it, man.” Jack praises Robby. 

Robby almost looks reluctant to accept the approval. 

“Nah man, that’s all you.” Robby retorts, his hand patting Jack’s back whilst Robby went to leave the room.

“Take the compliment, Robby.” Jack raises his voice to reach where Robby was leaving the room, knowing how his friend gets. Robby pauses in the doorway turning to face Jack.

“No, seriously, brother. Everyone could learn a thing or two from you.” Robby says loudly enough so his residents can hear, making it a point.

You hear them go back and forth for a while, your brain is finally slowing down from exhaustion, they do this all the goddamn time, which is why you don’t even process it when you blurt out your next sentence.

“Careful, Jack’s ego is inflated enough as is.” Your voice is somewhat quiet, you really meant it for just Robby and Jack. 

The room erupts in small giggles, Robby’s eyebrows lifting in surprise and smirking at Jack. He can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Oof, damn girl.” You hear Ellis joke from behind you.

Your wide eyes shoot up to meet Jack’s, your tired brain catching up and afraid you’d offended him. But he’s stood there, completely still, and grinning so hard. He almost looks proud. 

Jack didn’t think he could fall for you any harder. 

He was wrong.

───

You had finally gotten comfortable enough to ask for his comfort.

Before you met Jack, you couldn’t imagine asking for help for the littlest of things, afraid of inconveniencing people. Jack had reassured you, time and again, that he wants to be the person you go to when you need help. 

So you do.

At first, it was adorable for Jack trying to get you to ask for help. Being a slight tease about it, encouraging you to use your words.

You’d had a rough shift, you weren’t meant to be going to Jack’s place after work, but god did you need him today more than ever.

You’d been in the room for a few trauma cases, neither of which had ended with the patients pulling through, one being a pediatric case. You’d also opted to do an evidence collection for a sexual assault patient, knowing how busy Lena had been tonight, the floor needing her more than ever, so you’d taken over for her.

Safe to say, by the end of the night, you were a wreck. You felt on the verge of tears for hours, like the littlest thing could set you off. You were emotionally depleted, you wanted to just switch off, and you knew Jack could help.

So you approached him quietly, anxiously, your hands fidgeting. He was grabbing his bag out of his locker, so you slid in next to him, your back against the lockers next to him searching his face, checking if he’s too tired, because you wouldn’t want to be a burden.

“Hey, baby.” He smiles at your appearance next to him, glancing over at you. 

“Everything okay?” He says gently after noticing your stature. He can tell you’re anxious. He pauses from where he’s gathering his stuff in his lockers, turning to face you fully now. You’re staring into his eyes, you’re hesitant.

“Talk to me.” He commands gently, his hand coming to yours to break apart your nervous fidgeting.

You swallow the lump in your throat, asking for help always ended with tears for you and you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now.

“Jack.” You just whine, silently begging that he’d understand what you need without you having to vocalise it. Your eyes water slightly, needing his comfort desperately.

“C’mon, baby, use your words.” He coaxes, his hand cupping your cheek. “You can do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth across the apple of your cheek, catching any tears if they fell.

“I need you.” Your voice is shaky, broken. It’s all you can manage without completely breaking down at work.

“Yeah?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you, but a smirk tugs at his lips. “Atta girl.” His praise causes an involuntary, but quiet whine to leave you. 

He’ll stop the teasing for tonight, he sees how much you need him and the fact you had even verbalised your need for him was progress. He’s so proud of you.

“You need me, baby? C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, beckoning you into his hold. You’re a little embarrassed as you hug him, worried someone will find you like this, all vulnerable and mushy. 

“You did so good, baby, asking me for help.” He strokes your hair, comforting you. “C’mon. I’ll bring you home.” 

A protesting whine escapes you before you realise, the idea of him dropping you home alone upsetting you. You had just said you needed him, hadn’t you?

“Hey, hey.” He says quickly, needing to settle you down before you get more upset. “I meant home. Our home. You’re mine, baby. Imma take care of you now.”

───

However, one particular night, he uncovered an unexpected, but one of his favourite sides of you.

It’d been a rare evening where most of the night shift were off for the day, well at least those fun enough to drink with.

You and Jack hadn’t even bothered to try and hide your relationship around your coworkers, they knew too much. It wasn’t much of a problem anyways, not that either of you were overly affectionate at work. 

Lena supported you, but continued to encourage you to err on the side of caution, worried you’ll get hurt. Shen, however, lived for teasing you both. 

With a few drinks in your bloodstream, you had shuffled closer to Jack within the booth, searching for his touch. Shen, sitting opposite you both kept giving you knowing looks. It’d started with your thigh against his under the table, a gentle, grounding presence. But drink after drink, it hadn’t been enough. You wrap your arms around his forearm, your head on his shoulder now.

You’re definitely feeling the drinks, tipsy if not drunk, and you’re practically all over Jack. It's like you wanted to crawl into his skin. He’s definitely enjoying how clingy you’re being tonight. He leaves soft kisses in your hair from time-to-time, not trying to go full on PDA in front of his friends. But you were making it very hard for him to keep his cool. 

The drinks get to your head, making you both loose-lipped and a little sleepy. 

Your eyes fall to his hands. His fingers idly trace around the condensation on his glass as he politely listens to a story Ellis is telling. Truthfully, you hadn’t been clocked into the conversation for a while now, Jack occupying so much space in your mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.

His hands just looked so good. They were so big and veiny, and his fingers were so thick. You don’t know what had gotten into you, but you were so incredibly entranced by his hands. 

Without thinking, you slide your hand that rested on his bicep, down his arm until it landed on his hand, gently pulling it away from his glass. He lets you, doesn’t even look down to see what you’re doing, assuming you wanna hold his hand. But you just turn his hand over, palm facing up, and reject his attempt at intertwining your hands together.

You let out a small, short whine in protest. Keeping his hand laying flat on the table while you take your nails and gently trace your fingers in his palm, up his fingers and back down. They were so worn, tough. Nothing like your soft hands.

This touch from you makes him shiver, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. He glances down at your face, your eyes are glazed over and you seem completely infatuated by his hand. He watches you turn over his hand again, and you begin to trace his veins, like you’re completely hypnotised.

His breath comes out shakily, now completely zoned out of Ellis’ conversation. 

“What’ya doing, honey?” He whispers quietly into your hair, ensuring no one else can hear him.

You peek up at him from where you rest on his shoulder. God, you’re drunk. He’s so beautiful.

“Your hands are realllyyyy hot.” You blurt out, drunkenly as you continue to toy with his hands. By the power of the universe, the table had erupted into laughter at Ellis’ story at the same time you’d blurted that out, such that no one heard.

He stills at your comment and almost barks out a laugh. He holds it in, not wanting you to get all shy on him. Not when his shy girl has gotten so confident. 

“Is that so, baby?” He practically growls into your ear, lifting a drink to hide his smirk.

“Mhmmm.” You hum in affirmation. Your focus shifts from his arm to wrapping both hands around his bicep, it flexes slightly as he brings his drink to his lips. “Y’r arms too. Soooo big. Wanna bite ‘em.”

He genuinely chokes on his drink at that, something possessive stirring in his chest. His shy, sweet girl, completely fawning over Jack. 

He blinks around, making sure no one heard what you said, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else hearing your desired rambles for him. Looking up, he notices Shen’s cocky smirk as he glances between the two of you. Jack’s about to tell him to mind his own business, but you beat him to it, by doubling down.

“Like it's unfairrrrr.” You mumble into his bicep.

“Unfair?” Jack asks, confused.

“How are you sooo– ugh!” 

He tilts your chin to look at him, wanting to know where all this flattery is coming from, and you have a lovestruck tired expression.

You pout as you take him in, his curls, his scruff, his face. 

Oh.

Something more present and aware flashes in your eyes the longer you stare at him, like you’re realising you spoke the words out loud. Your eyes widen slowly, mortified, and heat rushes to your face as you stare at him silently, replaying everything you just said. In public.

You dart your face around the table and make eye contact with Shen who's laughing under his breath. Oh fuck. You probably just embarrassed Jack and yourself.

You detach from him so quickly it gives him whiplash.

“Oh my god, I’m so–” Your voice is incredibly apologetic, horrified, and you won't even look at him in the face.

“No, hey. none of that.” Jack’s voice is firm. He brings his hands to cup your face, making you look into his eyes. “I like you like this, cheeky, confident.” 

You want to be happy at his words, but you can’t help but feel guilt and nausea stir in your stomach. Your drunk brain is making it very hard to think straight. You bite your lip anxiously.

“Do you…” You hesitate, looking into his eyes. “Do you wish I was more like that?” You have to ask. Maybe sober you wouldn’t feel so insecure, but you’re tired and your mouth is still feeling braver than your brain. 

“God, no, honey–” He pauses trying to find the right words, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. “I mean– Don’t apologise for this. I want you, every version of you.” His tone is pleading. You calm down a little at his words, feeling silly at how quick your mind jumped to the worst case.

“Want you even when you’re drunk outta your mind and thirsting over me like this–” He teases which gets cut off by a groan from you. You can’t help but smile as you hide your face into his neck again.

First Time

You’d been dating Jack for a little while now, but you still hadn’t had your first time together. Jack waited for your signal, he wouldn’t push, he’d wait until you were comfortable enough to be with him.

Which you were. You wanted to be intimate with Jack for so long, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your brain, stopping you from initiating.

Your past relationships, as Jack had slowly realised, weren’t exactly the best. You weren’t ever cared for like you are with Jack, which extended to sex. Sex had never really been about you and your partner, it’d always been about his pleasure, his needs. 

And now you’re with the most perfect guy, you don’t know how to navigate being intimate in a way that isn’t focused only on him. 

This thought was really getting to you one evening. You and Jack were at his place, just having finished dinner, and now you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap as you absentmindedly watch TV. His hand is giving you gentle strokes up and down your leg, and you can’t stop thinking about needing to warn him about your relationship with sex.

“Jack?” You ask gently. He doesn’t look over, he continues stroking your leg whilst humming in response.

You bite your lip anxiously.

“Um– I need to tell you something.” Jack’s hand falters his motions on your leg and he turns his head quickly, concern flashing on his features. Your tone, so nervous and anxious, had worried him, his chest twisting.

“Baby, what’s going on?” He coos, but he’s definitely on edge.

“It’s nothing, really. Um–” You pause, realising you hadn’t thought about a way to approach this with him. “I just really wanna have sex with you–” You blurt out. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. You wince and close your eyes in embarrassment. That’s definitely not the right way to do this

Jack’s face is even more confused, amusement flashing his features.

“Right. Baby, I’ve been waiting for you…” He reminds you gently. 

“No, no, I know.” You huff frustrated. “I– it’s about that. I just– fuck.” Your frustration builds at yourself for not being able to articulate your words well.

Jack sits up now, sensing your discomfort. He brings you closer to him, leaning on his shoulder now.

“Honey, focus, you’re okay. You can tell me anything.” His voice is immediately grounding. You breathe out shakily.

Silence hangs between you both, before you finally admit it.

“I can’t finish during sex.”

Silence continues to permeate the room. You’re so mortified. You don’t turn to look at his face. You can’t.

“You mean– you haven’t or you can’t?” His voice is gentle, a hand coming to stroke your hair. He’s definitely suspicious of your confession.

“I dunno… both, I guess. I’m not saying this to make it a challenge– people have done that before and it just makes it worse. I’m just warning you beforehand my body is wired differently and I don’t want you to feel bad if you can’t make it happen–”

“Oh, honey, is this why you’ve been hesitant to have sex?” He asks softly, interrupting your rambling.

You just hum in affirmation, embarrassed. 

Jack mulls over your words, he won’t argue and tell you he will make you finish but he seriously thinks this is a product of your previous boyfriends being inattentive and careless with you. Anger twists in his chest thinking about you thinking you’re somehow inadequate when it was your boyfriends who just took and took. 

“Listen to me, baby.” He tilts your face to look at him now. “I don’t care about that y’hear me?” He watches your expression falter, eyes full of vulnerability.

“If you can’t? Fine. I don’t want you any less, I just wanna make you feel loved, baby.” He can tell you’re still hesitant, but you nod. 

You smile shyly and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his lap as he plays with your hair. 

The days following your conversation you think over his words more, and a few days later, you tell him you wanna do it– be with him. 

He checks in multiple times throughout the day, making sure you’re okay, that you’re absolutely sure. But you also notice how much more often his touches linger. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but you can’t stop thinking about him. Everything about him that day is so much more gentle and careful with you. 

That evening, when he leads you onto the couch your body is thrumming with anxiety. You know what's about to happen, he knows. Why are you so scared? You’ve never been more tense, more afraid of something going wrong. This is the man you love. 

When you both sit on the couch, cuddling like you always do, he doesn’t make a move. Maybe he’s waiting for you. Your leg shakes as you try to figure out what’s meant to happen, what you’re supposed to do. 

Before you can overthink it, you drape yourself over his lap and crash your lips to kiss, a hungry desperate kiss. 

He returns it, a grunt of surprise before melting into it. Hands coming to gently rest on your face. The kiss is almost rough, your tongue intertwining with his. You can do this, you can make him feel good. Your brain already slips into making sure he’s pleased, unable to shake the habit from the past.

You move against his lap, and he groans in pleasure. The noise he makes thrills you, wanting to hear it again, you’ve never heard him like this. You try to grind again but he pulls away breathless, shaking his head.

“Baby, slow down.” He practically laughs caressing your cheek. He can’t lose his cool already, not when he plans to make you feel good.

Fuck.

Shame floods your chest and your cheeks heat, climbing off of him and curl up next to him. You somehow messed this up, you want the couch to open and swallow you up.

“Oh, my sweet girl. C’mere.” He coos, turning to face you. He realises how his words may have come across like a rejection, and that’s the last thing he wants you to think.

“I don’t wanna rush this” He places a hand on your thigh, dipping his head trying to find your eyes. He can tell how nervous you are, how much you’re overthinking this. “Lemme take over, yeah?” He asks softly. 

You meekly lift your head to meet his eyes before nodding. His eyes are blown out, he looks hungry. But there's an edge of restraint, he's holding back.

You don’t even have time to feel guilty before he cups your face and brings your lips to his again, slow, passionate. 

He leans forward, crowding you back against the couch until he’s lying over you. Your heart jumps at the closeness, the position you’re in.

You become breathless, almost gasping for air between each kiss. 

Jack moves from your lips, placing sweet kisses down your jaw. Your body erupts in goosebumps, you’re practically shivering at the contact. You don’t even register your hand lifting to comb through his hair, pulling him down onto your jaw for more.

You feel his lips twitch into a smirk.

“That feel good, baby?” He rasps. The low grumble of his voice has you bucking your hips into him, desperate for him. You get completely lost in his kisses–

“Words, baby.” He commands pulling away to look into your eyes. He smirks smugly as he sees how wrecked he’s made you with just his kisses.

You blink processing his request, breathless and annoyed he’s stopped kissing you.

“Yeah– please, Jack. Don’t st– ah!” You’re cut off by his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck, just below your ear. You whine as he sucks on your skin, for sure leaving a mark. Your body shivers again with the thought of him marking you that you involuntarily tug at his hair, which provokes a growl from Jack.

He detaches from your neck breathlessly dipping his head like you’ve just wrecked him with a simple tug.

“Do that again.” He commands low, before hungrily returning to your neck sucking more spots over and over.

A surge of confidence fills you knowing you have the capacity to make him feel just as wrecked as he does you. You continue to rake your hands through his curls, tugging occasionally loving his whines, as he sucks spots lower and lower down your collarbone and chest. 

His hand trails under your shirt, his cold hand making contact with your tummy and you tense involuntarily. He pauses looking up from where his head rests on your chest.

“You need to slow down?” His tone is so soft, gentle, it almost makes you cry.

“Nononon– please keep going,” you almost beg “Your hand was just cold.” You laugh embarrassed while stroking his hair.

He smirks at your neediness trying not to tease you more. 

He holds eye contact while his hands trail up your torso, goosebumps erupting throughout your body once again. You get flustered as he stares so intensely and you try to look away.

“Eyes on me.” He coos, bringing his fingers to tilt your head back to face him. Heat rushes in your face, your body practically shakes with anticipation. 

He lifts your top off so slowly, that you almost just beg for him to hurry up, for him to touch you. His hand slowly slides up from your hips up to your breasts, a hand coming to cup you over your bra as he returns to sucking spots at your collarbone. You get lost in the sensation once more, not noticing his other hand working at removing your bra. Once you peel it off he just stares. You almost go to hide, feeling self-conscious under his stare.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” He groans before directly leaning down and taking a nipple into his mouth.

Your hands grip the couch roughly and your back arches into him involuntarily.

“Fuck– ohmygod–” you whine at the sensation of his tongue swirling your nipples. You feel jack smirk against your breast, cocky fucker, before returning to suck on them hard. 

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good, you had no idea kisses and touches like this could wreck you.  

His teeth unexpectedly grazes your nipple and you moan. Your body shakes with overwhelm, you bring your hands to cup jacks face needing him to pause. 

His lips detach from your nipple and his pupils are black. He looks like a man starved. He tries to go back to sucking but you hold his face steady.

“Need– fuck– need a break, feels too good.” You pant. 

Jack blinks and his cocky smirk returns.

“Oh yeah?” He rasps, with a mock condescending tone. 

You want to even the playing field a bit so you paw at his shirt, needing him to take it off, which he complies by ripping it clean off so quickly you barely register it. He leans down to capture your lips again, but you push your body upwards into his to manoeuvre you both into sitting position. You’re on top of him now, your turn to wreck him. 

His eyes narrow and smiles at your little show of dominance, and he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, for now. 

You lean down to return the kisses he gave you. You test out his sensitive spots, kissing and sucking spots along his neck whilst raking your nails along his biceps, his back, his chest. 

His breathing is shallow and you hear him whine. 

Bingo.

You continue sucking in that spot on his neck, one hand tugging in his hair and another raking nails on his bicep. You love the sound of him falling apart. 

You feel his hips involuntarily buck into your and you know you have him under your finger. It’s your turn to smirk against his neck, peppering small kisses up his jaw before locking eyes with him and grinding down straight into his lap. 

His hands jolt to your waist, not roughly, but a firm presence. He holds you down as he groans loudly, coming to rest his head on your chest. You try to move again but his hands on your waists prevent it, and he sounds destroyed. 

Your smug, cocky victory is short lived. 

His hands are on your thighs in an instant and you’re suddenly jolted upwards, your legs wrap around his torso as you let out a startled yelp. He’s carrying you. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, baby.” He murmurs into your neck as he carries you towards his bedroom.

You’re plopped down onto his bed and you bounce a little. You don’t even get time to speak before he’s on you again, his kisses desperate.

His hands paw at your bottoms, sliding them off in one quick go before he cups your panties.

“You enjoy almost getting me to blow my load in my pants, hmmm?” He teases feeling how wet you are already. “Making me feel like a fucking teenager again–” He growls before latching onto your breast again.

His hand slides your panties off as he sucks you, and it all feels too good you whine as you paw at his belt, wanting him to take his pants off too, to be on equal playing ground.

Groaning, he reluctantly detaches again before quickly working at his belt. The sound of the clink and him sliding it through the loops has your stomach flipping as you breathlessly stare at him from the bed. 

As soon as they’re off he’s on you again, his fingers coming to your clit, spreading the wetness from your folds up and making small circles. You jolt a little at the feeling, not expecting his touch there.

“Jack– fuck– what’r you doing? You don’t have to–” You begin to tell him to not waste his time on you, you already know you won't be able to cum.

“M’working you up, baby.” He coos, not slowing his motions. “No pressure to finish, yeah? Just wanna make sure it doesn’t hurt.” 

You hesitate, staring into his eyes and you realise he’s being sincere. You swallow a lump in your throat, feeling extra vulnerable at the lengths of care you feel he’s taking for you. You nod before falling back against the bed, just letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his touches.

You feel the way his fingers move slow circles against your clit, how they adjust every time your breath hitches, as he’s searching for the right tempo and pressure to make you feel good. 

You can hear how wet you are, you almost feel embarrassed how his fingers glide through your folds so easily. He continues to pepper gentle kisses down your neck as his fingers stroke you, they move lower and lower until they reach your entrance.

You gasp as he pushes his fingers inside you, feeling full.

You let out small whines of pleasure as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He shushes you by placing his soft lips to yours, continuing to mumble sweet words.

“Just let go for me, baby.”

“Thaaaats it.”

“Rub your clit for me.”

You reach down to add pressure to your clit and immediately jolt at the feeling. It feels different. The pressure from his fingers inside you, curling upwards and continuously thrusting at a consistent pace is getting to you. 

Your lower stomach twists, he sucks on your neck as he rubs against the spongy spot inside you, you realise the pressure feels good. That the way you’re rubbing yourself as he thrusts into you while whispering is working. You try so hard to keep it there. Keep rubbing. Keep focused on the feeling. Focusing on his words–

It disappears. 

“Fuck!” You huff frustrated, tears welling in your eyes. He pulls his fingers out immediately, worried he’s hurt you and you curl up into yourself. “I can’t do it.” Your voice is wobbly as you berate yourself, wiping a tear off your face.

“Hey, easy, baby.” He soothes by rubbing a hand on your back. His heart clenches at the sight of your teary eyes.

“M’sorry, Jack,” you sniffle. “You spent so much time on me and I couldn’t–”

“No. Hey.” He stops you, firmly. “No apologies. M’not mad, not upset.” He coos, moving your hair away from your face.

“I did all of that because I wanted to. You didn’t ruin anything, y’hear me?” He cups your face making you look into his eyes.

You nod shyly, but you’re still feeling low about it, he can tell.

“Jack– It’s okay if you wanna just fuck me now. M’ready. I want it too.” You whisper looking up into his eyes, still on the verge of tears.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence.

“No.” His tone is final.

He has an inkling that you’re in your own head too much, putting too much pressure on yourself to perform even when he told you there’s no expectations. He can feel your frustration, just wanting to fix this for you. An idea lands in his head.

“I’m not done with you.” He says gently whilst moving down your body again. “If you’ll let me, I wanna try something else, yeah?” 

“But–” You begin to protest, feeling guilty he has to try so hard on you.

“It’s for me. Not for you. Humour me, okay?” He asks so politely, you don’t wanna deprive him of something he enjoys. So you nod. 

“Lay back for me completely, baby.” You oblige, breathing heavily. 

 You feel his fingers in your folds again, they linger on your clit before he gently thrusts them back inside you. You lie back, continuing to feel the pressure but you can’t shake the guilt.

You feel his hot breath ghost over your mound. You jerk your head up, he’s staring directly at you before he places his lips directly on your clit and sucks. 

Your body jolts, arching your back off the bed, your hand landing in his hair once more. You were not expecting this.

“Jack– ohgod.” You breathe as he simultaneously works his fingers inside you and tongues your clit. He smirks at your reaction.

“That feel good?” He’s cocky, but he’s also checking in on you. You nod fervently and guide his head back down. He obliges wordlessly and gets back to working your clit. You’ve never been made to finish with someone else's fingers, but no one has ever tried this. 

He hears your small whines and it takes all the restraint in his body to keep focused on you, as much as he wants to just take his cock and slide it inside you, to watch your eyes widen as he fills you up, he wants you to feel good. 

You feel the familiar pressure build in your lower stomach. 

You start squirming, your lower half somehow both chasing his mouth but trying to get away from it. You’re getting overwhelmed, your body experiencing too much at once, and this is where you usually tap out, where it dissipates.

Jack senses it. He feels you clenching around his fingers. Feels your whines becoming more high pitched and breathless. He doesn’t want you to think too much about finishing, can’t have you waiting for the build because it’s gonna drive it away.

He doesn’t change his pace, his fingers continue thrusting, and his tongue doesn’t speed up on your clit, he keeps everything consistent.

“Jack–” You whine, feeling overwhelmed but knowing it’s not going to work, edging towards overstimulation.

He glances up to meet your eyes but doesn’t stop his motions, searching your face. He can see you’re wrecked. He’s desperate for you to fall off the edge, you’re right there. 

So he distracts you.

In one smooth motion, he removes his mouth. You almost whine in sadness before he replaces them with his fingers, eliciting a stronger reaction from you, and he says, in the most casual tone:

“You finish your charting?” 

What?

“My– Jack– what?” You huff out breathlessly but he doesn’t slow his fingers from toying with your clit and thrusting inside you

You try to answer his question, racking your brain.

But you can’t think.

It feels too good.

Your mind goes completely blank.

And you let go.

You fall apart completely. You clench around his fingers and your legs shake involuntarily.

“Fuck–!” You moan loudly. Jack continues to work you through your orgasm, not stopping for a minute.

He pulls the pleasure from your body, the only thing you register is the waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. Your back is arched off the bed and your eyes are squeezed shut as Jack manages the impossible.

You didn’t know it could feel this good.

You finally start squirming trying to get away, and he eases his fingers out of you. You’re practically shaking, breaths coming out heavily as you lay on the bed completely destroyed.

You feel him slide up the bed, tucking himself under you so your head rests in his lap and he just strokes your head, moving strands of hair out of your face from where they’ve stuck to you as you’ve gotten sweaty. 

You slowly calm down, coming back to yourself and shyly open your eyes. He’s already staring down at you, smiling so wide. 

Despite yourself, you blush. Like he hadn’t just made you completely fall apart.

“My sweet girl.” He coos, stroking your cheek.

You try to hide your face in your arms, feeling impossibly shy at his words.

“Oh, c’mere, baby.” He coaxes you out of hiding. “Y’getting all shy? After I just made you cum so hard?” He teases gently and you groan, turning around to sit in his lap, resting your head in his neck.

“Jaaaaack.” You whine.

“Okay, I hear ya, baby. No more teasin’,” he rubs a hand down your back, then his tone gets impossible quiet, like you’ve never heard before. “That was okay, right, sweetheart?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours.

You can’t help but laugh. 

“Okay?” You scoff.

“Jack, that was– everything.” You tell him, kissing his cheek. 

He settles down a little after that, the brief shyness leaving him. 

“My turn, please.” You beg whilst reaching down to his crotch where you can feel the erection poking through from where you’re sat above him.

He grabs your wrists as you touch the waist band of his shorts, stopping you, you frown.

“Darlin’, believe me. Any other night, absolutely,” He pauses stroking your cheek. “But I need you so bad right now, need to be inside you.”

“Oh.” You whisper, a shy smile coating your face as you realise how wrecked he is. Rising from his lap and allowing him to remove his boxers, you settle back down onto the bed. He’s on top of you in an instant. “Jack– I can get on top, wanna ride you.” You say shyly.

“Fucccck,” he groans. “Baby, I want that, but I’m not gonna last. Next time. Let me feel you this way. Please.” He begs while positioning himself between your legs.

You wrap your legs around him as the tip of his cock slides through your folds. Your breath hitches when it nudges against your clit, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock makes it twitch against you, and he lets out a low groan at the feeling. Jack repeats the motion a few times before bringing the tip to your entrance.

You instinctively brace, knowing how painful it always is. Jack sees this, leaning down to kiss your neck and calming you down, relaxing you.

“S’okay, relax.” He coos before dipping his head into your neck, and pushing in.

He pushes in slowly, so slowly he’s losing his restraint. 

But it doesn’t hurt. 

He’d worked you open so well, kept you so relaxed, you just feel full.

You moan as he bottoms out, a hand tugging at his curls and the other gripping his bicep. You nod fervently,

“You can move, please, move–” You don’t even finish your begs, your permission is all he needs to start letting go and thrusting into you.

You swear you’ve never felt so good in your life, the level of intimacy is unmatched.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He whines 

His eyes meet yours as he thrusts, and as always his stare is intense. His pupils are blown and he looks destroyed. 

He fits so perfectly inside you, you’re so full, you can’t help but moan. 

You’re clenching around him so perfectly, your breasts bouncing with every thrust and he can’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re doing so good f’me.” He praises even though he looks like he’s on the edge. 

Holding himself up on one arm to continue his movements, he brings a second to your clit.

You don’t expect his touch once more, so lost in how full you feel, how heavenly it all is, that you hadn’t realised how close you were again, and his simple touch pulls a second orgasm from you.

You fall apart even more, gripping his hair, nails leaving marks on his bicep as you shake around him, clenching. 

That’s all he needs to finish.

Your beautiful moans, the way you don’t break eye contact, the feel of you coming undone on his cock, he’s gone.

His thrusts stagger, becoming more desperate and frantic, his hold on your waist tightens as he grips onto you bringing you down onto his cock. His head lulls next to your head, hot breath in your ear as he groans, his seed spilling inside you. 

He’s completely wrecked, his last few after-orgasm thrusts jolt you, overstimulating. He lets his body go and completely crashes down onto you like a weighted blanket, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.

You’re both breathing so heavily, he’s still inside you as your aftershocks move through you, clenching involuntarily, but he seems to enjoy the feeling even as sensitive as he is.

“Y’were perfect for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear. 

Your heart clenches at his words, how soft he’d been with you the whole time. He was so caring, so focused on you, praising you throughout the whole thing, he never took, he just kept giving and giving. He made sure it didn’t hurt. You realise that you’ve been accepting subpar treatment your whole life and just brushing it off.

In your post-orgasmic blank brain, you can’t process the emotions and a few silent tears spill from your eyes at the complete overwhelm of emotions.

Your sniffles are what alert Jack, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart drops into his stomach, panic flooding him.

“Hey, hey, talk to me.” His tone is so soft you feel guilty for worrying him. He moves to pull out, but you’re not thinking straight and you lock your legs around him, not wanting him to leave.

You just reach around and koala-bear hug him. He settles a little knowing he hasn’t hurt you, that you still wanted him touching you.

“Gotta talk to me, baby.” He pleads, cupping your face.

You’re not silent for much longer, calming down enough to stop his worry.

“You– felt so good.” Your voice is high pitched, almost shy. “You cared for me.” You sniffle.

Jack’s heart practically breaks.

“Oh, baby.” He coos, bringing you into his chest. Peppering many kisses into your hair. “M’always gonna take care of you.” He says so gently you can’t help but let out another tear, but you’re smiling now.

“I love you.” You whisper, eyes full of tears, him still inside you. 

He breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Baby you got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” He kisses you, soft, passionately.

“I love you too.”

You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.

This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.

While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.

Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift. 

A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.

“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you. 

You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question. 

He’s incredibly attractive.

The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.

You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man. 

Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”

He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you. 

You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked. 

“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.

“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.

“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you. 

He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors. 

“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.

You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,

Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.

“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.

“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed. 

Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.

Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.

“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him. 

Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”

Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”

Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.

“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”

During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.

Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.

You hope otherwise.

───────

True to your words, you’re never late again. 

Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.

Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.

However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–

That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.

From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.

It bugs him.

How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.

Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches. 

He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.

“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.

No.

His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.

You’re his.

───────

Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.

You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.

Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.

He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.

So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.

Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him. 

He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–

His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.

He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen. 

“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard. 

Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.

He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.

The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.

“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”

His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.

You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand. 

You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.

But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.

───────

He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all. 

He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.

Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.

He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.

You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food. 

His quiet, tired voice cuts through. 

“S’alright if I join ya?”

You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.

“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.

You pause. 

Uncomfortable?

Fuck. 

You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.

“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself.  Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.

He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,

“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”

You shake your head again, cutting him off.

“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning. 

Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.

“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?” 

You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–

“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”

Oh.

He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.

Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.

“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.

The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over  yours where it rests on the table.

“I mean it. Anything.”

───────

He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space. 

You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.

One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.

You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.

You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.

“All good in here?” 

You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.

Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass. 

“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.

Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.

“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.

You’re starstruck. Sweetheart. 

You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.

Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now? 

The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?

Wrecks him. 

He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.

───────

The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.

During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night. 

You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.

He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety. 

But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch. 

He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.

He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.

And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.

He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along. 

His heart breaks.

You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave. 

Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.

“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you. 

You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.

“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.

You dip your head shyly, 

“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.

His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.

“I notice.”

His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.

He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.

“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?” 

You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.

When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.

“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”

You give him a little confused look shaking your head. 

“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.

“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.

“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.

On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.

He’s proud.

───────

Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least. 

His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.

“Good catch, sweetheart.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”

And he always delivers. 

Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather. 

But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges. 

Tonight is no different.

You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.

You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry. 

He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.

“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath

“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off. 

“No!” He shrugs her off

“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.

The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security

The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate. 

Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.

The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over. 

“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.

Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.

You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,

“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.

You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this. 

───

Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.

He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,

“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.

“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.

You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”

“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.

“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.

“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.

Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.

“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.

Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–

“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.

───

Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.

The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.

You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.

She’s gorgeous.

She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you. 

Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.

It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.

God you’re so stupid.

Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.

“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.

Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.

“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.

“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”

Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.

“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”

She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone? 

You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.

Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.

───────

Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever. 

You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.

You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again. 

He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.

But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.

One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.

“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”

Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”

“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”

Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.

He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.

His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.

“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.

“I’ll talk to her.”

───

Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.

When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.

Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.  

He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.

He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.

Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.

“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?” 

Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now. 

His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.

“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.

He watches your face fall. Fuck. 

Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically. 

“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.

───

The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.

He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.

He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.

“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?

Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again. 

“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.

Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.

“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.

“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it. 

He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.

Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off. 

What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.

───

You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.

You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself. 

You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.

“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh

“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.

“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.

“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile. 

“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?” 

You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot. 

What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.

You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”

“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”

You don’t want it to pass. 

───

You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.

The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.

“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.

You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you. 

“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”

You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.

The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.” 

“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving. 

She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.

Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.

“Pressure’s dropping.”

“BP 78/40.”

“We’re losing him, Abbot.”

Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.

And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.

“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.

But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.

“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.

Nothing.

The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.

His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.

He snaps.

“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.” 

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.

Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.

You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.

Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.

Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.

You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.

You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.

The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?

Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.

  ───

Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. 

He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.

Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain. 

He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.

───

You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.

Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts. 

You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white. 

You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.

You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate. 

“Shit–”

The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain

“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.

“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.

Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.

You’re not that lucky.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.

Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.

The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.

“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.

Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.

“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern. 

“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.

You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.

He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.

“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.

You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.

“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”

His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.

“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”

His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.

“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.

You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.

“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me? 

His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl. 

“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”

Baby.

He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.

“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.

Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”

You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious. 

Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:

“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”

You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.

“Jack–” You practically whimper his name. 

His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly. 

He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.

Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.

You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.

He crashes his lips to yours.

It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt. 

He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could. 

He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him. 

He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you. 

“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.” 

Oh. 

He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.

“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.” 

Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding

He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.

“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches. 

“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”

He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation. 

“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.

You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.” 

Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.

He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.

“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh. 

He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.” 

He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.” 

You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.

“There she is.” He coos at your smile.

───────

After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.

It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.

He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.

You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times. 

The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat. 

Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.

Until you get deeper into country backroads. 

You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.

Until you seem to keep passing more animals. 

Deer.

Squirrels.

Rabbits.

Foxes.

Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone. 

Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you. 

His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.

Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side. 

His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg. 

“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.

Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.

Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby. 

You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.

“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall. 

Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.

“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips. 

“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed. 

Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology. 

“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.

You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch. 

You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.

Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.

“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.

The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.

Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.

“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.

Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”

For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.

His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”

You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.

“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.

“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down. 

Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.

“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does. 

Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest. 

“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.

“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.

“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.

“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.

Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.

─

Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.

“Jack!”

His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow. 

Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking. 

You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,

“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.

Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”

You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.

“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him 

He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”

You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”

He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.

“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

This is a problem.

A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.

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

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

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

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

“Fuck!”

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

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

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

A second you don’t have.

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

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

So vivid.

Stop thinking about his hands.

Stop thinking about his voice.

Stop—

You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.

It doesn’t help.

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

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

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

“You’re late,” Dana says.

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

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”

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

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

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

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

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

Only to turn right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Unmoving.

“Shit, I—”

You look up.

And your entire nervous system shuts down.

Dr. Robby.

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

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

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

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

You are not fine.

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

His head tilts slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

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

“I—I’m gonna—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God. You could have chosen better words.

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

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

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

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

“Stop what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abbot snorts. “Dana?”

You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.

Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”

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

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

“Malinaw,” Princess says.

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

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

“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His arm brushes yours.

Your stomach flips.

Focus.

“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.

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

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

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

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

“Trachea midline.”

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

“BP holding?” Robby asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “Okay.”

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

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

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

“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.

Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” Robby murmurs.

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.

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

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

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

Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Until it stops.

Too much resistance.

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

He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.

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

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

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

Your brain short-circuits.

Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.

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

Fuck. Now is not the time.

You tighten your grip on the tube and push.

Then—

A rush of air.

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

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

“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.

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

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

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

Abbot nods.

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

“Nice work, Doctor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Santos notices—because of course she does.

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

“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”

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

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

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

She stares at you for a second.

“A sex dream?”

You nod miserably.

Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”

She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”

“Because he’s my boss!”

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Good.”

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

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

You sigh. “What?”

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

Your pulse jumps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head. “No.”

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

You glance up, and he nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

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

“Will do.”

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

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

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

Except the way it made your spine arch.

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

“Doctor.”

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

“Sorry—what?”

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him. “And?”

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

So much for being a vault.

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

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

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

You huff a quiet laugh.

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

“Lucky us,” you mutter.

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

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

You shrug. “Just a little off today.”

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

She hums quietly.

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

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

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

You nod. “North Four, on it.”

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“Everything’s fine!”

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

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

So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.

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

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

You’re just… nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She winces. “Not so good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”

Ms. Park sighs.

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

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

Not that you can blame her.

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

But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.

He’s looking at you.

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

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

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

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

Heat floods your face.

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

He glances at you over the top of his glasses.

“You had it handled.”

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

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

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

“I supervise,” Robby mutters.

Dana hums.

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

Hovering?

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

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

He hovers around every resident and med student.

It’s not like he was—

You shake your head.

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

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

Nowhere else to go.

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

You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”

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

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

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

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

She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.

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

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

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

“Caring?” she offers.

You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Your entire spine locks.

“What was that?”

McKay straightens, already grinning.

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

“But—you just—”

She laughs under her breath, already backing away.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes snap up. “You.”

Her brows lift. “Me?”

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

She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.

You glare at Santos. “Neither.”

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

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

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

“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”

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

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

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

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

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

Hovering?

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

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters.

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

“I threw it,” you blurt.

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

Right.

Charting.

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

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

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

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

“Back to charting?” Princess asks.

You nod. “The never-ending task.”

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

“You seem off today,” she says.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

“And red,” she adds before turning away.

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

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

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

Abbot.

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

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

Your stomach drops.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

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

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

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

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

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

Then she shakes her head and walks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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