Fanfic recs ♥

“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.

And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You don’t even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.

For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.

You blink. Take another sip. Look up — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.

“Long time no see,” Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. “Tough shift?”

Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.

“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.

You left him first. You thought he’d hate you.

Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:

“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”

His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.

“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”

He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:

“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”

He’s being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”

He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two —

But you aren’t really alone.

You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.

He clears his throat, taking a step back. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.

Javadi can barely wait for him to leave — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”

“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.

“He flirted with you just now.”

“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”

Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”

“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.

“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”

“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”

Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.

“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.

Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.

“Can you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.”

“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”

“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”

“You can’t afford cocaine.”

“I’ll sell a kidney.”

“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”

“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”

The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”

“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”

“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.

“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”

“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”

“Okay, there’s this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or —”

“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.

“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”

“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”

“No, the whole... Talking thing.”

With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.

“I mean, isn’t that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.”

“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”

Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”

“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”

“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”

“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”

She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”

“Will do, mom.”

She flips you off on her way out.

Whatever little caffeine’s been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patient’s file.

He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.

“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”

You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”

One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”

“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”

“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”

Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.

“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.

Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”

“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”

He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.

Unlike the previous one.

You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re actually okay with him being closed off.

The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.

At first, there were no signs of trouble.

You picked the night shift for your rotation because you’ve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t allow your feelings to interrupt your job.

Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.

It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —

— “girl”, you wanted Jack to add.

So good for him, you wanted him to think.

You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.

It didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.

It could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.

Even after you’ve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didn’t even try to get your number.

Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.

So you looked for a way out that’d let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering — knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.

And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.

Even if deep down, you still missed him.

His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.

It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.

Hey, so that app that’s totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.

Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.

There’s no way you have a Bible at home.

Well, another option is a blood oath.

I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.

Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!

Please, get fucked (literally 😛).

You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.

The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:

A Helping Hand.

“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.

It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”

You’re positive that it won’t work on you.

You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).

You press play.

At first, there’s just silence.

And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:

“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”

You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.

You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.

“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”

Yeah, you don’t want that either.

His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.

“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”

So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.

You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: he’s telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.

Then he’s instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.

“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

Your thoughts are light; there’s nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.

You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel —

“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”

Your eyelids flutter open.

You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —

you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.

All that from someone talking to you nicely?

There must be something in his voice.

That same voice whispers:

“Touch yourself.”

Barely a second passes before you do.

This isn’t your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:

“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”

“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”

“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.

He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.

“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.

If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.

“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”

You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:

“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”

Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that you’re doing so good.

When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.

When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.

“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock —”

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.

You’re gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.

The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.

You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.

Before you know it, you are fast asleep.

What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.

There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good he’d fuck you.

But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.

It can’t be him, of course.

You wish it was.

You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.

So, since you’re able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.

You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMC’s physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.

You don’t see Jack. He’s still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.

It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.

And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.

“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.

“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”

“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”

“Didn’t count on it.”

He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”

And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.

He doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.

The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.

“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”

“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”

“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”

“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”

“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t working.

And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.

He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:

“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You aren’t even sure they heard.

But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.

It isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.

You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.

“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”

“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.

Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.

It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.

But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.

You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.

“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.

You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.

But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.

You put the headphones on, fully aware that you’re about to hear Jack.

It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.

Because it’s not some random guy — it’s Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he could’ve made you gag around his cock.

“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”

You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.

“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”

His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.

“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.”

And he is right, you would be.

“Like you were made for it. For me.”

You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.

And you two really need to talk.

You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you don’t let her say a word.

“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?”

“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.

“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”

“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”

“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”

“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”

“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”

“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”

“O-ooh.”

“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”

“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”

“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”

“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”

“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”

That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?

“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”

“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”

“It is pretty cool.”

“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”

The surgery takes four hours.

It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.

“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.

Still, you take it.

“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”

And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —

“Abbot was right about you.”

That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.

You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:

“Care to explain?”

“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”

“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”

“Yes. About the letter.”

“About me, you mean.”

“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”

“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.

Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.

“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”

He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.

And under other circumstances, you would’ve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!

Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jack’s weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.

And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!

You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.

You don’t go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesn’t really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.

You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.

“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”

“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”

“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”

“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.

“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”

“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.

Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Abbot?”

“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”

“You may be a witness.”

“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”

You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.

You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didn’t.

It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.

You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.

The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.

The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice —

You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.

“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”

“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”

But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”

And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.

It all comes to your mind at once — the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.

“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!”

“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”

“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”

Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:

“Wait, what?”

“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.

Still, he isn’t moving.

“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”

The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.

You stare at each other.

And then you think: he is about to tell you you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —

Jack breathes out a laugh.

He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.

“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”

The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.

You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.

But in reality, he’s lethal.

When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.

“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.

“W-what?”

“My place or yours?”

You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”

Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.

“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.

You let him.

You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.

“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.

“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”

“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”

He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.

“How about I do the talking,” his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man you’ve kissed before him.

You can only crave more.

Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.

He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”

“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”

Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.

All of a sudden, your legs bump into something — and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.

The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.

You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.

You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.

Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.

“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.

And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

You do not need to ask him twice.

Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.

His lips trap you in place — while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage —

then Jack sucks in a breath.

His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:

“No bra?”

“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” you explain bashfully.

That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.

“And how’d you like this?” he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.

You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —

But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.

He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.

“Show me how you do it.”

“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”

“Touch yourself for me,” he orders.

Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.

Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time — until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.

Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”

You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you can’t help but moan.

You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.

“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”

You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit — and then one slips inside.

Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”

He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere — Jack’s warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.

“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”

You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.

“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.

“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”

But just as you’re about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.

His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.

He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.

“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.

Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.

Before you even realize you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.

“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”

This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.

Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:

“Eyes on me.”

And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, you’re blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.

Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him you’re yet to satisfy.

Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.

It’s hot, it’s messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Wanna get a proper taste,” he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.

But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.

“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”

He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.

“Someone’s very eager,” he notes with a chuckle.

And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.

“Makes two of us,” you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.

His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.

You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.

Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:

“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.” 

“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.

Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.

“This okay?”

Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.

Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”

Remove it, is what he wants to say.

For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.

But this has always been exactly what you wanted.

“I couldn’t care less,” you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.

Then you look down, and your breath hitches.

He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:

“We both know I don’t need that.”

You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance —

And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.

“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.

He knows you’re trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.

And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.

“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”

Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.

“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.

It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.

You gasp. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until you’ve bottomed out.

Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.

“You are— s’big, so-o —”

“Breathe for me,” Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”

You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.

The pause lasts for barely three seconds.

Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.

“There she is.”

He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.

“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”

His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:

“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”

You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.

“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”

“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.

“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”

A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:

“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”

His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.

Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesn’t slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.

“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”

He surely is.

Your whole body tenses.

You are so close.

And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:

“Let go, baby. I got you.”

The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.

The room is still.

You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:

“You good?”

You nod first. Then open your mouth:

“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.

Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he won’t catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.

Like he is limping.

Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.

You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. “Come here.”

Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.

“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”

Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s tense all over.

You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s got no one to take care of him.

You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.

“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.

“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.

Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesis’s socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.

He lets you.

Silence fills up the space between you two, and you don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.

So you remove your hands —

Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:

“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”

“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”

He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”

“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”

Jack’s smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.

But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.

“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.

“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”

His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.

After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”

“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”

His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”

You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”

“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”

“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.

He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”

“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”

“You can move in here.”

Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesn’t mean it.

“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”

Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”

“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”

“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”

“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”

“I won’t regret it.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”

“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or —”

Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him — now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:

“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”

The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.

“Okay,” you manage quietly.

And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.

You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.

“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”

“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.

“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”

You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:

no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.

Jo and Cillian had truly outdone themselves.

The Ritz-Carlton was a masterpiece of teakwood and volcanic stone nestled along the Wailea coast, and the view was absolutely breathtaking. Massive sliding glass doors revealed everything, from the Pacific stretching out like a deep blue silk shroud in the distance, to an endless line of palm trees swaying in the breeze.

It was an enviable location for anyone wishing for a dream wedding, and if this was your room, you couldn't help but wonder what the newlyweds' suite looked like. High, plush beds with comforters as soft and white as cotton, blue and earth toned accent pillows resting against fluffy inviting pillows, and a delicious clean scent permeating every corner. Opposite the bed sat a delicate console topped with a large TV, and next to it, a small sofa just as pristine white as everything else.

You smiled to yourself and kicked off your shoes; a welcome relief after a ten hour flight. Your lower back ached slightly, the back of your neck was slick with sweat, and a faint headache was beginning to brew. But you were in Maui. Finally.

It was the first time you had left Austin in a very, very long time. God knew you needed it; after so many years cooped up within the same few miles, any escape offered to you was welcome. Besides, you could consider this a reward.

When Jo and Cillian first sent the invitation, you thought they were out of their minds. There was absolutely no way you had the time or the money to jet off for an entire weekend wedding. You were buried under work and had recently taken out a loan just to keep your workshop afloat, so you didn't RSVP right away. You figured the best you could do was send a lovely gift to their address. Perhaps one of those custom armchairs you crafted, the one Jo had loved so much. No, two of them. One for her, and one for him.

Fast forward a few months, and you already had the plane tickets in hand. Business had started doing much, much better, and you had finally gotten your head above water, so you could actually afford a weekend away. Plus, the room was already paid for; how could you possibly say no to that?

You walked toward the sliding glass doors, your bare feet relaxing into the floor as the scenery unveiled itself behind the glass. The wind seemed to be blowing hard, and when you slid the door open, the rush of warm humid air brushed against your neck and cheeks.

The scent of plumeria blossoms was intense, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the black rocks made you smile. You stepped out onto the balcony, feeling the sun warmed wood beneath your feet, and pulled out your phone. It only rang for a few seconds.

"Hey, Dean… Yeah, I just walked into the room," you said, leaning against the railing and closing your eyes to block out the sheer vastness of the paradise in front of you. “It’s unreal, honestly. Jo and Cillian picked the best place on earth… I miss you too. A lot.”

You sighed, catching your breath. Dean’s voice was a bit muffled on the other end.

"Sorry… I can’t hear you very well," you said, pacing from one side of the balcony to the other. Dean asked something. “I think the signal’s terrible out here. Can you hear me?”

You pressed your other hand over your free ear, as if that would actually help. Obviously, it didn't, so you clicked your tongue and frowned.

"I think I’ll call you back in a moment, yeah?" you said, raising your voice for some reason as if that would do the trick. It didn't. "I’ll text you now. I love you."

You pulled the phone away from your face and glanced at the screen. Shit. Okay, no big deal. You’d just send him a text.

Signal is bad here, I'll call you in a bit :) <3

"You gotta head down there, closer to the palm trees, off to the right. Stand right about there, and the boy'll hear you a whole lot better."

The voice came out of nowhere, drifting over from the nearest edge of the balcony. To your right, just on the other side of the dividing wooden partition, was a voice you knew better than your own.

Your heart gave a violent shudder, but you forced yourself not to jump. You turned your head by fractions; the movement felt absurdly careful. None of this was funny.

Joel.

Joel was standing right there, leaning against the railing and peering just slightly around the edge of the wall. He held a glass of water in one hand and his phone in the other.

He turned toward you, his mouth curving into a relaxed smile. He looked exactly the same, yet so, so different. The sun had etched fresh lines around his eyes, and his beard carried more gray than you remembered. His features seemed softened somehow, though they were still just as rugged.

"Joel," you said, your tone far too polite. "I… I had no idea you were staying next door."

“Guess that’s just bad luck,” he replied, a half smile brushing his lips without ever reaching his eyes. "How you been?"

You bit your tongue and your jaw tightened. “Really good. You?”

Really good. Great. Thriving. The best you had been in years. Your business was doing well, you looked good (maybe the best you had ever looked in your life) and every single night you went home to a man who respected you and loved you, but above all, a man who was actually there. Dean.

"Doin' alright myself," he answered, shifting his gaze out toward the horizon, watching the blue ocean and the palm fronds swaying back and forth.

The hair on his forehead drifted with the breeze, and he squinted slightly against the sun. A fine sheen of sweat coated his brow, and the tips of his ears were flushed pink.

Two years. Two whole years had passed since you last laid eyes on him. You had sworn to yourself that it would be the final time, and you had kept that promise. That morning, you slipped out of his bed while he was still fast asleep, leaving absolutely no trace behind. It was the hard stop to a cycle that had once seemed endless.

But that was just how you and Joel were; it was how you had always been. Ever since you crossed paths by pure chance at a bar fifteen years ago. Your eyes had locked with his, he was the one to approach you first, and you spent the entire night tangled up in each other, talking about everything and everyone until the sun came up and he had to head off to work without a single wink of sleep.

Two years of dating, ten years of marriage, and one year of seeing each other off and on post-divorce. Walking away from him had been agonizing; after signing the papers, you ended up in his bed more than once, and he was in yours far more often than you cared to admit. Until that one morning you finally walked out; you left a brief note on his kitchen counter telling him that enough was enough, that you needed to leave this behind, and then you blocked his number and left for good.

Two years had passed since that day. You hadn't seen him since.

You offered a faint smile and nodded, dropping your gaze to the planter beside the window.

"Alright. Uh, see you around," you said, not even waiting to see if he would answer. You immediately stepped back inside the room and slid the glass door shut.

Through the glass, you watched as his hand disappeared from the balcony railing.

Your feet sank into the sand and tiny grains scattered with every step you took.

You had to do something, and fast. Talk to Jo, beg her to swap your room with someone else or pay out of pocket for a completely different one if you had to. You needed to act.

Ever since you ran into Joel two hours ago, your heart had been pounding harder than usual. Tachycardia, maybe; as if he were a massive, undiluted cup of black coffee, far too strong, messing with your anxiety and sending your blood racing through your veins.

You hadn't even called Dean back. There was no earthly way you could speak to him without the emotions tearing through you right now bleeding into the tone of your voice. He would know instantly that something was up, that you were hiding something. And the second you told him it was about Joel, that he was right here, separated by nothing more than a single wall, you knew he would catch the very first flight out to Maui. Because Dean knew everything, or at least almost everything. He knew it had been a brutal divorce, not because you had fought constantly through it, but because it had been so damn painful, like ripping a fingernail straight from the skin. The wound still throbbed.

Right in front of you, the ocean spread out pure and beautiful. The waves crashed against the shore, melting at your feet and soaking you up to your ankles. The hem of your skirt fluttered in the breeze; delicate sheer crimson fabric that draped down to your calves. And the sun blazed with the exact same brightness as your top, a cropped form fitting canary yellow.

You knew it was possible he would be here. You knew Jo and Cillian might invite him. Jo had actually given you a heads up a few months before the invitations went out.

Joel might go, are you comfortable with that?

Of course, absolutely. It's your wedding, I'd hate for you to feel bad about inviting someone just on my account. Just do it, seriously, no drama.

And now he was here, though you had at least held onto the hope that you could avoid each other a bit more. To not run into him at the ceremony, or during the dinner; to stay far enough apart that this could pass without any aftermath. What kind of aftermath, exactly? You weren't worried about arguing with him, nor were you worried about the conversation turning awkward and filled with cruel jabs. That wasn't how you and he operated; it never had been. You were worried about other things, things that were far beyond what you could handle right now.

Suddenly, a woman's voice called your name from a distance.

"Hey, hey!"

You turned around instantly, recognizing it right away and letting the pure excitement wash away every single one of your anxious thoughts.

"Hey!" You started running toward her with your arms wide open, and in your head, cheesy music started playing, like the entire world slipped into a cinematic, frame by frame cadence like those funny montages of people reuniting after a lifetime apart.

Kathani was running toward you with that exact same energy; her hair billowed in soft brown waves, dancing across her shoulders just like her light blue dress. She looked like a fairy.

"Kat!"

Your arms wrapped around her in a breathless embrace. Long months had flown by since you last saw each other, maybe even a whole year.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," she said against your shoulder, squeezing you even tighter. "You look so so beautiful, from a distance I honestly thought I spotted an angel!"

"Oh, stop!" You gave her a playful little shake, stepping back a bit to get a better look at her. "What are you talking about? You look absolutely gorgeous."

"We both look gorgeous."

You laughed. "I'll take that."

She offered a warm smile and rested her hands on your shoulders.

"Jesus, how are you? Last month I almost made it out to Austin, but work got in the way and I couldn't go. How is everything back home?" Suddenly, her eyebrows shot up. "Hey, Jo told me Joel might be coming—"

Your eyes went wide as saucers. "Kat, you gotta help me. His room is right next to mine."

"What?"

You nodded quickly. "I swear, please, you have to help me."

"But how? What happened? Like, right next door?"

"Yes. Right next door," you shrugged helplessly. "The second I arrived, I went out onto the balcony to call Dean, and there he was on the balcony right next to mine, which is basically attached. He must have heard the whole conversation!"

Kat smirked. "Oh my God, I bet he absolutely wanted to crawl into a hole and die!"

"Kathani!"

"What?" She shrugged. "You know it’s true. The only reason he even showed up is probably to see you. Since when does Joel take trips like this?"

"I don't know, it's been a while. Maybe he does now."

"Right, now," she rolled her eyes. She let out a breath and studied you for a quiet moment. "I'm sorry. How are you holding up? How do you feel about it?"

How did you feel about it? How did you feel about it… how did you feel about it.

Conflicted.

"I'm fine," you said, turning your gaze back toward the ocean. "I mean… I'll manage." You looked back at her, giving a firm nod. "I'm in Maui. Look at this view, it's gorgeous."

"It really is."

"I don't want Joel overshadowing this."

"Hey," Kat gently touched your arm to catch your eye. "Take a breath. I don't think he's going to try and cross any lines, not after how things ended. And if he does get in your space, I'll get rid of him for you."

You laughed. "Easy there. I just need to pay him no mind and that's it. We'll be spending most of our time out of our rooms anyway."

The sky was a striking blend of pinks and oranges when you made your way down to the beach for dinner. It was paradise; a long, long table was set up right in the center of the open air restaurant, draped in a crisp white tablecloth and adorned with centerpieces crafted from local flora. Servers drifted around, putting the final touches on everything for the rehearsal dinner.

You had headed down early to grab a drink.

Switching rooms was out of the question. Earlier, during the welcome cocktails, you had pulled Jo aside to ask if a swap was possible.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Why? Is there something wrong with yours?"

A bit flustered, you told her, "It’s right next door to Joel's."

Jo frowned and shook her head. "No way. I specifically told Nora to put you two far apart."

Nora, one of the planners.

Well, long story short: it was a total communication breakdown. Apparently, the phrases they can't be next to each other and they have to be next to each other sound way too similar, or maybe it was bad phone reception, or ambient noise, or who even knows. Nora had purposely booked you in adjoining rooms. And when you saw the look on her face when Jo brought it up (a look of pure wedding-induced panic and stress) you simply threw in the towel.

"It's fine, don't worry about it. I don't want to cause any trouble, it's your wedding."

And it was. You weren't about to demand a new hotel room just because your ex husband happened to be on the other side of the wall. Jo was already stressed enough without having to fix your mess, which, to be completely fair, wasn't even that catastrophic.

Fortunately, Joel had kept his distance during cocktails. He stayed on the periphery, had a drink or two, and then you watched him head out before the mixer even wrapped up.

Now, you were sipping your drink, settled at the bar while smooth music filled your ears and the distant sound of the tides eased your mind.

Bing. Your phone lit up.

[Kat]: emergency meet me in the lobby NOW

[Kat]: hurry before dinner starts I have to tell you something

You frowned and instantly slid off your barstool, taking care not to let your dress tangle around your legs. It was brand new, a light blue shade that perfectly matched the dinner dress code. You had been paying close attention to details like that. You even wore a white flower tucked into your hair right above your ear.

With your drink in hand, sipping from the straw, you walked over to the lobby, and the moment the automatic doors slid open, you spotted Kat standing near the reception desk. Her eyebrows shot up the second she caught sight of you, and she approached with long hurried strides.

She grabbed your arm and pulled you off to the side. You nearly spilled some of your drink but kept the straw securely between your lips.

You knit your brows and took a sip. "Mh—hey, what's goin' on?"

Kat let out a breath. "Have you seen Joel?"

"What? No, why?"

She pressed her lips together tightly and gave a firm nod. "He didn't come alone."

"What?"

"Joel. He didn't come by himself. I just saw him go up the elevator with a woman, and she kissed him."

Your heart did a strange jerky twist that. For some reason, it actually stung.

You swallowed hard, and your eyelids suddenly felt heavy.

"But he was completely by himself during the cocktails."

"I think she arrived later."

Caught completely off guard, you took a step back.

Okay.

What could you even say? Nothing. It wasn't as if you were supposed to feel bad about it anyway; you yourself had been in a wonderful new relationship for several months now. Did you even have a single right to feel even slightly slighted just because he had a girl—

Jesus.

You knit your brows. "Are you absolutely sure it was him?"

"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms. "He didn't spot me, but I definitely saw him. They got out of a car at the entrance and then headed straight for the elevator. She had a suitcase."

"But Jo would have told me. If Joel was bringing a plus one, Jo would have let me know."

"What if it slipped her mind? Or what if she deliberately avoided mentioning it for some reason?"

"Why… why would she do something like that?"

Kat raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips slightly, right on the verge of saying something.

Before she could get a single word out, you cut her off.

"It's fine. I have a plus one too, it's just that Dean couldn't make it," you shrugged. "Joel has every right to bring someone."

"Yeah, but he's staying in the room right next to yours."

Oh. Great. Thank you, Kat.

"You're not being very helpful," you said, crossing your arms.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, tilting her head back slightly. "Look, come sleep in my room tonight, okay?"

"Jesus, Kat," you said, shaking your head, "I think… I think you're blowing this way out of proportion. Joel and I… we're divorced, alright? I have a new life. I don't care if he's with someone else, or if he's right next to my room. I freaked out earlier but," you laughed, "it's no big deal, seriously. I can handle it."

Kat nodded, though you knew it was highly unlikely she believed a single word coming out of your mouth. She knew you entirely too well; she had been right there during that first year after the divorce, watching you go back to Joel again and again, returning and leaving, back and forth. And she had been there when you walked out for good, too; she had comforted you more times than you could count.

"It’s been two years," you made clear. "I’ve moved on, and clearly, so has he."

"Clearly?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "What’s with that tone?"

You scoffed. "Nothing. I know exactly what you’re thinking, okay? But it’s over. Joel is in the past. I have Dean now."

"Okay, I know. But just think about it," she said. "About my room tonigh. My door is always open."

Going for your third glass of wine in less than an hour was definitely not a good sign. But she was loud; her voice was too high pitched and bubbly, and she wouldn't stop chiming in with remarks about every single thing anyone else said. Tiny comments, kind comments, but incredibly grating comments because they simply hammered away at your brain.

She was the polar opposite of you, and for some reason, that left you with a twisted feeling in your chest.

She was twenty five years old. You had never envisioned Joel as the type of guy who would date someone so young, someone so different. You couldn't wrap your head around how that even functioned; had he suddenly changed, turning into someone who now enjoyed things he never used to? Had he transformed into one of those divorced guys in their forties who date girls in their twenties just to feel young and revitalized? He used to make fun of those type of men.

He didn't seem like the man you knew; now he was quiet, chuckling every now and then, bringing his glass to his lips every time she told him "not to be silly" while tapping his shoulder and tilting her head.

But then again, he wasn't the man you knew. Because you didn't know him anymore. People change a lot in two years, and he certainly wasn't your Joel anymore. He had stopped being that a very long time ago.

The only saving grace was that they were seated all the way at the opposite end of the table. You could easily get out of interacting with them, or even looking their way, and that was exactly what you did for the most part.

What was the point of wasting your time on that stuff when one of your closest friends was about to get married? None at all.

So you ate and drank and caught up with your friends, actually having a wonderful time despite your miserable luck. And as the alcohol began to make you feel more loose and upbeat, you couldn't stop laughing at every single story everyone shared. Anecdotes from when she was little, a teenager, and even after heading off to college or starting to date Cillian. Some of them you remembered vividly, because you had been right there.

And the entire time, every now and then, you could feel it. His gaze, locked right onto your profile, burning your skin in a shameless way. You did everything in your power not to look over, to give no hint that you knew exactly what he was doing, and you succeeded through the whole dinner—until Jo's sister launched into that anecdote about the time Jo got locked out of the house and they tried to scramble in through the bathroom window.

While trying to squeeze through, her shorts caught on the window frame, and Jo tumbled to the floor completely bare from the waist down. Her shorts and underwear were left dangling from the window.

Oh Jesus, you remembered it so vividly. It had been so fun. She had come down to open the front door with a towel wrapped around her hips and her eyes were streaming with tears from laughing so hard. And when you went upstairs and saw her poor, sad little torn panties hanging from the frame, you burst out laughing just like you were doing right now.

A wave of pure amusement swept through you, and you threw your head back, covering your mouth as a tiny snort escaped your throat. And then, completely on instinct, your eyes sought him out.

He was watching you, of course, but his lips held a still quiet smile. You suddenly remembered those old days when he would deliberately make you laugh until your stomach ached and you made those funny noises. You used to hate it, you always had, but he would tell you they were sweet and nice, and how much he loved hearing them. You had never understood it. Now, he just smiled in silence, eight seats away from you.

You smoothed over your tight flushed cheeks and dropped your gaze as you picked up your wine glass. You just had to wait a little longer for dinner to wrap up and for the small party to migrate to the other side of the room.

You were doing just fine, weren't you?

A few seconds later, you looked back at him. He wasn't watching you anymore; his eyes were fixed on his wine glass, which he held by the stem with his fingers, tracing the clear glass with his thumb. Then, he let out a long, heavy breath through his nose and brought the glass to his lips, emptying the entire contents in a single swallow.

"We’re getting married tomorrow!"

Jo’s shout was so full of pure joy and laughter as Cillian spun her around the dance floor that your heart truly felt like it expanded and a wave of warmth washed over you.

You watched them from the bar and lifted your phone to snap a photo. Several, actually. You had no idea how many shots you had taken by now.

At some point during the night, just a few minutes ago, Joel and his girlfriend (Jen, according to a whisper from Kat half an hour earlier) had headed out. And because of that, you felt so much lighter and more comfortable in the space.

It was for the best, this whole keeping your distance thing. And honestly, the fact that Joel had brought someone was probably for the best too, since it prevented the two of you from drifting toward each other in any way. Come to think of it, what a shame Dean hadn't come along. Everything would have been so much easier to handle with him here. I mean, you had invited him, and he asked if you were sure. And I mean, at first, you weren't so sure. I mean, what were you even saying? How many drinks had you even had by now?

Dean. Dean, you needed to call him.

Shit, your feet were killing you. So you kicked off your heels as you walked toward the steps leading down to the shore. Leaning against the railing for balance, you unbuckled the delicate straps from around your ankles, dangling the shoes from your fingers a few seconds later as you descended bare footed. You dropped them somewhere there.

Oh, good heavens. The sand felt incredible beneath your bare skin.

You tilted your head back, letting out a deeply relaxed sigh. In front of you, very very far away, the ocean shifted beneath the moonlight, looking exactly like a painting. The sky was completely clear, with a massive perfectly round moon hanging at the absolute peak of the heavens.

Your cheeks were warm and your neck was flushed, but the gentle breeze brushing against your skin cooled your arms, your legs, and your bare back as you strolled toward the water. It was refreshing. The further you wandered, the more the noise of the party faded away, giving your mind a little more room to breathe and your thoughts space to wander.

You really should take advantage of this and call Dean now. But it was probably late. He was bound to be asleep by now; it had to be the middle of the night back home. No, it definitely was. You had checked.

Shit. You left your purse up there.

You turned around to look back at the celebration in the distance and a smile tugged at your lips.

From afar, everything looked so beautiful. The sky was pitch black, but the place looked like a glowing jewelry box filled with tiny people moving in every direction; jumping and laughing, their voices reaching you as soft overlapping sounds, like tiny ant voices.

Jo and Cillian looked so blissfully happy. They were dancing right in the center of the floor, and though you could barely make them out through the crowd, you could still spot them instantly. He had his hands around her waist, holding her close as they moved together. They were so deeply in love, so radiant. You remembered that exact feeling vividly, as if it had been yesterday.

No, it had been thirteen years ago, at a lovely little venue back in Texas. It hadn't been anywhere near as fancy as this, but it had its own unique charm. You remembered the flowers everywhere, the tablecloths as bright as white light, the napkins monogrammed with your initials. You actually still had one tucked away in a small pale pink box. You still held onto so many of those trinkets; entirely too many of them, which you honestly should just throw out. Why keep holding onto them?

You were young when you married Joel. He was young, too. Just two twenty somethings full of goals and dreams.

You were barely twenty one when you first met him, and from that very first moment, you knew it was something special. Something forever, you thought. And two years later, he asked you to marry him. It was a bit of a chaotic mess that ended up turning into something incredibly sweet and beautiful.

It was a rainy night. Joel had taken you out to dinner and scored movie tickets. About Time had just hit theaters and he knew you were dying to see it because you had watched the trailer on Youtube. So you had dinner and then you headed to the cinema. Of course, he hadn't anticipated the ending leaving you so sad, and he had to comfort you in the dark of the theater while you tried to get your sobbing under control. And by the time you walked out, the downpour had gotten even worse.

Huge puddles flooded the streets, and as you walked to the car, you slipped and landed right on your ass. Your clothes were caked in mud, which splashed all over Joel, and a few seconds later when he tried to pull you up, he went down himself. It was so fun; the two of you couldn't stop laughing. Every time you tried to stand up, you just kept sliding around, your outfit ruined and his right along with it. And by the time you finally made it inside the car, you were both an absolute disaster.

You knew that hadn't been his original plan, or at least, you found out later. Joel had set up a beautiful arrangement on his apartment balcony, but the rain completely ruined his plans. And when you finally got back to his place, you looked at him; soaked, dirty, covered in mud, with his hair a mess and his clothes completely unraveled, and you just kissed him.

"We're a mess," you murmured against his teeth as he guided you inside the apartment.

He laughed, and that was when you noticed it; he was incredibly nervous. The way he looked at you was different, and for a second, he almost looked physically ill.

And then, he went for it. He slid his hand into his pocket, and before pulling it back out, he confessed his love to you all over again. He dropped down on one knee.

You had never been happier in your entire life than you were right there, in that tiny apartment, with just the two of you.

Three years later, Joel bought you another ring. According to him, the first one wasn't good enough. You disagreed; you absolutely adored your ring. He had worked so hard to afford it, and it meant the world to you. But he insisted on giving you a new one, something much larger. He was doing well at work by then. So he put together another dinner, one completely uninterrupted by rain, and presented it to you on a perfectly clear night.

But time moves fast, and many years later, those are nothing more than memories.

Maybe you should go for a walk to clear your head.

You let out a breath and turned around to head in the opposite direction—

A sharp gasp caught in your chest, and you froze in your tracks. Your hands immediately flew to your chest.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, holding up a hand. "Didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry."

You knit your brows, still feeling your heart hammering away.

Joel stood right in front of you, with a worried look on his face. His brows were slightly drawn, his eyes glistened, and his hair drifted in the sea breeze. He wore a white, long sleeved button-down with a few of the top buttons undone, revealing a hint of sun flushed skin at his chest. His cream colored dress pants billowed slightly in the wind.

"I thought you left," you said.

He shook his head. "No. Jen wasn't feelin' well. Just walked her back to the room."

You felt a faint throbbing behind your brows. "Is she alright?"

"Got a headache, is all."

"Oh."

It only took a split second for your eyes to lock onto his, freezing you both in place.

He swallowed hard.

"I didn't know our rooms were gonna be right next to each other," he said.

You paused for a beat.

"Neither did I."

He gave a slight, quiet nod, a heavy, downcast look lingering in his eyes.

"I can ask for a different room tomorrow morning, if you'd like."

You offered a faint smile, though your eyelids felt incredibly heavy.

"Yeah, okay," you said, taking two steps forward and brushing right past him. "Thank you."

As you moved away, Joel tracked you with his gaze. You turned as you passed him, keeping your path along the shoreline in an escape attempt that felt frustratingly drawn out. You could feel his eyes burning into the back of your neck.

"I'm sorry." His voice carried clearly through the moonlight behind you.

You stopped instantly, completely unable to help yourself, and pivoted on the sand to face him.

"I shouldn't have brought her here." He took a step forward.

You gave a single shake of your head. "Joel, it’s fine."

"No, it ain't."

"It really is."

"I can tell it ain't," his brow furrowed.

"Then why did you bring her?"

"I don't know. Seemed like a good idea right up until I got here and saw you."

You huffed a breath. "Is it my fault now?"

"No, no," he rushed to shake his head. "That ain't what I meant at all."

You closed your eyes and ran a hand down your neck. Frustration bathed you as you felt the heavy weight of the alcohol in your veins.

"Joel, just… don't. Please don't," you said, taking two steps back. "It’s fine, it is. You’re with someone else, and so am I. We don't need to be having this kind of conversation, not right now."

It looked as though he was right on the verge of saying something. He parted his lips for a moment, but snapped them shut a second later. He stayed perfectly still, holding you captive under his gaze, because you couldn't bring yourself to do anything but stand there and look right back at him.

"We haven't seen each other in two whole years," he said then, like a tired accusation.

"Joel…"

"You left me a damn post it note."

Your mouth fell open, your chest beginning to rise and fall more rapidly as your breathing turned sudden and shallow. He seemed more worked up now, too.

You couldn't do this.

On pure instinct, you spun around and practically fled. You walked as fast as your feet could push through the sand, breaking away from him.

Behind you, you heard his voice calling out your name, getting closer and closer with every passing second. You only made it a few yards.

He caught you by the arm, and your name spilled from his lips like a breathless sound.

You wrenched yourself free from his grip, spinning around.

"Please, don't do this," you pleaded in a whisper, locking eyes with him. "What'd you want me to do? Just stay there? Watch us keep running in the same damn circles?"

Joel stepped back, taken aback, but his gaze never wavered. His jaw tightened, the wind blowing a stray lock of hair across his forehead.

"Could've said goodbye," he said. "Face to face. We deserved more than a goddamn note left on the table after everythin’ we were"

Your heart squeezed tight.

"You and I could never just say goodbye, Joel. We tried a hundred times. You know exactly how it ended every single time."

Joel closed his eyes for a beat, and you knew the blow had landed right where it hurt.

The silence that followed was absolute. And when he looked back at you, the vulnerability in his glistening eyes made your chest ache.

"If it was that hard..." he started, "then why'd we have to say goodbye in the first place?"

Your lower lip trembled. "Joel... don't."

Your vision blurred completely as tears flooded your eyes, spilling over before you could do anything to stop them.

It was cruel of him to ask you that now. Not when you’d spent two whole years trying to convince yourself you’d made the right choice.

You’re with Dean, you reminded yourself urgently. Dean is at home. You’re happy with him. And you couldn’t forget that Joel had moved on too; his girlfriend was upstairs at the hotel.

Joel fell quiet. He shook his head again and again, like he was trying to rid himself of a thought he couldn’t outrun. His gaze dropped to the sand, fixing on some distant spot before he spoke.

"These past few months, I’ve been lookin’ for a house…" he admitted softly. "Lease on my apartment’s almost up, and I figured maybe it was time for a real home. And every place I walk into, I catch myself lookin’ for big windows, a wide backyard, and some corner with enough light to work without havin' to turn the lamps on in the afternoon."

Then, he looked up, locking those glistening eyes straight onto yours.

"I could buy it," he said quietly. "I make enough now to get a real nice house. But what the hell’s the point of all that money if you ain’t in it? Tell me somethin’… why is your voice still in my head every time I make a decision?"

It took you several seconds just to draw breath.

You swallowed hard, absorbing the bruising impact of his words. You had to forcefully suffocate your own thoughts, the ones screaming that you were completely consumed by him, too. That sometimes, when you were in your shop holding a piece of sandpaper, his voice would appear out of nowhere, reminding you to always go with the grain so you wouldn't ruin the finish. Or that every time your car engine made a strange noise, you’d remember his advice to check the hoses before panicking. His ghost was everywhere.

But you couldn't tell him that. So instead, you said;

"Your girlfriend is upstairs."

You spun around abruptly and took off at a brisk pace, nearly breaking into a run in a desperate attempt to get away. The ocean breeze whipped against your face, but it did nothing to cool your burning cheeks.

Glancing back, you saw him: Joel was gaining on you with long strides, his white shirt billowing in the wind. Tears escaped without control, blurring everything in sight.

You whipped around to face him the moment you felt him too close.

Joel stopped short. His face was twisted with ache, and he stood completely still and quiet for a few seconds. His eyes shone brighter now, welling up with a thin glaze of tears that grew thicker by the second.

"What are we doin'?" he asked then, cracking completely. He stepped a fraction closer, repeating with desperation, "What are we doin'? It was supposed to be us!"

You swallowed hard, feeling a physical pain right in the center of your chest, as if Joel’s words had cut straight through your skin.

You looked at him through the tears that refused to stop falling.

"A lot of things happened, Joel. Did you forget that already?"

He stared at you in silence.

"I needed you!" You confessed.

"You pushed me away, every damn time," he countered.

"I was grieving," you shot back. "I know it was hard sometimes, but I was grieving."

"I was grieving too," Joel snapped. He took a step toward you, desperate to make you hear him. "That was my baby too. And every time I tried to get close to you, you... you just pushed me back, pushed me away like you couldn't stand the sight of me. Like you didn't want me there."

"Of course I wanted you there! You were my husband," you cried out, letting out a shaky, nearly choked breath. You paused, looking at him with all the frustration you’d kept locked away for years. "But where were you? You spent more time out there than you ever did at home."

Joel ran a hand over his face, completely spent, and let out a trembling sigh.

"I was scared," he confessed. "There’d never been anythin’ we couldn’t fix together before. But this... this was bigger than us. Every time I walked through that front door, I felt like I'd failed you. Like I couldn't protect the one thing we wanted most. I was terrified of sayin' the wrong thing, terrified of makin' it worse. And it felt like makin' it worse was the only damn thing I knew how to do."

"So you left," you shot back, pointing at him. "You just kept leaving. You weren’t there." Your voice trembled harder with every word. "You thought no matter how many times you walked away, I’d still be there waiting for you, and that’s not how this works." Your eyes burned as fresh tears spilled over. "I was scared too."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said, taking a step forward. "Not a day goes by where I don't think about what I could've done to stop it, to protect us—"

"How could you have stopped it? It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't mine," you whispered. "All those years..." You shook your head. "All those years I felt like a failure for not bein' able to—I tortured myself thinkin' it was only a matter of time before you got tired of me and walked away. And then when it finally..." You shook your head again, refusing to let the memory surface. "The only thing I needed was for you to be there."

"How could I ever get tired of you?" he asked with painful disbelief. He gave a quiet shake of his head. "I told you a hundred times. You were my family. Anything else, we could've gotten through it together. I married you 'cause I wanted you, just you. Kids or no kids, I wanted you."

You stared at him in absolute silence. His words cut right through you, leaving a burning ache in your chest, yet at the same time, they felt like a warm, long overdue embrace around your heart.

Why didn't he say all this back then? Why did he have to wait all this time to lay it all out, right in the dead of night, in the middle of all this?

You froze, the weight of the years crashing down on you, and gave a shake of your head.

Taking a step back into the cool sand, you whispered, "It doesn't matter now."

"It does t—"

"No, it doesn't," you cut him off, your voice hardening. "It's too late. I'm with someone else, and you are too."

"I don't love her."

"Joel."

"What, you wanna pretend we both just moved on?"

"We're divorced," you said, the word tasting like ash in your mouth.

"I never wanted to divorce you and you know it," Joel countered.

You shook your head and then you felt it; panic starting to crowd out the ache.

You had to get out of there. You needed to leave this beach right now, before you broke, before you did something you couldn't take back.

You lunged to the side, trying to bolt past him, but Joel reacted instantly, catching you by the hands. The heat of his touch burned.

In a blind reflex, you slammed your palms against his chest and shoved him back with everything you had, breaking his grip. And you ran.

You ran with your breath clawing at your lungs, fleeing toward the small party. You knew he wouldn't follow you there; Joel would never push his way through your friends to make a scene, or to keep telling you things that shouldn't matter anymore.

When you finally hit the steps leading up from the beach, you spotted your heels tossed in the sand right where you had left them. You didn't even pause to pick them up. You took the stairs barefoot, crossed the room where the music was still thumping, and with trembling hands, snatched your purse off one of the chairs. You headed straight for your room. All around you, everyone was far too drunk to even notice.

You had spent the entire day mastering the art of looking anywhere but at him.

During the morning, it was easy. Mainly because he was nowhere to be seen. You were confined with the other bridesmaids and Jo’s family. In her hotel room, time flew by in a blur of wedding prep. Everyone talked, laughed, and rallied around Jo to soothe her nerves. Good nerves, born from being on the verge of something beautiful and life-changing. Not the bad ones that make you want to bolt out the back door of a church.

During the ceremony, everything shifted. As a bridesmaid, you stood on one side of the altar, while Joel stood on the other as a groomsman. The distance was safe, but it wasn't enough; you felt his eyes on you the entire time.

Whenever you looked toward the newlyweds, Joel caught your peripheral vision, his dark eyes fixed squarely on your face. He didn't break eye contact, not even when the crowd burst into applause. It was constant; even if he turned to smile or speak with someone else, it was only a countdown until his eyes found yours again. And then, the realization hit: you were watching him, too.

Of course you were. If you caught him staring dozens of times, it meant your own eyes were wandering toward him just as often. A simple truth that struck you just as Jo and Cillian walked down the aisle between the rows of seats, everyone celebrating the union of their beautiful love.

You kept your chin up, gripping your bouquet so tightly your knuckles turned white and pretending the heat rushing to your cheeks was just the early afternoon sun. You decided then and there that enough was enough. You couldn't keep looking at him, or he would keep looking at you. Moving forward, the best option was to ignore him entirely.

So you stuck to Kat like glue. You hadn't told her what happened the night before; you hadn't told anyone. Apparently, neither had he (which was to be expected) though you couldn't help but notice how Jen's eyes locked onto you just as much as his did.

There she was, right in the middle of the wedding guests. She wore a faint smile that seemed perfectly natural on her face, but her gaze swept up and down your body, over and over.

As a rational person, you knew exactly why she was doing it. You were her boyfriend’s ex-wife. During dinner the previous night, the two of you hadn't interacted at all. And when you felt her trying to approach you before heading to her room, you had turned on your heel and fled, pretending you hadn't seen her. She probably just wanted to introduce herself; Joel had likely told her the bare minimum. You, however, had zero interest in meeting her.

As a woman, though, you feared a deeper reason. Some energies are impossible to ignore, like the raw tension between her boyfriend and you, standing on opposite sides of that altar like a sick joke. If Jen suspected something, or if she noticed how Joel couldn't keep his eyes off you (and she only needed a functional pair of eyes to see it), you didn't blame her.

You just had to ignore them both. It was easy enough during the ceremony.

But the real trial began at the reception.

By seven in the evening, the Maui sky had transformed into a stunning canvas of coral and purple hues, fading out over the Pacific. On the open air terrace by the beach, the reception was already in full swing, with some guests already on their second drinks. Strings of warm fairy lights flickered between the palm trees, fighting against the encroaching twilight that swallowed the coastline, while the warm breeze carried the tides mixed with the sweet music from the live band.

All around you, everything was pure luxury and charm. The venue was breathtaking, and every detail was exquisite; from the decor near the beach exit to the main dancefloor, the ornaments hanging from the ceiling with tiny crystal stars and delicate ribbons, and the tables arranged with flawless glassware and matching chairs.

You stood near the outdoor bar, laughing out loud as Kat made an exaggerated toast with her champagne flute, while Gemma, Jo’s sister, swept you both into a hilarious anecdote about the morning's chaos. You laughed along despite having been there yourself, then pulled out your phone to show Eric, Gemma’s husband, a video of the whole thing.

Between the tropical cocktails, the catchy music, and the girls banter, you finally felt your shoulders drop; for a wonderful stretch of time, you managed to immerse yourself entirely in the party, genuinely enjoying the moment. And you were incredibly grateful for it.

It was only when the girls drifted toward the dance floor that you found yourself alone, waiting for your next drink. You leaned your weight against the wooden bar and, almost unconsciously, let your eyes sweep across the crowd illuminated by the hanging lights. It was a quick instinctive scan; a final defense mechanism to ensure the perimeter was clear, confirming that neither he nor his girlfriend was nearby before you could fully let your guard down.

You exhaled a quiet sigh, watching your hands against the wooden bar.

"This place ain't got nothin' on our little wedding, right?"

The voice echoed from right behind you. You whipped around.

Joel was there, leaning lazily against the counter, giving you a sidelong glance. He looked effortless cocky, completely relaxed. He looked devastatingly handsome in his suit, though his collar was already unbuttoned and his tie hung loose.

Not again.

"Joel," you warned.

He picked up on the warning right away. His stance softened slightly as he stood up straighter, throwing his hand up in peace.

"Sorry. Just jokin'. Ain't tryin' to stir up trouble again," he said, stepping a bit closer and shaking his head. "Just wanted to say I'm sorry. For last night. I crossed a line. Too many of 'em, to be honest, sayin' what I said. It wasn't right of me."

He cast his gaze downward, looking genuinely remorseful for a brief beat. Right then, under the amber lights, you finally caught the dark tired shadows bruising the skin under his eyes. He looked exhausted.

You didn't say a word, but you nodded slightly, accepting the olive branch.

He looked back up, pinning you with his gaze. "Don't you worry about me, okay? I won't be botherin' you again."

"How sure are you about that?"

Joel offered a smile that didn't make it to his eyes.

"In the last two years, did I ever bother you?"

"I blocked you."

He huffed an incredulous breath through his nose. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

Joel clicked his tongue, taking a sip of his drink. "Nah."

Your brow furrowed as a prickle of stubborn pride hit your chest. Grabbing your purse from the bar, you reached inside for your phone. Your thumb flicked across the screen as you glared up at him.

"I'm telling you, I blocked you."

He raised the glass to his lips again, and just before taking a sip, his eyes locked onto yours over the rim. "What you wanna bet?"

Anoyed and determined to shut him up, you went into your contact settings and pulled up your blocked list. Your eyes darted across the screen. There were a couple of unknown numbers, some old spam contacts you didn't even remember blocking, but you searched and searched... and the list was far too short. None of them were Joel.

You froze right there in the middle of the party. You knew it with absolute certainty because, despite two years of radio silence, you still remembered every single digit of his number by heart. None of those numbers matched his.

Had you seriously never blocked him?

You sighed, setting your phone face down on the bar.

"Alright." You glanced over in the opposite direction.

Across the room, Kat was staring at you with her eyebrows raised. She threw up a hand as if to say What the hell are you doing?. You answered her with a tight flat pout.

You turned back to Joel; he was watching Kat with a faint half amused frown.

Without moving much, his eyes dropped back down to you.

"Anyway, I'm sorry," he said, nodding gently. "For all of it. I really am."

You just nodded back.

The tension in his brow softened, and his gaze traced your face; eyes, mouth, eyes, eyes, mouth, eyes.

And then, he asked;

"Is he a good man?"

A beat.

"Yeah," you said softly.

"Does he treat you right?"

You swallowed. "Yeah. He does."

He pressed his lips together and nodded. "Good. I'm real happy for you."

The second those words left his mouth, you caught it: the tiniest twitch in his right eye, almost imperceptible. A minute tremor he couldn't hide.

Joel held your gaze for one last second, and then he gave you a small wink, just like he used to. With a faint smile, he pulled himself away from the bar and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

Dinner passed in a rush of laughter and scattered conversations across the tables. There were emotional speeches; the best man brought Cillian to tears with a childhood story, and when it was your turn alongside the bridesmaids, you managed to keep your voice steady and bring a smile to everyone's faces.

After what had happened the night before, you didn't want to drink too much alcohol; you’d only had a couple of glasses with your meal, keeping your feet firmly on the ground.

By the time dinner wrapped up and the dance floor opened, the vibe grew much more relaxed. The semi-formal atmosphere completely dissolved under the colored lights now washing over the place. You were actually having fun; you danced for a long stretch with Kat and the girls, and later, Jo’s dad pulled you out for a few clumsy but incredibly fun spins that had you laughing out loud. In the middle of one of those upbeat songs, your eyes caught Joel in the center of the floor, dancing perfectly like a gentleman with Cillian’s mom. Your gazes locked for a split second, barely a heartbeat, before you both quickly looked away.

You kept enjoying yourself. Songs flew by, along with casual toasts and group photos. But later on, as you walked near the edge of the room, your eyes drifted toward the back.

Joel and Jen were sitting at a secluded table, away from the main lighting. You allowed yourself to watch them for a moment, hidden behind the crowd. Their faces were dead serious; her brow was furrowed and her arms were crossed, while Joel spoke in a low voice, gesturing faintly with one hand. They looked like they were arguing. Having a quiet argument, at the very least. But before either of them could look up and catch you staring, you broke eye contact and moved to another part of the room.

But the damage was already done.

Suddenly, a wave of absolute desolation hit you like a bucket of ice water. The air around you began to feel heavy, suffocating, and a sharp ache settled right beneath your ribs.

You needed to get out of your own head. Urgently, you pulled your phone from your purse and tried to call Dean. You needed to hear his voice, to remind yourself that you had a real life waiting for you back home, to cling to him like a lifeline. To remember you had something else.

The line rang.

And rang.

And rang. But Dean didn't pick up. You hung up, waited a few seconds, and tried again. Then a third time. Nothing. Just the sound of the voicemail.

You dropped your hand, slipping the phone back into your purse with a mix of frustration and anger, forcing yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.

"Hey, there you are!"

Jo’s cheerful voice snapped you right back to reality. Your friend approached you, her cheeks already flushed from the alcohol, holding her glass at a slight tilt. She was wearing a gorgeous white dress that hit just below her knees, loose and flowing perfectly against her body.

"I've been meanin' to talk to you all night but I've been so busy!" she laughed, running a hand through her hair. "Nobody warned me I’d spend my own wedding just listenin' to the guests!"

You smiled, forcing down the suffocating feeling from a second ago. "Everyone’s gonna want a piece of you today, Jo, it’s your night. But enjoy it; everything is beautiful, and you look even more stunning."

Jo offered a tender smile and threw her arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace that smelled of her expensive perfume. When she pulled back, she looked at you closely; her smile faltered slightly into a remorseful pout.

"Hey, I am so sorry... I had no idea he was bringin' someone. We gave a plus one to all our main guests and I just didn't think that—"

"Jo, it’s fine. Seriously."

Jo shook her head, frustrated. "No, it’s not fine. The nerve of him. You didn't even bring Dean. I really wish you had."

"I'm telling you, everything is completely fine," you insisted, forcing a bright smile. "I'm having fun, can't you tell?"

Jo tilted her head back a bit, narrowing her eyes to read you, but the pure bliss of her own wedding night made her give in.

"Well, yeah. I guess you are."

Right then, a collective shout erupted from the dance floor. A big group of people was forming a circle, clapping along to the beat and calling for the newlyweds.

You glanced over and gave her a gentle nudge. "I think you're needed over there."

Jo grinned mischievously. "Yeah... and you're coming with me!"

Before you could even protest, she grabbed your arm firmly and dragged you toward the center of the floor, pulling you both right into the middle of the circle. The DJ dropped an absolute classic: Abba’s Dancing Queen. And the energy of the room swept you up completely. It was one of your favorite songs.

Suddenly, there was no room left to dwell on phones that didn't ring or tables hidden in the back of the room. Jo started dancing dramatically in the center, making you genuinely laugh, and you joined right in; jumping, singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs with the rest of the guests, and clapping as others took turns showing off their best moves in the middle. For a few minutes, surrounded by your friends, the music numbed the ache in your chest. You let yourself lose control, floating in the pure fun of the night and the embrace of the people you loved most.

You couldn't tell how much time slipped by, but it had to be at least four or five songs. Standing in the middle of the circle, you ran your hands through your hair to push it away from your face. It was boiling hot inside, or maybe it was just your racing pulse making you feel like the air was running out.

Stepping away from the group, you backed up a few paces with a permanent smile straining your lips after minutes of non stop laughing.

You glanced to the side, right where the exit to the outdoor grounds opened up, and the pull of the fresh air was immediate and far too tempting to ignore. You walked in that direction, leaving the pounding thud of the music behind, and stepped out into the night, heading down the short flight of stairs to the lower level.

Resting your hand on the wooden railing, you walked down the ramp toward the right, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark infinity of the ocean, where the crests of the waves glowed faintly under the moonlight.

You stopped, letting out a long heavy sigh and running a hand over your neck to catch the cooling breeze.

Look at this place, you’d barely even enjoyed it. With all the wedding chaos and everything else, you hadn't found any free time to look around. But tomorrow you could; after brunch, the afternoon was open for everyone, and you assumed the evening would be too. Jo and Cillian would have their own activities as newlyweds, and some guests were leaving due to work; most of them, actually. But you were staying until Monday afternoon, and so was Kat. You’d be able to do all sorts of fun things. That thought actually made you excited.

You decided to turn around to watch the party from a distance, but the instant you shifted your body, the air caught in your throat.

You saw him. Joel was standing right there, less than two meters away. He was leaning his hip against the railing on the other side, staying completely still, almost camouflaged by the shadows and the branches of a large bush covered in tiny pink and white flowers. He was staring right at you.

A spike of panic shot through your body. You wanted to speak; you wanted to tell him you were sorry, that you had no idea he was down here. Because it was obvious you had crashed his alone time.

Your brain went on the defensive, screaming at you to turn around, head straight back up the ramp, and return to the party or at least find another corner of the hotel to breathe. But your feet wouldn't cooperate.

You couldn't say a word, and you couldn't move. You just stood there, locking eyes with him in absolute silence. You watched him, and he watched you. And in that second of paralysis, Jen's existence didn't even cross your mind; nothing existed outside of that suspended space in the dark.

Before you could gather enough air for another breath, the distance simply… vanished.

He was on top of you, and you were on top of him. You’d never know how it actually happened, who closed the final gap or who took the first step, but suddenly Joel’s arms were wrapping around you and his mouth was crashing onto yours.

It was a devastating kiss, charged with an intensity that shattered your whole body. His hands flew urgently to your face, cupping your cheeks with desperation, while his lips smashed against yours in a hungry claim. Your bodies pressed completely together, erasing any trace of air between you. Not that there was much left to begin with.

Without breaking the kiss, Joel spun you around in a fluid movement, pulling you right to where he’d been standing, and pressed you firmly against the railing. You felt the cold wood bite into your back, immediately followed by the overwhelming heat of his body crushing into yours. One of his hands dropped forcefully to your waist, anchoring you to him, reminding every single inch of your skin exactly who owned this memory.

Your heart was racing out of control, hammering so violently against your ribs that you could hear it in your ears, drowning out any coherent thought that dared to surface in your mind. There was no Dean, no past, no mistakes. In that dark corner beneath the flowers and facing the sea, you couldn't think about absolutely anything else but him.

Kiss him; kiss him deeply. Deeper, devouring any shred of doubt that might be left in you.

You felt a blind desperation flood your veins, a voracious hunger you didn't even know you had been harboring, suddenly demanding more, and more, and all of him; all, all at once, all began happening far too fast, as though time had accelerated with no way to force it back into its natural rhythm.

The heat of his skin and the firmness of his hands clouded your judgment entirely, pushing you right to the edge.

In a sudden move, you forced your lips to break away from his. You pulled back just a few inches, just enough to look into his eyes in the dim light, your breath ragged and your heart thumping in your ears and between your thighs.

You didn't even recognize your own voice when you said;

"Go to my room in ten minutes."

Before he could react or utter a single word, you planted your hands on his shoulders and, with a push that was sharp from urgency but soft with desire, you broke free from his grip.

You caught one last glimpse of his stunned expression and bolted back toward the stairs, fleeing at a frantic pace toward the light and noise of the party, with the taste of Joel still burning your lips and your tongue.

You reached the room with your heart beating a mile a minute, your racing pulse thumping in your ears as you walked barefoot across the soft carpet.

God, what were you doing?

This was terrible, complete madness. You’d walked in barely five minutes ago, and you’d spent the last three leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on your face and staring into the mirror, desperately searching for the strength to put on the brakes. But you found nothing. Your mind threw out a thousand reasons to stop, but not a single one could douse the fire in your belly or prevent what you were about to do.

And then, the sound came: knock, knock, knock.

A violent jolt shook your stomach, filling it with wild butterflies as if you were twenty one years old all over again, and you hated with all your soul that that was your very first thought.

You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress, and stepped toward the entrance.

You opened the door just a crack, peeking through the narrow opening, and Joel was on the other side, staring dead at you through the small space. There was no doubt in his eyes; only a tired, exhausted, desperate, and silent hunger.

Without uttering a single word, unable to break eye contact, you threw the door wide open. Joel stepped inside immediately and kicked the wood shut behind him, closing it with a soft thud that sealed the deal. He lunged toward you with firm strides, crowding you back into the room; his right hand caught your waist and, with a yank, flushed your body right against his hard frame, while his other hand flew straight to the back of your neck, burying itself in your hair.

He kissed you, and you melted into his arms instantly.

Joel crushed you against him, devouring your mouth while his fingers raked over you in pure desperation. His hand at the back of your neck forced you deeper into the kiss, while his other palm slid firmly down your back, tracing your curves until it anchored at your thighs, squeezing the firm flesh. You put your hands all over him, starved for the physical contact you had missed for so long; your palms slid over his jacket, up his chest and broad shoulders, before wrapping around his neck to drag him even tighter against you. You let out a muffled moan against his lips.

Joel broke away for a split second just to catch his breath, panting, and his hands immediately dropped to your dress. Finding the hem near your hips, he bunched the fabric up in a frantic rush, gathering it past your navel before yanking it over your arms in a clumsy anxious motion, tossing it to the floor. You were left in just your panties and strapless bra.

You trapped his lips again in a hungry kiss while his fingers fumbled for the clasp of your bra; the lace gave way and dropped to your feet, leaving your breasts completely bare. Urgently, you brought your hands to Joel’s chest, tearing at the buttons of his shirt with fingers clumsy from the rush. In one continuous motion, you stripped the shirt and jacket off his shoulders together, leaving him bare chested, and he immediately reached down to undo his dress pants.

Everything grew overwhelmingly intense all at once; you could feel every part of your body screaming, starving and desperate for him. You crawled backward and laid down in the middle of the bed, feeling the cool air of the room hit your bare breasts and send a sudden shiver straight to your nipples. You settled onto the sheets, watching him with ragged breaths as he kicked off his pants and boxers in one quick motion.

Joel’s desperate erection, massive and rock hard, pointed straight at you, glistening faintly with pre cum under the dim glow of the lamp. He crowded over you, sliding between your thighs, while his large hands hooked into your panties and stripping them down your legs with a rough tug.

You parted your legs completely for him, exposing yourself, and Joel let out a shaky exhale, and leaned down to kiss you again. It felt like coming home.

His tongue clashed against yours in an incredibly wet, deep kiss while you instinctively arched your hips upward, feeling the heat of his shaft grazing your entrance. Joel ripped his mouth away, panting; he brought his hand to his lips, spitting a generous amount of saliva directly into his palm, and locked his eyes onto yours with animal intensity as he reached down and stroked himself a few times, lubricating his cock.

You moaned in protest at the delay, your hands raking over his tense shoulders as you shifted your pelvis desperately, begging for the contact. Joel dropped his hand and repositioned the hot, swollen head of his cock right against your soaking entrance.

He hovered over you, his arms rigid and the muscles of his back bulging from the sheer effort of holding back. Then, he began to sink into you inch by inch, the desperate restraint making him gasp out loud. He was too thick, too massive, but your pussy was so incredibly wet that it yielded, stretching to harbor him completely as he pushed deeper and deeper.

A sharp cry tore from your throat when he filled you to the brim, the delicious, scorching pressure of his hardness stretching your walls. Joel pressed his forehead against yours, cursing under his breath, completely overwhelmed by how fucking tight and wet you were.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you," he growled against your ear, losing the last shred of control he had left.

Any remaining restraint shattered into a dirty, animal need. Joel began to fuck you with wild desperation, thrusting hard and deep, burying himself completely inside you with heavy strokes that made the bed creak. Your body was burning with pleasure, and so was his; he was slick with sweat, the heat of his skin plastering against yours with every single hit.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, squeezing him tight to lock him inside you, forcing him to go even deeper. He was flush against you, his chest heaving against yours, his lips finding your neck to bite and suck the skin there while your brain remembered every single one of these familiar sensations. It was overwhelming.

The sound in the room turned completely obscene: the loud, wet friction of your bodies colliding, the echo of your unhinged moans, and Joel’s raspy grunts vibrating in the dim light. You were so fucking wet that every thrust made a slick, dirty squelch that only fueled the filthiness of it all and drove your heart rate higher. He was so fucking hard you could feel the pulse of his cock slamming against your deepest spot, tearing you apart with pleasure in an intense friction that made you lose your mind.

Joel grabbed your hands, interlocking his fingers tightly with yours against the pillows, using you as an anchor to drive the pace even faster. He was losing it right along with you, driving into you as if he were trying to brand you forever—no, he had already done that, so deeply that even now, fifteen years later, you were still a fool for him.

He squeezed your trapped hands while keeping up the frantic pace, the relentless impact of his hips against yours unyielding. He was completely surrendered to the desperation, searching for you at your very core. And you were already there, right at the bottom.

Then, Joel let go of one of your hands. That sudden freedom let you react; you whipped your arm up, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck to drag him down. You sought his mouth, trapping his lips in a desperate kiss that he met instantly, and a muffled groan vibrated in your throat. And in that exact heartbeat, something in the air shifted.

Joel’s wild, frantic thrusts began to lose their frantic speed, but none of their intensity. His movements grew heavier, deeply concentrated and profound, stripping away the raw animal haste to make way for absolute surrender. The rhythm transformed into an overwhelmingly intimate friction; each time his body sank into yours, he did so with an agonizing drag, holding himself deep inside you for an eternal second before pulling back just enough to drive right back in.

He stared dead into your eyes through the dimness of the room, his heavy breath crashing against your cheeks, searching for your gaze. His free hand came up to your face, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb while he penetrated you with a gentleness that made you arch your back, completely defenseless against him. You felt every single inch of his cock sliding inside you, hot and massive, filling not just your body, but every empty corner you had kept guarded during these two years.

And his body was so close to yours that you could feel the frantic hammering of his heart melting right into your own. Your moans shifted, turning from unhinged cries into quiet, breathless sobs of pure pleasure and relief.

The tension began to build in your belly in an unbearable way, a burning tide tightening your muscles from the inside out. Joel noticed; he felt you start to spasm and contract around his cock, trapping him in a hot soaking fist.

"That's it, baby... let it go," he murmured, licking your neck.

You couldn't hold it back any longer. Your hips lifted in one final unconscious spasm and your orgasm hit you like a lightning strike, making you shudder from head to toe as your inner walls squeezed around his shaft in violent, delicious waves. Joel let out a low, animal grunt, completely broken by the tight pressure of your climax.

Stripping away any remaining gentleness, he buried himself inside you one last few times with brutal thrusts, sinking right to the root, and froze there. His body went completely rigid, the muscles in his arms and back locking up like stone as he tore a raspy groan right against your ear.

Instantly, you felt the thick scalding jets of his come blasting inside of you, filling you to the brim and overflowing from your soaking pussy as he came with a force that left him shuddering violently on top of you.

Joel collapsed over you, letting his weight settle onto your body without crushing you, his breath ragged and his face buried deep in the crook of your neck.

Neither of you moved; he stayed buried inside you, softening but still pulsing, as the silence of the room settled back in, broken only by your exhausted gasps and the distant echo of the ocean outside the window.

There was no going back now.

______________________________________________________

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But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

His brothers were loud, always have been, it was something the younger version of him had gotten used to quicker than he would have liked, but because of that he knew that when they went silent there was something wrong- something that he would have to take care of as their older brother. His heart stutters at the thought of them putting themselves in overtly dangerous situations without him there to have their back and he gets angry when things don't go according to plan for that very reason. He could handle their complaints about how "overbearing" and "weird" he is if it meant keeping them from being thrown in prison just like he had been. He took silent pride in taking care of them, even if they did not always like it when he did.

When Smurf went quiet it meant something bad was going to or already happened. A woman who didn't often make mistakes- always plotting, calculating the best way she can use the people around her to her advantage, and if she couldn't they never lasted very long. When she softly whispered his name into his temple and ran her thin fingers through his hair it meant she wanted him to do something bad. The dirty work was always left to him. They all had blood on their hands but it was always ensured that he would have the most.

For a while your silence worried him, you didn't talk much- never have, which was something he was quick to take notice of, and while that was not something that outright bothered him he found that there were certain instances where it made his skin itch with an uneasy paranoia. His eyes often searched your face over dinners that lacked conversation, restlessly looking for anything out of the ordinary. When your thumb ran over his bruised knuckles he wondered if it was softer than normal, not your usual firmness when it came to touching him, and if maybe you didn't want to be touching him as much as he previously thought you did.

Andrew found that usually, in his experience, he was the one staying silent. Watched as he brought a ringing uneasy with his quiet demeanor, speaking only when he felt it was needed. So, when he met you, he wasn't sure what to expect. Standoffish in response to how similar the two of you were when it came to that kind of thing before falling for you so quickly he still to this day wonders how you managed to reel him in.

Today you haven't kissed him as much as you had the other days of the week and he is wondering if he had done anything to upset you in any capacity. You kissed him when you woke up, a lingering softness against his rougher lips was the first thing he felt this morning and it had him feeling lighter before the day got started. The two of you kissed three more times right before you left for work, his fingers laced into your sweater to keep you from leaving, pulling you closer so he can continue pressing wet pecks against your lips- almost desperate and pleading. You had let out a breathy giggle at his actions, a sound that made his heart flutter with butterflies just like it had the very first time he made you laugh, right before softly pushing him away and leaving toward your car.

Not that he kept count but he's pretty sure that you two kissed at least six times before you left for work yesterday and ten times the day before that, the four today in comparison felt like nothing, but he wasn't a baby. Over the span of his ridiculously chaotic life he'd been through much worse. A few less kisses and a nearly silent morning routine didn't really mean anything in retrospect.

Almost eleven hours later Andrew comes home two hours later than you did, unfortunate and definitely not what he wanted but Deren had needed help with something regarding the bar and he needed to get a car ready for the job J had set up because Craig was aparently too busy doing whatever it is he does to stick to the plan. As he walks into your apartment- you had given him a key a few short weeks ago- you crane your head against the back of the couch so you can look at him.

A small smile spreading along your tired face is all he gets as a greeting for now before your gaze finds it's way back onto the half read book in your lap and he'd send one back if he wasn't in such a hurry to hop in the shower so he could finally feel you against him.

It takes him fifteen minutes to completely wash off all the grime and sweat from the day, to finally feel clean enough for him to get close to you after everything he's done today, and another minute and a half to find and slide on the pajama pants you got him for when he stays over along with an old black t-shirt- one that had a little hole by the bottom from that one time you borrowed it and got it caught on one of the door handles, he remembers a cute little frown painting your agitated face when you'd noticed and he thinks of it often.

Coming back to the living room he finds that you've turned off the main light in favor of the little lamp on the side table, encasing the room in an amber warmth glow that makes your eyes droopy with exhaustion.

He is a little stiff when he finally sits next to you, still easing into the more relaxing ambience you and your home give off in comparison to the one engulfing his frenzied family.

His heart thumps a bit harder against his chest when you make no move to look up at him, the kiss you normally give him when he gets home doesn't come even after a few more minutes of waiting. He is being melodramatic, he's sure, but the awareness of it doesn't lessen the worry he's beginning to feel.

You know he's watching you, you'd told him once that you can always feel his stare- heavy as it is, so he knows that you know his eyes are on you, just like they always are, but why you aren't acknowledging him he isn't sure. He hates the way it makes him feel like a begging dog, at your beck and call and seemingly always needy for your attention.

Still new to these feelings Andrew isn't quite sure what to do with them, he doesn't think there has ever been a time in his entire life that he has ever wanted someone to pay this much attention to him. Usually when he gathered the attention of others it wasn't the good kind- even when it came to his own mother and siblings, yours though was different- everything about you and involving you was so different from what he is used to.

From the moment he met you, despite his wariness, he'd been completely drawn to your illuminating presence. Your serenity is elegant in comparison to his unnerving stillness. The natural furrow of your brows brought by the steady calm you've created for yourself matched with his own creased out of the bitterness built into him by hands that were not his own.

It's too quiet.

His hand, clenched into a fist out of habit, moves from his thigh and inches closer to yours letting only the very tips of his fingers graze the skin just under the hem of your shorts. There's a small scar there from the one and only time he had ever accidentally gotten you involved with his family's mess and he wonders if you notice it as much as he does- if you look at it and realize that maybe he isn't worth staying through the dread of what he does.

"What are you thinking about, hm?" It is the first thing you've said to him since he arrived and it instantly has his body relaxing and leaning toward you subconsciously. The breezy tone that often accompanies your voice has an effect on him that he doesn't understand but enjoys anyway; it's just what he needs to hear after a long day and what he looks forward to hearing first thing in the morning.

His eyes find yours- beautiful and hazel-green in the light brightening his tanned face, "Nothing." Voice gravelly as he mumbles it.

Staring intensely back at him you raise a knowing brow, his lie obvious to you, but he pays your suspicion no mind because now your looking at him and that's all he wants right now.

Andrew's gaze only leaves yours to flash a look at your lips before returning to your scrutinizing eyes, a not so subtle hint at what he's silently begging for. His face leans closer to yours instinctively, the tip of his nose only centimeters away from the hill of your cheek.

A small smirk begins to form on your lips, knowing glint in your eyes as you finally acknowledge his need. Quiet as you may be it allowed your observational skills to flourish. Well aware that this kind of want is new to Andrew, he may be aware of it, recognizes that it is born out of the love he feels for you, but it overwhelms him sometimes, makes him stumble and second guess himself. He isn't quite sure if he is allowed to ask for what he wants no matter the amount of times you try to convince him otherwise. Wanting was not something he was allowed to do growing up, and the very few times he'd given in it only seemed to bring upset to the people he cared about. Cath. Lena.

You reach a hand out toward him, cold fingers easing into the warm skin of his face before smoothly moving to wrap around one of his unruly curls. Andrew's eyes flutter at your touch, leaning into the palm of your hand quickly so you don't feel tempted to pull away. "Is there something you want?" Blunt and direct is what works best with him, even if he finds himself holding back a wince at how quick you are to ask it but he knows he has never been good at hiding from you.

Once, early on in your relationship, you had very clearly expressed how much honesty meant to you- as in any relationship but especially in this one; much to his dislike it wasn't long before he was giving in to telling you the schemes him and his family were involved in much to and had spent the rest of the night wondering if you were searching for a way to let him down gently despite knowing you had decided to lay in bed with him anyway.

"You know what I want." Something akin to embarrassment has the tips of his ears heating into a rosy blush, lips curling in on themselves to hide the way a smile tries to take over as he speaks.

Satisfied and proud of his admission you tip forward, hand pulling him closer to you and running your nose against his. His lips part with a shuttering breath and his hand moves quick to clasp at your thigh properly this time- a little tighter than he may realize. It only takes you saying his name for his grip to loosen and for an apology to fall from his lips, one your quick to dismiss by finally giving him his kiss.

Andrew deepens it almost instantly, hungry to make up for the ones he'd missed out on this morning. His brows furrow in frustration when you pull away to softly laugh, an annoyingly cute smile gracing your face. Hands leaving your thigh and migrating to your hips he tugs you onto his lap, allowing his head to drop to your chest so that his ear is pressed right up against your heart, wrapping his arms completely around you because he always needs you closer.

You make it a point to press a few more soft kisses to the top of his head, purposeful reassurance, and for one of the first time in his life it isn't to cover up malicious intent. You aren't going to ask him to do something he doesn't want to. You aren't going to make him feel like there is something wrong with him. And you aren't going to leave him behind out of the loop. He knew all of that, knows it now too because the next words to leave your mouth are, "I love you."

Your silence will never hurt him.

"I love you too."

“Why’d he leave you this much food?”

“No clue,” Ellie said, already dumping the stew into a pot over the burner. “Guy’s got a weird way of saying stuff.”

You glanced over everything again, doing a quick inventory in your head. “Alright, what if we throw something together with the veggies and the meat? Make one big thing out of it. Save you for tomorrow.”

Ellie snorted, grabbing a spoon. “Yeah, sure. If it looks and smells half as good as this, go for it. I’m not complaining.”

You nudged the fridge door shut with your hip while you stepped in behind her, already rolling your sleeves up.

“Alright,” you muttered, setting your container aside. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You started pulling things out; containers stacking up fast until the counter filled with mismatched portions. Pre-cooked vegetables soft from reheating, chunks of meat, a bit of broth. Not much on their own, but enough to turn into something decent.

Ellie hovered nearby, leaning back against the counter with her arms loosely crossed, watching you take over.

You slid a pan onto the burner, added a splash of oil, and let it heat before tossing in the vegetables. They hit the surface with a soft sizzle. You stirred them, breaking them apart, then grabbed the meat and cut it into smaller pieces.

“Smells better already,” Ellie muttered.

“Give me a minute,” you shot back,smiling, nudging the mixture around. You added a bit of broth, just enough to bring everything together, letting it simmer. And for a moment, the only sound was the bubbling and the scrape of your spoon against the pan.

Then, casually, you asked, “You always end up on your own when Joel leaves?”

Ellie shrugged. “He doesn’t leave that much.”

You glanced at her over your shoulder, catching the way she said it.

“Then what did you do when he went with me on that trip?”

She hesitated.

“Stayed with Tommy and Maria,” she said, lifting one shoulder. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

You nodded, turning back to the pan, giving it another stir.

Ellie shifted her weight, then added, “Tommy talks a lot. Like, way too much.”

A beat.

“Maria doesn’t. So… yeah. Evens out, I guess.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, letting the food cook down a little more.

You didn’t want to go there, but looking at Ellie made it hard not to. Something about her; the way she talked, that teasing edge in her voice, the way her mouth pulled to one side, brows lifting like she was always halfway to a smart remark. It hit too close.

Sophie. You found yourself wondering what she would’ve been like at this age. What she’d be into. If she’d have that same bite to her, that restless streak. Maybe Jackson could’ve given her something close to a chance of normality. Friends, stupid fun, a first crush that felt like the end of the world. You would have loved to see it.

A sharp sigh behind you snapped the thought clean in half.

“Hey,” Ellie said. “Thanks for not telling Joel you saw me the other day. With Dina.”

You glanced over your shoulder at her. “Yeah. Don’t mention it. Though, I gotta ask—”

“I wasn’t doing anything weird,” she cut in, quick, a crooked grin already forming. “Relax.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Then why keep it a secret?”

Ellie groaned, tipping her head back.

“Remember when I told you he’s always on my case?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, well. That.” She shrugged, like it should be obvious. “He’s got, like, a million rules. It’s whatever.”

“He’s just trying to look out for you.”

“I know,” she said, a little sharper this time, then softer, “I know. Still.”

You looked back at the pan, stirring the vegetables with your spoon while your mind drifted; straight to Joel, of course.

You pictured him here, cutting all this up, cooking the meat, packing everything away because he was leaving for a couple days. Overdoing the portions, of course. Because that was just him, making sure Ellie had more than enough, just in case.

Making sure she was covered. On a list somewhere. Under his brother’s watch.

Just like you.

“So, what are you guys now… friends?”

Ellie’s voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you upright.

“What?”

“You and Joel,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re friends, right?”

You tapped the spoon against the edge of the pan, knocking off the bits clinging to it, then set it aside for a second. Turning toward her, you leaned your hip against the counter and nodded.

“Yeah. We’re friends.”

Ellie smiled a little at that. “How?”

“What do you mean?”

“How’d that even happen?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. It just… did. Took time, I guess. And we didn’t exactly have a choice but to talk during that trip.”

Ellie huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. I know how that goes.”

“Then you know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah,” she said, shifting her weight, then pointing at you. “Also, for the record, I think it’s cool as fuck they call you Snow.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she said, frowning like it should be obvious. “It is. Like, when it snows, anyone who’s got beef with you is screwed. They won’t think of anything else.”

You laughed again, shaking your head as the pan behind you started to crackle louder, heat catching the edges of the food.

“Didn’t think of that. I’ll take it.”

You turned back, giving everything another stir, checking the texture.

“Alright, this is almost done. Stew too,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “How about we set the table?”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms out with a groan.

“God, I’m so full I’m about to bust my jeans.”

You laughed, picking at the edge of your plate. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.”

“Even if I can’t take credit for Joel’s cooking.”

Ellie smirked, dragging a hand over her cheek before lazily nudging her utensils back onto the plate. When you stood and gathered both dishes, she tilted her head, a small frown creeping in.

“Tommy should be with them by now, right?” she asked. “It’s like… ten hours.”

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine.

“Yeah. I’d think so.”

Ellie exhaled through her nose, reaching up to scratch the back of her neck, a restless habit.

“You think everything’s okay?” she asked. “I’m sure he’s fine. Joel’s always fine.”

You sat back down across from her, resting your forearms on the table.

“I’m sure whatever came up, he handled it,” you said gently. “Might’ve been nothing. Or… something else.”

She huffed quietly, gaze dropping to the table.

“I should’ve gone. It’s bullshit they keep me stuck here all the time. I’m not a kid.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’re not, maybe. But people who care about you, yhey don’t always know where the line is.” You gave her a small look. “Trust me, I get it. I wasn’t allowed to go either, remember? And I’m a full adult.”

That got the faintest reaction out of her. Barely there, but it counted.

“But you,” you added, softer, “you’re not a kid. But you’re still… young.”

Ellie exhaled again, and something heavier settled behind her eyes.

“I see people my age doing whatever they want around here,” she said. “No one’s breathing down their necks like that.”

“He cares about you,” you said with a small nod.

“You think it’s fair?”

You pressed your lips together for a moment.

“It’s not really my call,” you admitted. “But I do know what it’s like to want to protect someone so badly it kind of… bends your judgment. So I can’t really blame him.”

Ellie’s brows pulled together slightly, but then her expression shifted; softening, like something clicked.

“You had a kid, right?” The second it left her mouth, she winced. “Shit, sorry. That came out wrong. I just… heard someone talking about it. I shouldn’t—yeah. Sorry.”

You offered her a small smile, even if your eyes felt heavier.

“It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry about it.” You nodded once. “Yeah. I did.”

Ellie hesitated, then asked, quieter, “What was her name?”

“Sophie.”

Ellie nodded slowly. “What happened?”

For a second, you could almost hear Joel in your head, cutting in; That’s enough, Ellie.

But you just exhaled.

“She got sick,” you said. “A couple years ago. I did everything I could to take care of her. Everything, even unfair things.” You lifted your brows slightly. “But… there’s only so much you can fight. Some things just… happen.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened. “How old was she?”

“Twelve.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “You don’t have to be.”

Ellie stayed quiet for a second. The tension in her shoulders didn’t disappear.

“What was she like?” she asked after a moment, glancing up at you.

You exhaled softly, the answer coming easier than the rest.

“She was… quiet,” you said. “Not shy, just calm, and so, so funny.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “She loved reading. Could spend hours with a book and not even notice time passing.”

Ellie’s brows lifted a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “And drawing. She was always sketching something. Mostly little things; us, places, stuff she saw during the day.”

“Huh.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Yeah. Actually… I heard you draw too.”

Ellie stiffened just a bit. “You did? Who told you that?”

You smiled, glancing past her toward the fridge; Joel, by Ellie.

“Didn’t need anyone to. Saw that portrait you did.”

She followed your gaze. “Oh.”

“It’s good.”

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s whatever.”

“It’s not ‘whatever,’” you said. “It’s really good.”

She squinted at you, suspicious. “You just saying that?”

You shook your head. “No. I mean it.”

Ellie held your gaze for a second longer.

“…Alright.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Can I see?”

“What, like, right now?”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

She hesitated. You caught it; the way her shoulders shifted, the slight press of her lips together. A faint flush crept up her cheeks.

“…Alright,” she muttered after a second. “But don’t make such a fuss of it.”

You smiled, standing up. “I won’t.”

The next day. Greenhouse. Morning.

You barely slept last night. Your mind kept looping, running every possibility into the ground. The group was fine; something must’ve happened in Ridgeway that made them stay and help. There were complications; there always are. That had to be it. Or maybe not. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe they’d been attacked. That would explain the silence, too, and the stretch of nothing before it that started all of this.

Or maybe it happened on the way back. Or on the way there, and they never even made it.

Oh, fuck. Your thoughts wouldn’t quit, your stomach twisting with them, aching at the mere idea that something had gone bad.

You shut your eyes dozens of times through the night, trying to grab even a scrap of sleep, but you couldn’t settle. The only thing that would fix this was getting up and going after them yourself; seeing it, knowing it, with your own two eyes.

But that wasn’t an option. And it wouldn’t help anyway. Just that instinct of yours, always needing to fix things, and the frustration of being stuck here, inside this house, useless.

At some point before dawn, less than an hour maybe, you finally passed out. No dreams, not even a flicker. Or maybe you just didn’t remember. And when you opened your eyes again, it was raining.

The floor was cold under your feet as you got up to look out the window. Rain came down hard, relentless, drumming against the roof and every solid surface it could find. The sky, pale and gray, made your eyes ache the second you looked at it.

You rubbed your eyes, feeling the sting of a restless night, of too many hours spent staring at the ceiling.

Your coffee was stronger than usual, and you drank it too fast, pacing through the house like you couldn’t sit still. Back in your room, you grabbed your boots, your jeans, a T-shirt and Joel’s jacket. Well, yours now. It belonged to you. As you got dressed, your legs felt heavy, and a strained sigh slipped out of your chest when you straightened up.

You caught your reflection in the closet mirror, your thumb drifting up to your necklace, brushing over the little heart. Please, Sophie… get him home safe.

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek, centering yourself as you drew a long breath through your nose. Your fingers moved habitually to your jacket, fastening the buttons one by one from the bottom up. That was when you caught it: a single button that sat just a shade off from the rest. You hadn't noticed it until now.

You paused as you imagined Joel accidentally snapping the original and scouring the house for a replacement that was close enough. Or perhaps Lucy, the seamstress, had quietly mended it for him during a spare moment. It was a tiny, nearly invisible flaw, but you liked it.

It was colder than usual today. Maybe it was the rain, cooling everything down, or maybe it was fall finally starting to show. The ground had turned to mud in places as you made your way to the greenhouse, sticking to covered walkways whenever you could, but it didn’t make much difference. You still arrived soaked through, carrying that clean mix of petrichor and almond soap from when you’d washed your hands and face.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” you said, before Zach could even ask about the look on your face.

When you got there, he hadn’t been around long. On one of the tables, he had a row of small empty bottles laid out, which he filled an hour later with oil and lavender while you went about your work in silence. You pulled the prepared oils and lined them up on another shelf, adding paper labels to each one: ingredients listed neatly, along with the date you’d written down over a week ago.

Moving on to the mint, you followed the rhythm of the process: washing, drying, and chopping the fresh leaves until they filled a glass jar just over halfway. You covered the mixture with vodka, sealed it, and moved it into storage. It would sit there for a month and a half, aging until the Jackson cold set in. By then, the extract would be ready to distribute. A simple potent remedy for the stuffy noses and irritated skin that always seemed to follow the beginning of autumn. Mint for all of it.

“Snow,” Zach called.

You were focused on cutting more green leaves.

“Yeah?”

“You hungry?”

You thought about it for a second. “A little.”

“I’ll go grab us something to eat, alright? Be right back.”

When you looked up at him, he was already pulling on his jacket. Behind him, through the window, the rain seemed to have let up.

“Okay.”

“You want me to bring you some tea?”

You smiled, nodding softly. “I’d love that.”

Zach closed his eyes and nodded back. Instead of heading straight for the door, he stepped closer, nudging you gently toward him as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“My sweet grump,” he murmured, giving you a light shake before leaning in closer to your ear. “He’ll be fine.”

You rolled your eyes, resting your palm against the side of his face when he brushed his lips over your warm cheek. It was a simple gesture, but it steadied something in you. And a moment later, you watched him walk out the door.

Minutes later, the clock on the wall read ten in the morning, and you kept at it; cutting mint leaves, gathering rose petals, lavender flowers, and with summer on its way out, heartleaf arnica.

Outside the greenhouse, under a still-covered stretch, all kinds of plants were growing. Heartleaf arnica was one of them. You’d started harvesting it about two weeks ago, right when it hit its sweet spot at the tail end of summer. And like everything else here, none of it went to waste. This variety packed a punch: anti-inflammatory, pain relief, healing, antimicrobial, etc. And it grew all over Jackson, so you were never short on supply.

Same routine as always: you picked several whole flowers and prepped them properly before submerging them in oil. This time, though, you filled two large jars, later to be split into smaller bottles once they were ready.

Once they were set, you carried them into the storage room and carefully shifted things around to pull out the jars Zach had started two weeks ago. These were good to go. You set them on the table, then went digging through the drawer where you kept all the small glass bottles. Most people brought the empties back when they ran out. Sometimes they traded for a refill, sometimes they just dropped them off and left.

You lined them up side by side, and with steady hands and a plastic funnel, you poured the oil into each one. The cork tops sat off to the side; you pressed them firmly into each neck, making sure they were sealed tight. Nothing getting out, nothing getting in. Then, with a pencil, you labeled each bottle; name of the oil, ingredients, properties. A bit of glue (courtesy of Zach, who’d whipped up a homemade batch with flour and water… hell of a man) and you stuck them on one by one.

You set them neatly on a tray and carried them back into storage, placing them on the shelf to the right, the “ready to use” section.

You were still dusting off your hands, stepping toward the front desk as Zach pushed through the door. A paper bag hung from his right hand, you could smell the food from where you stood, and in the other, a tumbler you figured held tea.

"That smells incredible," you said, offering a tired smile.

"Hey." Zach stepped forward, dropping the supplies onto the table with a thud. He didn't return your smile; his face was a mask of rigid unease. "I saw Tommy and Jerry outside Dr. Hale’s."

Your heart performed a violent sickening lurch.

"What? Are they back already?" You didn't wait for an answer, already reaching for your coat on the rack beside him. "I’m gonna check in. I’ll be right back to eat, I’m done with the oils—"

"Wait." His hand clamped around your arm a split second before your fingers brushed the door handle.

"What?"

"From that first group that headed to Ridgeway... only three came back."

The world seemed to tilt. Every muscle in your body went unnaturally still. "What are you talking about?"

"I asked Eugene at the dining hall," Zach said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "He said they rolled in an hour ago. They only managed to bring back three of the people who left five days ago."

Your throat tightened, turning to dry concrete as the air left your lungs. "Did Joel make it back?"

Zach’s head moved in a slow ghost of a shake. "I’m not sure."

"Was Ellie there? Was she with them?"

"I didn't see her."

"No."

That was all you managed. One word. No.

The word was a hollow, breathless thing. You heard Zach call your name, but you were already gone. You tore the door open, your legs moving with a frantic, desperate autonomy toward anyone who could give you a different answer.

No.

No, this couldn’t be happening.

Please, don’t let this be happening.

You knew something was wrong, fuck fuck fuck, you knew it! You’d felt it in your gut, deep and nagging, the same way it always hit when your instincts started sounding the alarm. All these days, all those nights… they’d been out there, in trouble. No telling what they ran into, what, or who.

Your stomach had turned to lead, dropping toward your feet and dragging you down, the opposite of your heart; swollen up in your throat as you all but ran, stealing the air from your lungs. Your tongue had started to tingle out of nowhere, and you pressed it to the roof of your mouth without thinking, trying to quiet it. It didn’t help.

And the distance wouldn’t close. Your legs shook as you pushed them faster, but the blocks stretched longer than they had any right to, or maybe they’d always been that way, and your usual calm had kept you from noticing. Behind you, Zach followed in complete silence, knowing exactly where you were headed.

Please, no. Joel couldn't be—

No. You couldn’t even think it. Don’t. But your eyelids suddenly felt heavy, your cheeks too, and something soft and aching struck against your ribs from the inside.

Your eyes started to burn as you neared Hale’s place, and a few steps out, you spotted Jerry hauling a crate away. There were more, too many. Men moving back and forth, arms full of boxes. Supplies, you figured. But for who? For what? Was any of it fucking worth it?

You stopped at the open doorway, taking it all in. People everywhere. Men, women, kids. Tommy stood off in the distance, Lucas not far from him, dragging a hand down his face, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite process whatever the hell had happened. Paul wasn’t there. Neither was Eric. Jaime. Fionn. Maria, gone. Ellie, nowhere.

Your heart started pounding hard enough it felt like it might pop another button off Joel’s jacket. You swallowed, your tongue tingling, your chest tightening as you stepped back, pressing yourself against the wall beside the doorway. Your hand came up, gripping at your chest.

And then—

“Tell Jerry to get back here. Now.”

Dr. Hale’s voice, coming down the hall.

“Man’s too damn stubborn for his own good.”

That voice; the exhaustion behind it, that rasp bleeding into the softness of the sound. Your heart didn't just skip; it stopped dead in your chest.

Joel. That was Joel’s voice.

You bolted upright, every nerve ending on fire as footsteps echoed down the hallway. Each heavy thud mirrored the frantic rhythm of your heart. Then, he was there, stepping through the threshold right beside you.

He didn't see you at first; he looked like a ghost. Your gaze locked onto him, tracing the rain slicked hair plastered to his forehead and the dark sodden fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and back, stained with the grime of the road. Zach skidded to a halt a second later, falling silent the moment he saw him.

As if the weight of your stare had burned into the back of his neck, Joel turned. His eyes locked onto yours. And in those five seconds as he searched your face, your throat tightened and your fingers went ice cold. It was like looking at an apparition, a terrifying trick of the light. And at the same time, relief hit so hard it didn’t fit inside you. There was no room left. Not for that, not for anything; just the noise in your head, everything crashing together in a storm of thoughts.

Your eyes burned, blurring with tears you couldn't suppress, but you forced the emotion down a microsecond later.

Joel’s expression shattered. "Hey."

"You're here."

He took a single step toward you. Up close, the damage became clear: his skin was dry and weathered, a fresh gash marked his cheek, and a mottled pink scrape stretched across his brow.

He gave a nod. "I am."

You mirrored the gesture, your movements slow and mechanical. It was only then that you realized your fists were clenched so tight that your nails had carved deep stinging crescents into the skin of your palms.

"I’m sorry about the others," you whispered. "I truly… I’m so sorry."

Joel’s eyelashes fluttered in a series of rapid blinks before his gaze dropped to your feet. A sigh shuddered through his chest.

"We tried."

You nodded again.

You were fighting an agonizing relentless hunger to hold him. A desperate need to verify the reality of him. To feel the heat of his skin and the beat of his heart; to prove he was truly alive, right here, in front of you. The impulse was so violent you felt yourself leaning into it, certain that in just a few more breaths, you would bridge the gap between you.

Joel watched you in silence, perhaps sensing the words catching in your throat or the vibration of the step you hadn't taken yet.

But the last possible second, as your mind warred between reaching out or staying back, you cleared your throat, forcefully swallowing the desperate urge to collapse into him.

"I—I have to go. There’s work to do," you stammered, taking a step back. Your head bobbed in a frantic nod. "So much to do. I… I’m truly sorry about the others. Losing people… it never gets easier."

"I know. Thanks. Do you—"

"I’m just glad you’re back, Joel."

Before he could offer another word, a new wave of something dark and inexplicable surged through you, forcing you to turn and flee.

It was anguish, sudden and suffocating. Your lungs were still burning from the sprint from the greenhouse, but your mind was racing even faster, terrified by the sheer power these thoughts suddenly held over you. It was disorienting to feel this much.

You walked so fast your breath hitched almost immediately. You hated this feeling. You hated it. He was fine; a few scrapes, a cut cheek, but alive. Yet, in those agonizing minutes before you saw him, as you tore through the mud toward Dr. Hale's, something had etched itself so deeply into your chest that you’d expected your knees to buckle under the weight of it. The ghost of that terror still haunted your limbs; it was there in the tremor of your hands, the hollow ache in your sternum and the crushing pressure tightening around your ribs.

When you finally reached the greenhouse, you shed your jacket and caught it on the rack at the exact second Zach stepped in behind you.

"Hey, you okay?" He closed the door, his eyes never wavering from yours. He’d been trailing you the whole way back, and a pang of guilt pricked at you for it.

"Yeah. I’m fine."

He watched as you moved toward the front desk, rummaging through a drawer for the shears. You pulled out two sheets of recycled paper, intent on cutting them into small squares for labels. In truth, you just needed to do something. Anything. Now.

Zach crossed the room and leaned his hip against the table beside you.

"Snow."

"Mmm?"

"Okay, stop," he said softly, his hand resting over yours to still the scissors just as you were about to notch the paper. "Can we talk about what happened?"

"What happened?"

When you turned to look at him, Zach gave you a look that said you know exactly what I’m talking about, please, just talk to me. You hadn't realized a look could carry so much meaning, but Zach’s always did.

You shook your head, gaze dropping to your hands as they let go of the scissors, the paper. Your throat felt tight and heavy, as if you’d swallowed a handful of stones.

"I’m alright. I just…" You pressed your lips together, the anguish resurfacing. "For a moment, I..." You faltered, swallowing hard again. "For a moment, I thought he was dead."

He sighed, falling silent for a beat. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s on me. I shouldn't have broken the news to you like that."

“No, no, it’s fine. Is not your fault.”

Zach laid his hand on your back, and the tight knot in your chest throbbed until it spilled out as tiny tears brimming behind your lids. You swallowed a few, bit your tongue.

“But he’s okay, you saw him.”

“I know. I know he’s okay. And I… I’m a terrible person,” you murmured, shutting your eyes, letting a single tear trickle down your cheek.

“Hey, don’t say that. Why? That ain’t true.”

“When I saw him… I felt such a relief,” you said, glancing at Zach as his hand rubbed soothing circles on your back. “Happy… happy he wasn’t one of the ones who didn’t make it. How can I feel like that? People lost their loved ones and I… I felt relief. How can I feel like that?”

Zach slid his hands over your shoulders and pulled you against his chest, holding you just right, keeping you from crumbling entirely.

“You ain’t a bad person, Snow. It’s natural to feel relief he’s safe. Don’t mean you don’t care ‘bout the others. I know you do, I know you.”

You sniffled, swiping your hand across your damp cheek.

“I was so scared.”

“I know.”

You eased back just enough to look at him, lips pressed thin for a second before you spoke. And Zach held your gaze in a way only a handful of people ever had. You hadn’t thought you’d find something like that again. Not in a friend.

“What am I supposed to do?” you asked, no explanation needed.

He sighed. “For now? I’m gonna warm up your tea, you’re gonna drink it, and then… we’ll take it from there.”

You nodded.

Hours later.

Joel woke at four in the afternoon, dragged out of a seven-hour nap. You’d think that kind of sleep (still not enough) would smooth out the miles they’d burned getting from the outskirts of Ridgeway to Jackson.

Yeah, no. It didn’t.

Damn, I’m getting old. He sat up and a rough groan dragged out of his chest as his back and knees lit up. Push a body that hard, then let it crash, and it turns to aching jelly. That’s just how it goes.

The trip sat heavy on him; losing people did that, failing did that. It didn’t matter that they’d managed to help the other community in the end, good outcome or not, they’d still lost people. Their people.

Ridgeway had been hit, which didn’t sit right, not with defenses that tight. Nothing about it felt random. No way it was. And when Joel and the others got there, ten uniformed men took them in, tied their hands and feet, and kept them locked up for two days. The beatings weren’t something everyone walked away from. No, not everyone. But Joel didn’t want to think about it. It didn’t seem to matter. He couldn’t stop.

From Ridgeway, only thirteen men were left standing and they were the ones who managed to take down seven from the other side, free Joel and the rest, and start pushing to take the territory back.

The real gut punch came after: there’d been a rat. Joseph, one of the community’s top men. Turns out he’d been cutting shady deals for a while, shaking hands with the kind of people you don’t shake hands with, and somewhere along the line he’d agreed to sell out his own. A coward, in simple words.

Anyway, Joseph was executed, same as the three others in his little inner circle. And he went out like a coward too: on his knees, begging for his life, pretending he was sorry. But you don’t mess with Ridgeway. You don’t slaughter their people, and you sure as hell don’t betray them.

They couldn’t just pack up and leave. Joel and the others stayed, doing what they could with bruises and aching bones. They buried the dead, turned out every pocket looking for anything that might say where the attackers came from, and made sure there weren’t any more rats hiding among them. There weren’t.

By the time Tommy showed up, that was the scene he walked into. There wasn’t much left to do. He offered to take them back to Jackson, patch them up, give them a chance to recover, but they turned him down. They couldn’t abandon Ridgeway, not with incoming shipments on the line. Other communities depended on those runs, not just Jackson.

Thirteen survivors was enough. It had to be. They’d rebuild, same as before. Only this time, as Arthur, their leader, put it, trust wouldn’t come easy anymore.

That said, one thing was settled: Jackson had earned their full trust. And that put it at the very top of Ridgeway’s list when it came to favors.

The trip back dragged on and the homecoming tasted bitter. Facing the families of the dead was never easy, and guilt always came for him, and for everyone. Eric, Jaime, Fionn. Their bodies arrived in white bags, set for burial first thing tomorrow after a ceremony their families had asked for. It never got easier.

Now, trying to clear his head, Joel shed his pajamas and pulled on clean clothes that smelled like lavender soap. He headed down to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it like it had been years since the last one. Then, he crossed the short stretch from his back door to Ellie’s garage and knocked three times. She opened up almost right away.

That morning, she’d greeted him with a tight hug and walked him to the dining room, sitting close while he shared what little he would about the trip over breakfast, which wasn’t much. Barely anything, really. But she stayed. And Joel had to keep a lid on how much that meant to him. They’d argued again before he left, and that wasn’t easy to carry; first time in his life dealing with a teenager. Lord knew he was doing his best.

“How was that nap?” Ellie held the door open while he stepped inside. The room smelled like incense.

“Not near long enough.”

“Then why’d you get up?” she shot back. “Ain’t like you got a schedule today.”

Joel pressed his lips together.

“Didn’t feel like layin’ there.” His gaze drifted around. “What’re you up to?”

Ellie let out a breath and dropped back into her chair. Thick white pages were spread across her desk, full of sketches of familiar faces: Dina, Tommy, Benji, even one of Shimmer. But that wasn’t what she was working on now. She was drawing flowers, the same ones sitting beside her next to a half full mug of tea.

“What d’you think this is?” she asked, lifting the page for him.

Joel braced his fingers on the desk and squinted at it. “Uh… daisies?”

Ellie grinned. “Nope. Chamomile.”

“Oh. Right.” He nodded, like that cleared anything up. “Since when you into plants? Thought they bored you.”

“They do,” she said, glancing at him. “These aren’t for me.”

“What, then?”

“For Snow.”

Joel’s heart kicked. Heat crept up his neck. “Snow?”

“Yeah.” Ellie tapped the page with her pencil. “For her recipe book. Lavender, chamomile, heartleaf arnica, mint, rosemary… she gave me a list. I go find ’em, draw ’em.”

“She’s makin’ a recipe book?”

“Herbal medicine,” Ellie shrugged. “Gonna keep it in the greenhouse.”

“Huh.” Joel nodded, eyes following the lines she’d laid down and the color filling them in.

“She was here yesterday.”

“She was?”

Ellie nodded, setting the pencil aside and turning toward him as he straightened up.

“Yeah. We absolutely wrecked the fridge, by the way.”

Joel raised his brows. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“It was gonna go bad. You seriously expected me to eat all that by myself?”

“I’ve seen you eat, kiddo,” he huffed a laugh. “I know what you can put away.”

“You know the dining hall exists, right?”

“Yeah. Also know you like my cookin’ better.”

She snorted. “Well, you might have competition now.”

Joel folded his arms, one brow ticking up. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Snow’s a damn good cook,” she said, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “But I’m guessin’ you already knew that. You two spend a lotta time together, huh?”

Joel let out a breath through his nose and rolled his eyes, arms still crossed.

“You talked to her?” Ellie asked.

He frowned. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I asked a question. Didn’t think it’d put you on edge.”

“I ain’t on edge.”

“Mhm.”

Ellie turned back to her desk, shuffling the papers; sketches of other plants, the house, familiar stretches of land. She slid a hand through them until she found the one she wanted, tucked careful inside a notebook.

“When you see her, can you give her this?” she said, holding the page out to him. “Did it yesterday, she forgot it.”

Joel took the paper, holding it up for a moment, and scanned it.

It was so unmistakably you. There you were; smiling with your eyes in that way he knew by heart. Your mouth barely curved, but your gaze said everything. Ellie had caught every line of your face, and he could almost hear your voice in that moment, holding something back, biting it down so you wouldn’t ruin the sketch. Must’ve taken effort. You never did know how to keep quiet, did you?

Joel swallowed. “Yeah… alright. Didn’t know you two were close.”

Ellie gave a small nod. “Didn’t know you were, either.”

He pressed his lips together and glanced off to the side, choosing not to take the bait.

“I saw her at the movies the other day,” Ellie went on. “She was with that tall guy.”

“Zach.”

“No, not Zach. I know Zach,” she said, waving a hand. “The other one, the one who hangs out with Clint.”

“Fabrizio?”

“I think so,” she nodded. “Yeah. Definitely Fabrizio.”

Joel nodded a few times, dragging his fingers along the edge of the desk, eyes drifting past Ellie to somewhere behind her.

“What’d you go see?”

“Terminator.” She grinned. “It was fuckin’ awesome.”

Joel winced at the language. “Yeah… that’s a real good one.” He hesitated a beat. “You wanna have dinner tonight?”

Ellie pressed her lips together for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Alright. Eight o’clock, sound good?”

“I’ll be there.”

Joel stepped closer, resting a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

And on his way out, he slipped your portait into the pocket of his jeans.

The ground beneath you was already dry, a gift from the blazing sun that had finally shown up close to noon. It didn’t come down on you harshly, though. No. A beautiful willow stretched above, its weeping branches hanging like tears, shielding you from the sting of the sunlight.

You sat low in a lounge chair, barely off the ground, your legs stretched out and slightly bent, a book resting on your thighs. The Secret History, by Donna Tartt. You’d started it when you arrived barely half an hour ago, and you were only about five pages in. Your fingertips were slow to turn each page, your focus slipping away from you. And maybe this wasn’t the right day for this kind of distraction.

No. Maybe it wasn’t.

It wasn’t a good day in Jackson, even if the bright sun and the suddenly clear sky tried to suggest otherwise. You’d steered clear of the center on purpose, which is how you ended up here; tucked near the stables, a little out of the way. Out there, in the middle of it all, they were probably handling the bodies by now, getting things in order for the morning service. You wanted no part of it.

You weren’t like this. Not all the time. Tomorrow, you’d be useful; whatever they needed, you’d give it. But right now, today, in this exact moment, you had nothing to offer. Something inside you was weighing too heavy, a strange kind of ache that flared up whenever death drew close. Close like this.

You didn’t want to think about it. About the fear that had crept in, dragging up the memory of what it feels like to lose someone. And worse, the way that same fear proved something you didn’t want to admit: you weren’t as strong as you used to be.

Back then, out on your own, fear didn’t have a place in you. Sometimes you even wished something awful would come along and take you out. But when it did, you fought. You always fought. You never really understood why; how, with your body worn down and running on nothing, you still clawed your way through it.

Maybe you couldn’t help it. Maybe you needed to. Maybe, buried deep, there was still a stubborn flicker of hope, some tiny belief that there’d be light at the end of all that dark.

And then you came here. And here it was, that flicker. Shaped like friends. Like kind hands that took you in without question. Like something dangerously close to love. Love that softens you. Love that makes you break, makes you weak.

Zach didn’t buy any of that. According to him, love makes you stronger; gives you something to fight for, something to hold your ground for. Sophie made you stronger. Frances did too. Your parents, all of them.

But what no one tells you is that kind of strength comes with strings attached. It binds you to a life where you’re always brushing up against danger. Bad days, worse nights, never too far from the edge.

And you don’t always see it coming. One small thing can set it all off again, and when it does, your body doesn’t ask permission. It just reacts. Like today; your heart hammering for minutes after you got back to the greenhouse, the anxiety clinging so tight you couldn’t bring yourself to eat what Zach had brought you.

You just had too much to take in. Too much to sort through. And maybe you weren’t as healed as you thought. Or maybe everything just mattered too damn much.

After a few more half focused minutes, you closed your book, dragging your palm over the cover. You really needed to start picking happier reads. Most of what you gravitated toward leaned heavy, messy, aching and complicated, and even when you loved them, they left you wrung out. Last time, it was Jane Eyre. Seeing her find Rochester again, only to discover what he’d become, how hurt he was, it got under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected.

You couldn’t tell if you were growing more sensitive lately, or if you’d always been this way and were only now letting it show. Maybe you’d always been soft.

“Hey.”

You caught the voice before you saw him. Not far, just enough to pull you out of your head. And when you turned to your left, there he was.

Joel was making his way through the short grass, his boots brushing over the green as he walked. His shadow was stretching out in front of him the closer he got, his silhouette sinking into the ground like a melted reflection.

The bruises on his face hadn’t faded since this morning. If anything, they stood out more in the clear daylight. Whatever else he might’ve been hiding, you couldn’t tell; he was covered up in a dark gray flannel, sleeves rolled down, dark jeans, usual boots.

He stepped beneath the willow, brushing aside the low hanging branches that grazed his cheeks.

“Here y’are. Been lookin’ all over for ya,” he said, tilting his head with a soft smile on his mouth. “This your new spot?”

Careful, you set the book down on the ground. “It’s quiet.”

His eyes moved over the place; the scattered grass, the dry earth beneath your feet, the thick trunk rising up into a spill of branches and leaves.

“Sure is. You comfortable there?”

You let out a breath and pushed yourself up from the lounge chair. You shook out your hands a little and nodded.

“It’s pretty comfortable.”

Joel nodded, and your eyes lingered on him for a few seconds. He looked worn down. Tired. Scrapes and bruises marked his cheek and part of his forehead, and there was something at his neck, a faint imprint, like fingers… or something tighter. A rope?

Your stomach turned. You swallowed hard. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“Caught a nap. Was a good one.”

You frowned. “Was it enough?”

“I’ll sleep later tonight. If I stayed down longer, I’d just be starin’ at the ceiling come dark.”

Your lips pressed into a quiet line of disagreement, but you didn’t argue. You didn’t even know what you’d say. You hadn’t expected to see him again today.

Joel watched you in silence, that faint smile fading bit by bit. He shifted his weight, hooking his thumb into his belt.

“How you been these past few days?”

“I’ve been okay,” you nodded. “All good.”

“Ellie told me you were over last night. Says she likes your cookin’,” he said, one brow lifting.

“She told you that?”

“Yeah.” Joel nodded slowly. “Thank you. For, you know… keepin’ her company.”

“Of course. She’s good to be around.”

“You workin’ on a recipe book or somethin’?”

You blinked, quick, dropping your gaze for a second as your arms folded over your chest.

“Yeah. You know, with all the plants and herbs we’ve got here… figured maybe the next people running the greenhouse could keep it going.”

Joel gave a small nod, brows lifting just a touch. Your chest ached looking at him, and you had the sudden, stubborn sense it would ease if you just stepped in and held him. Just once. Just that. I’m so glad you’re safe. That’s all. Just that.

“You alright, then?” he asked, his voice so open, so genuinely curious it made you wonder if something had slipped through, if you were showing more than you meant to.

You straightened a little. “Yeah. Why? I’m fine.”

“Nothin’, I just…” He shook his head. “When I saw you this mornin’, you looked kinda… I don’t know—”

“I was tired, that’s all. Been a little under the weather these past few days. You know how it is.”

A lie. But it did the job.

Joel pressed his lips together. “You got fall allergies?”

“Maybe that’s it.”

He nodded, even though it wasn’t quite fall yet. Didn’t seem to matter.

A beat passed. Another.

“Got a letter for me?”

You let out a sharper breath this time, fingers tapping once against your arm before you stilled them.

“No, Joel, I don’t. You told me to save it for when you got back, so I haven’t written anything yet.”

And it’s not like you even knew if he would come back. Not until this morning, right?

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. His gaze dropped to your feet, and he gave a small shake of his head.

“Is something wrong or—”

You shifted your weight, jaw tightening, eyes flicking away from him and back again.

“Jesus, Joel, enough with the questions, alright?” you cut in, your arms pulling tighter across your chest. “I just came out here to read my damn book in peace. Alone.”

You saw it land, every word of it, but he didn’t show much. Still, the second it left your mouth, you felt like a complete jerk.

Joel nodded slowly. His eyes dipped to the chair, the book, then back to you. He shifted, like he might say something, but it didn’t quite make it out. His hand hovered near his belt, then dropped.

“...Alright.”

There was no edge to it. No bite. He gave one last look and then, he turned.

You watched him go. Step by step, he moved back through the grass, the distance opening between you just as easily as it had closed. The willow branches swayed faintly behind him, settling back into place around you alone.

His shadow stretched out in behind him now, long and thin, following his every step as he walked away, pulling farther, softer, until both of them blurred into the light.

A day later. Dining hall. Jackson. Afternoon.

This day kept wearing you down by the minute. Your body ached for no clear reason, like you were on the brink of coming down with something. Maybe it was life’s way of calling you out for lying to Joel yesterday, telling him you’d been sick. Oh, you want a cold? There you go, dummy. Have one.

The service for the dead in Ridgeway was held that morning. The sky stayed heavy and overcast through most of it, the sun only breaking through a few hours after the coffins were lowered into the ground. Two of the widows held their small children close; another held only herself, stiff and unreachable, refusing every hand that reached for her. She didn’t accept a single embrace, didn’t let anyone comfort her, just walked off alone when it was over, head bowed, like the weight of it all belonged to her and her alone. And it was true.

Joel wasn’t there. You caught yourself scanning the crowd anyway, searching for him out of habit, and strangely, felt relief when you didn’t find him. Funny how that worked. You’d spent the rest of the day avoiding him for the exact same reason: you didn’t want to face how much of a jerk you’d been to him.

And yet, what really got under your skin was him, his whole act. Like everything was fine. Like nothing had happened. Like there weren’t marks of violence still lingering at his throat, like the bruises on his face weren’t fresh. Asking casual questions as if he hadn’t almost died, as if he hadn’t all but told Tommy to keep you away and let him handle it alone. No, you couldn’t deal with that.

You didn’t see him all day. Not at the greenhouse, not on your way to the stables, not even in the streets as you walked toward the dining hall.

By the time you got there, your appetite had already checked out.

In front of you sat a cup of tea and a grilled cheese and nothing else. Your first real attempt at food all day if you didn’t count the coffee you’d forced down that morning, despite your unsettled stomach.

“Think Isa might know what else we can do with what we’ve got?” you asked, lifting the cup to your lips while your other hand kept your notebook steady.

“Yeah, I’d bet she does. She’s the one who showed me how to take care of the plants in the first place,” Zach said from across the table. “You gonna go talk to her?”

“That’s the plan. There’s a lot in the greenhouse that’s not being used the way it should.”

Zach tipped his head to the side. “We should give some of those plants away too. Ain’t exactly swimmin’ in space. I was thinkin’ we could bring a few out here, let people see them, take them home if they want.”

“Yeah. I could bring some to the school as well. Maria told me the classrooms are ready, we could help decorate. There’s plenty of windows.”

“Oh,” Zach said, glancing up. “How’s that comin’ along? You got it all figured out yet?”

“You mean the classes?”

“Mm-hm.”

You let out a breath and set your notebook down on the table. “I put together a reading plan. Jackson’s got a real nice children’s section, lots of good stories. I want them to start there, ease into it, and then build from that. I dunno the younger kids’ ages yet, though. I’ll probably have a better handle on things once I meet them.”

“And when do you start?”

“In a couple weeks.”

“Look at you,” he said, taking your hand and giving it a gentle shake. “All Miss Snow now.”

“Oh, hush,” you muttered, your cheeks warming. “I just hope it all goes well.”

“It will. I know it will.”

You dipped your head, suddenly shy, and opened your notebook right where you’d left off; pages crowded with notes and little doodles that had nothing to do with anything important.

“Hey… you see Joel yesterday?”

“What?” Your head lifted, not fast, but quick enough to give you away.

“Yesterday. You see him?”

“How do you know?”

Zach raised his brows. “That a yes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Oh.” He nodded, studying you a little more carefully now. “He came by lookin’ for you yesterday afternoon. Stopped by to see me.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

Your gaze dropped again, settling on the faint reflection in your tea. You pictured Joel walking around, asking about you, maybe he had something to say, or maybe he just wanted to check in or—

“Oh God,” you sighed.

“What?”

You shook your head, looking back at Zach. “I was awful to him yesterday. He came to see me by the stables and I—” you huffed softly, frustrated with yourself. “I was a complete jerk.”

A half smile tugged at his mouth. “What d’you mean? What’d you say to him?”

You shrugged. “Nothing, I… I just made it very clear, in a not-so-subtle way, that he should leave me alone.”

Zach let out a quiet laugh. “And why’d you go and do that?”

You pressed a hand to your jaw. “I don’t know. I didn’t wanna see him. I wasn’t feeling great.”

“Jesus, I don’t understand you women.”

You scoffed. “No, Zach. I don’t understand you men.”

“And what’d I do?”

“Ugh, nothing!” You dragged both hands over your face, covering your eyes before letting out a heavy sigh and dropping them again. “It’s just, he showed up acting like everything was fine, and it’s not. It’s not. What is wrong with him? Oh, and did I tell you he apparently talked to Tommy so that if anything went down in Ridgeway, I wouldn’t be allowed to go with them? Ellie told me. And I don’t know about you, but I trust her.”

“Okay… how’s that now?”

“That’s it, what else is there?”

Zach shook his head, amused. “And why d’you think he did that?”

You clicked your tongue. “Why else would he? He’s controlling. He wasn’t gonna be around to make sure I didn’t do something he wouldn’t approve of, so he handed the job off to his little brother. And honestly,” you added, lifting your brows, “I can’t believe Tommy went along with it. I’m mad at him too.”

“Uh,” Zach nodded slowly. “You don’t think there might be some other reason Joel did that?”

“Yeah? Like what?”

He pressed his lips together, giving a small shrug. “I don’t know… maybe he was tryin’ to look out for you?”

“No, no,” you waved him off. “Joel’s always like this. Ever since I met him. Always going behind my back making sure I don’t do this or that.”

“And that cancels out the part where he might just care about you?”

Frustration flared, hot and restless. You exhaled, hooking your fingers through the handle of your cup and gripping it a little tighter than necessary.

“Whatever. I don’t agree with it.”

“Then why don’t you go ask him?”

“I already know what he’s gonna say, and I don’t want to argue.”

“Why would you argue? Don’t make much sense.” Zach frowned slightly. “He’s back, ain’t he? Safe and sound, by the way. And if I remember right, just yesterday you were all torn up, scared and all, didn’t know if he was comin’ back, if he was okay. Now he’s here and what?” He tipped his head, “you’re just gonna stay mad at him? For how long?”

“Oh, Zach—”

“No, don’t ‘oh, Zach’ me. You know I’m right.” He leaned forward a little. “Three people didn’t make it back from that trip, Snow. And I promise you, the people who loved them would give just about anything to have them walkin’ through that door again. Joel came back.” A small pause. “So what, you gonna act like you don’t care?”

“You know I care,” you shot back. “Of course I care.”

“Then what’re you gonna do?” he asked, softer now. “Sit here and stay mad, or go see him? Don’t you wanna know why he was lookin’ for you?”

You bit your tongue and let out a quiet breath, your gaze dropping to the table. Your eyes started to burn, and you blinked quickly, trying to chase the tears away.

“Oh, hey, no, no, darlin’,” Zach murmured, already getting to his feet. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he sat beside you and slipped an arm around your shoulders. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

If anyone was watching, you didn’t want to know. So you let him pull you in between his warm arms, your face pressed against his chest as the tears finally slipped free. You cried softly while his hand moved over your back; gentle, easy, again and again, until the ache started to ease.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You didn’t say nothing wrong.” You paused, then added softly, “You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

“No, you ain’t stupid,” he assured you. “You’re just stubborn as hell, and I love you anyway, alright? We all do.”

“I’m sorry.”

Zach leaned back just enough to look at you, studying your face for a second. He shook his head.

“It’s okay, baby. We all get scared sometimes.”

Two hours later. Your house. Afternoon.

The walk to the greenhouse did its job; it made you feel better. At that hour, the place was usually hushed, and you didn’t stay long. Just enough to grab what you needed and slip out before anyone started wondering what you were doing there after five. You shut the door properly, keyed in the alarm, and left without a trace.

Heartleaf arnica oil, lavender oil, rose water, and mint extract. Four small bottles, now lined up across your kitchen counter after the ride home in your bag. Next to them sat the blueberry pie you’d pulled from the oven just twenty minutes ago. Peak season in Jackson, by the way; someone had dropped off bags overflowing with berries in the dining hall and you knew you had to try them.

It was your first time baking a pie, but you followed Isabella’s recipe. Made two, actually. One full sized, one small; just a single serving. You’d already tested the smaller one. Call it quality control: It passed. More than passed, it was really good.

The oils, the rose water, the extract, the pie. And beside them, two soaps Zach made; tiny lemons, almond scented, almost too pretty to use. You slipped them into a small cloth pouch, then packed the bottles into a larger one, giving each enough space so nothing would knock together or spill. You double-checked the corks, just in case.

Beside it, a letter. You’d written it the moment you got home, while the pie baked, making a conscious effort not to let it tip into anything too sentimental. And you stuck to the pact you and Joel had: nothing from the outside world made it onto the page. So you kept it carefully clean; a reply to his last letter, a couple of small anecdotes, a glimpse of how your week in Jackson had been. No mention of Ridgeway.

You crouched, reaching under the counter for your basket, the same one you’d packed weeks ago for that picnic with Joel. The one that never happened. You set it on the counter and, with care, placed the pie inside, sealed in a glass container, along with the cheese rolls you’d made an hour ago. A couple set aside for Zach, the rest tucked neatly into the basket.

You didn’t want the food picking up the scent of the soaps or anything else, so you grabbed a brown paper bag and slipped the smaller cloth pouches inside. The letter went in last, resting off to the side.

You let out a breath, adjusting everything one final time, fingertips lingering as your stomach twisted again. Nerves, maybe.

It was warm in here. Or maybe you’d just overheated from baking. Either way, the day had leaned hot, the weather turning fickle; cool yesterday, warm today, tomorrow could go either way.

You moved the basket aside, everything set, nice and ready for later, and headed to your room. A moment later, at your closet, you pulled the doors open and started going through your clothes.

Question, question, question: what in here said I’m sorry for how I treated you, please forgive me best?

A skirt? Jeans? Denim shorts? You could wear that dress from last time… you knew he liked it. But no… too obvious.

From the clothes Isa had given you, there were two pieces you loved and hadn’t had a reason to wear yet. One was a skirt; dark blue, almost black. Light fabric, soft and cool, falling from your waist to your calves. When you walked, it slipped between your legs in a really nice graceful way you’d only ever admired in the mirror, never outside the house.

The second was a dress. Pure white, delicate brocade. The square neckline suited you, held everything just right, lifted in all the ways it should. A neat row of small buttons ran down the front, stopping just above your navel. The sleeves reached your elbows, slightly puffed. It cinched at the waist, hugging your shape just enough, and the skirt fell easy, brushing a little past your knees. Was that too much?

Careful, you slipped out of it and let it fall onto the bed, left in just your underwear. The floor was cool under your feet as you crossed into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped beneath it. You washed up, unhurried, following the same steps as always. You were getting good at it; had your own routine now, one you’d settled into without thinking. You liked going to sleep with your skin feeling soft and clean. It made the night air feel better against it.

It didn’t take you long to finish getting ready. You moisturized, pulled on the white dress, socks and your boots. With your hair, you worked through the tangles carefully and tried to style it, but it didn’t quite land. So you reached for a clip and pinned it up, leaving a few loose strands to soften your face.

Smelling sweet enough to pass for dessert yourself, you grabbed the basket and just before six, stepped out of the house.

In the dining hall, you found Zach deep in conversation with Bruno. You didn’t want to cut in, not when he’d just gotten back from Ridgeway and clearly had plenty to catch up on. You’d ask later.

You offered a small shy hello, trying not to break their convo, though you couldn’t resist shooting Zach a sly look. You set the cheese bread down, enough for both of them, and wished them a good dinner.

“Seen Joel around?” you asked, lingering just a second longer.

Zach shook his head. “Nah.” He glanced at Bruno. “You seen him?”

“No, sorry.” Bruno smiled.

“Probably at his place,” Zach added.

You pressed your lips together. “Yeah, I’ll check. Might run into him on the way.” A quick smile. “See you later.”

“Hey, hold up.”

You stopped on instinct. Zach crooked a finger, calling you closer.

“What?”

He leaned in, voice low by your ear. “Don’t gotta come by the greenhouse tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

“Get some rest.”

He lifted his brows, and the look he gave you said the rest.

God. Heat rushed to your cheeks the second it clicked.

“Alright,” you straightened, clearing your throat. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“I’m tellin’ you now.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh yeah? And who are you? My boss?”

Bruno chuckled under his breath.

“Just sayin’. Heard Maria’s gonna be at the only one there tomorrow, so… you know. Nobody else around.”

A little flustered, you glanced at Bruno, who was smiling without quite following.

“Okay, I’ll let you eat in peace,” you said, giving a small nod, acutely aware of the warmth creeping up the back of your neck.

You turned and catched their goodbyes over your shoulder, and headed out of the dining hall without any rush, setting off toward Joel’s place. Still, your eyes stayed sharp, sweeping the area in case he was around. He usually was; always moving, always busy with hands full with one thing or another. But today… you weren’t so sure. Not after the last few days. His body had to still be catching up, and you doubted he could just slip back into his usual pace like nothing had happened.

Emily stood off to one side, talking to Jerry, her hands moving through the air as she gave what looked like instructions. Something about her had been getting under your skin lately, especially the way she’d spoken to you. You didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Further down, you spotted Flo, and Hugh not far from her. For a second, you thought you saw Fabrizio too, but no. Just someone else. Trevor, though, was hard to miss, standing outside the Tipsy Bison. You looked away the second you recognized him. His face still carried the marks Joel had left behind, and seeing him like that made something in your chest twist. It felt… off. Strange. Either way, Joel wasn’t there.

Better to just go straight to his place. No point wandering around when the answer was obvious. So you did.

You took your time along the path, letting yourself sink into the quiet of it. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sky stretched out, clear and wide, and the light softened everything it touched. Grass brushed along your sides as you walked, and the sound of birds filled the air. A gentle breeze slipped between your legs, grazing your thighs and knees, drifting higher; brushing your collarbones, the edges of your ears. You could feel it everywhere.

And when Joel’s house finally came into view, your stomach twisted all over again. You wanted him to be home, but all at once, you kind of hoped he wasn’t.

Stupid, contradictory brain.

You slowly climbed the porch steps and let out a quiet breath, stopping in front of his door. You fought the urge to peek through the window. Instead, you knocked.

Knock, knock, knock.

Silence.

You waited a few seconds, your gaze dropping to your feet. One of your boots had a leaf stuck to the tip. You gave it a small shake to get rid of it.

“Shit,” you muttered, lifting your head again.

Knock, knock, knock.

A beat.

Then another.

“There’s no one home.”

The voice made you jump. You turned your head so fast your breath catched.

Joel stood by the gate, just beyond the fence, one hand resting against the white wood. You didn’t say anything. He pushed the gate open and walked up with all the patience in the world, closing the distance while you stood there, suddenly feeling a little out of place.

He took the steps, and when he stopped in front of you, he tipped his chin up just slightly. His gaze dropped; from your face to your neck, your chest, your legs.

“I just got here,” you said, still with your back to his door.

“I know. Been right behind you.”

“Oh,” you exhaled, fingers tightening a little around the basket. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Joel gave a small shrug and pressed his lips together.

Under his gaze, you felt nervous, your back suddenly too close to the wall. And as if he could feel it, he stepped forward. Then closer. And closer still, until your body was caught between his and the door behind you.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes, then down again. You swallowed. He moved.

His arm lifted, brushing past your hip and close enough to make you tense as his hand reached behind you. And his eyes never left yours, taking his time with it.

The door clicked open behind you. He’d opened it, and the wood shifted back. You turned your head slightly, catching a glimpse of the dim entryway from the corner of your eye and a second later, Joel gestured for you to go in.

So you did. You stepped inside, a few paces in, then turned just in time to watch him close the door behind him.

His hair looked soft today, softer than usual, somehow. Before he turned back to you, you noticed the curls tucked behind his ears, at the nape of his neck. And when he faced you again, the loose strands falling over his forehead.

Joel wore a green and dark gray flannel, threaded with faint brown lines, paired with blue jeans and worn in cowboy boots. He walked past you without a word, but the message was clear: follow. So you did.

In silence, you trailed him into the kitchen, watching as he opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of water.

“I brought you a few things,” you said, setting the basket down on the counter, your eyes tracking the way he placed two glass cups by the sink.

Joel tipped the jug, filling them. “You did?”

“Yeah, um…” You opened the basket and pulled out the neatly folded paper.

You stepped closer, and Joel looked up at you. Almost shy, you lifted your hand and held the letter out. He took it a second later.

A quiet breath left his nose as he looked down at it. For a moment, you thought he’d open it right there, but instead, he reached for one of the glasses and held it out to you.

“Have some.”

You took it, bringing it to your lips, only then realizing how thirsty you were after the first sip.

“How long were you walking behind me?”

He set the letter on top of the fridge. “Couple blocks.”

“A couple blocks?”

“Yeah. From the dining hall, actually.”

Your brows lifted. “The dining hall? Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Joel pressed his lips together. “Don’t know.”

“I didn’t see you there.”

“I know. Got there after you left,” he nodded. “Zach told me you were heading this way, so I stepped out. Saw you up ahead. You were takin’ your time, so wasn’t hard to catch up.”

Your frown deepened. “I didn’t hear you at all.”

He took a step closer, resting his palm against the counter, one foot crossing over the other.

“You really should pay more attention to what’s around you,” he said, tilting his head. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“No. You’ve always been quiet on your feet. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He huffed, faintly. “Debatable. You were distracted.”

You let out a breath, glancing off to the side for a second.

“Joel, please don’t be difficult,” you said, looking back at him. “I need to talk to you, and I won’t if you keep pushing me.”

A beat.

His gaze dropped to your feet, then dragged back up to your face. “Alright… sorry.”

You exhaled again, shifting to lean your hip against the counter, and pressed your teeth lightly into the inside of your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you said at last, folding your arms across your stomach. “About yesterday. I wasn’t kind. I didn’t treat you right. I didn’t mean to. I mean,” you shook your head, “I just… I wasn’t feeling great.”

“I know. It’s alright.”

“And you were probably feeling worse after that trip, so… I didn’t exactly help.”

He shook his head. “It’s alright. You don’t gotta apologize.”

“Why not?”

“I know you needed space.”

You pushed off the counter. “No, but—I mean, yeah, I did, but you…” You trailed off, shaking your head again. “I don’t know.”

You looked at him, a little unsteady, unsure what to say or how to line your thoughts up into something that made sense. Your hand slid down your arm, fingers catching at the skin of your thumb.

Joel stepped closer, stopping just a few inches away, but not quite close enough to feel his warmth. “Hey, five days is a long time.”

A breath slipped out of you, and you nodded faintly, letting your eyes hold his, even when you already felt weak under the weight of it.

You felt Joel’s hand rise between you, settling gently along your jaw. He leaned in, and his thumb brushed over your cheek before his lips pressed softly against your skin. Your eyes closed on instinct, your hands finding his biceps and gripping as you leaned into him.

He kissed the corner of your mouth; once, twice, three times. Small, little kisses. Then finally, he found your lips, pulling you into a deeper kiss that stole a soft sigh from you.

Your arms slid up, wrapping around his shoulders, your hands slipping behind his neck to hold him there, close, closer, flush against you. His hands moved over your back, your waist, caressing you as your body pressed fully against his.

You held on tighter, tighter feeling the warmth and solid weight of him beneath your hands. And suddenly, your lips parted from his and you buried your face into the curve of his neck instead.

Joel pressed a kiss to your shoulder and your eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the thick tears gathering behind your lashes from spilling over.

You couldn’t cry now. You didn’t want to cry now. What was wrong with you, that suddenly everything made you want to?

Casually, you brushed your hand over your eyes, swallowing the emotion before it could show. Joel pressed another kiss to your skin; and then another, and another, and another along your neck and just when he was about to press another, you pulled back just enough to catch his mouth with yours again. Just a tiny little short kiss.

He smiled. “Gonna show me what you brought for me?”

Slowly, you eased away from him and stepped over to it. You reached out, grabbing the basket.

You pulled out the brown paper bag and set it on the marble, then carefully lifted out the glass container. Joel moved in beside you right away, watching as you took the lid off.

“I made you a blueberry pie,” you said, holding it up for him with a hint of pride. It was your first one and it looked damn good, okay?

You set it down gently, and he wasted no time picking it up and bringing it closer to his face. He gave it a couple of slow sniffs.

“Jesus… smells damn good. Looks real pretty too.”

“Thanks,” you smiled, reaching back into the basket. “I brought some cheese bread, too.”

“You make that as well?”

You nodded, setting the container down beside the pie.

“Gotta hand it to Ellie,” he added. “You’re a good cook. Better than me, that’s for sure.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh. “Are you seriously admitting that?”

He gave a small shrug. “’I’m not that gifted.”

You scoffed lightly, nudging the basket aside. “You haven’t even tried any of it.”

“Got a feelin’.”

You picked up the paper bag. “Alright, there’s a few things in here, okay?”

Joel nodded, a slight crease forming between his brows as he watched your hands.

First, you pulled out a small bag of soaps.

“Soap. It’s almond, though it looks like a lemon,” you smiled. “Zach made these. They’re really good, and they smell nice. Here, smell it.”

You held the bag out to him. Joel leaned in, bringing it closer to his nose.

“Mhm. I like it.”

“Yeah?” You set them down on the counter as he nodded, then reached for the next bag. “Okay, this is a mix of things,” you said, arranging the small bottles one by one across the surface. “Lavender oil, rose water… you know what those are for.”

Joel reached out, picking up one of the bottles.

“That one’s heartleaf arnica oil,” you said, pointing to it. “It’s got a lot of uses; good for muscle aches, joint pain, things like arthritis. It’s a great anti-inflammatory overall. And it helps with skin too, irritation and stuff. You’ll probably need it in winter. I’ve seen how your face gets all messed up and irritated from the cold.”

Joel’s mouth tipped into a sideways smile.

“But,” you went on, “it’s also really good for bruises. From what I read, it helps with swelling and all that. So… it’s kind of perfect for you right now.”

“Am I that bad off?”

Your eyes locked onto his, suddenly serious. “I don’t think that’s funny.”

“Well, there’s spots I can’t reach,” he said, setting the bottle back down.

“Oh yeah? Need a hand or something?”

Joel smirked.

“Anyway,” you went on, turning back to the counter and picking up the next bottle, “this is mint extract. It’s good for a bunch of things. You can rub it on your skin if your muscles ache, or for headaches, here,” you tapped your temples, “or wherever it hurts. If you’re sick, you can inhale it, it helps with congestion. And if your stomach’s bothering you, you can drink a little. Just a little, okay? You can dilute it with some oil too. That’s probably better.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Where’d you get all this?”

“It’s all local. And, well, you can make oil out of just about anything, even if not all of it’s actually good,” you said with a small shrug. “I read a lot about it in a book Isa gave me, too.”

“That’s great,” Joel nodded. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll use all of it.”

You smiled, dropping your gaze for a moment before lifting it back to him. Your eyes lingered on his face just for a few seconds before slipping down to his neck.

There, the mark stood out. Purple in places, pink along the edges, fading yellow in others.

Carefully, you reached out, resting your fingertips against it.

“What happened here?”

He let you touch him for a moment. Your thumb brushed over his Adam’s apple as it moved.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, gently taking your hand. “It’s nothing. It’ll fade soon, and if not, I’ll use one of those.” He nodded toward the oils.

You exhaled softly through your nose, letting your hand fall with his, settling briefly against his chest.

“Alright.”

If he didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine. It wasn’t your place to pull it out of him, and truthfully, whatever he might say would probably hurt to hear anyway.

You slipped your hand from his and busied yourself closing the basket, setting it off to the side. You folded the brown paper bag neatly and placed it aside too. All the while, you could feel his eyes on you; steady, unmoving. You had to bite back a smile.

When you looked at him, he was serious. The kitchen light cast a cool tone but his face still looked warm. His expression seemed neutral, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk in his eyes.

“What?” you asked.

Joel’s gaze drifted down your body. “Nothin’.”

You smiled, taking him in, every bit of it. His hand reached out, fingers hooking into the small ribbon tied at the small of your back where the fabric cinched at your waist. You held your breath as he gave it a gentle pull. It was not forceful, just enough to ask, to draw you in. And you gave in.

Joel stepped closer, pulling you with him until your back met his chest, guiding you forward until you were pressed lightly against the counter. Inside you, everything sped up; your heart, your breathing, your chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You tilted your head, and he settled his chin into the crook of your neck.

“You wearin’ this for me?”

The smooth sound of his voice made your eyes fall shut.

“Yes.”

Joel hummed satisfied, and the vibration brushed against your back. One of his hands came to rest against your stomach.

“Can I take it off you?”

“Yes.”

“Right here?”

A smile tugged at your lips. Your hand found the edge of the counter, fingers tightening around it.

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

His hand slid up from your stomach, reaching the line of buttons down the front of your dress. One by one, he began to undo them, his gaze fixed on your chest as more skin slowly came into view as he pressed closer into you, his other hand tightening at your hip.

You could feel him there; heavy, tethered heat right behind you.

When you opened your eyes, your gaze drifted down to his hand. He wasn't rushing; he took his sweet time with every single button, working his way down until the very last one gave way. Then, he eased the fabric back, exposing you to the cool air. Your breasts were bare, your nipples peaking under his steady gaze.

His breath hitched just a little against your ear as he cupped one of them; his palm felt warm and rough. You were sure your heart was thudding so hard he could feel your heartbeat right in his fingertips.

You tilted your head back like an invitation he didn't waste a second in answering; he pressed his hungry mouth to the line of your jaw, kissing you softly as his free hand wandered upward, grazing and squeezing every inch of skin it found. It climbed higher and higher and higher until his fingers curled around your throat in a gentle firm pressure that pinned you against his lips. A low moan vibrated deep in your chest, trapped between your ribs and his hand.

"Look at me," he murmured.

He nudged your face toward his, claiming your mouth in a kiss. His tongue flicked past your lips and you met him eagerly, another whimper breaking loose as you tasted him.

Your entire body was flushed, a feverish heat blooming across your neck, your ears, and pooling deep in your belly. And as if he could feel the fire in you, Joel shifted his grip from your breasts to your shoulders, dragging the fabric down your arms. You helped him with your clumsy and desperate hands until he gave the tie at your waist one sharp tug. A heartbeat later, the dress pooled at your feet, leaving nothing between you.

His mouth finally broke away from yours, leaving your lips slick and aching. And his hand didn't waste a second, sliding down the curve of your belly until it settled right between your thighs. Even through the thin lace of your underwear, the feeling of the weight of his palm sent a jolt through you, making your hips jerk back instinctively.

"Joel," you breathed, your voice unrecognizable.

Under the gravity of his hands, the woman you were dissolved, replaced by someone far more desperate and alive. Oh, how beautifully you transformed within his grasp; no longer bound by the world’s expectations, but free to be nothing but sensation and desire.

He caught the scruff of your neck with a steady hand, tilting your head to the side to clear a path, and buried his face in your shoulder, peppering your neck with kisses while his other hand possessively wandered. You could feel the desperation rolling off him; in the way his fingers touched you, in the way he ground his hips against you. He was hard, and the heavy denim of his jeans was unable to hide just how much he wanted you.

In a sudden move, Joel gripped your hips, hauling you around to face him until he had you pinned against the cold stone. And there, that same desperation flared in you; raw, greedy, needy and far past the point of no return. You threw your arms around him and claimed his mouth, your tongues tangling as you crushed your bare chest against his shirt.

God, the sensation of his clothes against your sensitive aching nipples made your head spin. His belt buckle pressed hard into your stomach, sending shivers racing across your skin while the edge of the marble counter bit into the small of your back.

Joel’s mouth traveled down your jaw, finding that sweet spot on your neck. He devoured you; his lips were hot and wet, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make him let out a low animalistic groan. Oh fuck. Your eyes fluttered shut, and a defeated moan escaped you as you went limp in his arms.

There was no point in fighting it. Honestly, did you ever stand a chance?

Your head fell back, further and further, as he continued to feast on your skin. Your fingers dug into the nape of his neck, clutching at him, stroking his back, trying to pull every bit of him closer than humanly possible.

And in the middle of that storm, Joel’s hands dropped to your thighs and hoisted you up. Your feet lost their hold on the floor, your spine arching as his mouth abandoned your neck for your collarbones, diving lower toward your breasts.

Joel’s teeth grazed you, and a gasp exploded from your lips; he caught your nipple between his teeth for a fleeting heartbeat before swirling his tongue around it, drawing the whole peak into his mouth.

"Oh, Joel," you moaned, completely undone.

He nipped at you again, and again, and again. And just after a moment, he pulled back. His gaze moved up to meet yours, and you reached out; your thumb traced the line of his jaw with a sudden aching sweetness.

His eyes were so dark, pupils blown wide; drunk and dazed, high on you. The flush in his cheeks and neck made the marks of his life stand out even more; the bruise on his cheek, the faded one on his forehead, all of it softened by the way he looked at you.

You let your thumb drift down from his jaw, dragging it over the seam of his lips until they parted for you. He looked rugged, worn by this world, but in your light, he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Without a word, he leaned in, starting with a kiss so delicate it was almost a tease. But the restraint snapped like a dry branch. Within seconds, the kiss turned deep and hungry, a slick slide of tongues. It was a messy desperate claim.

Joel’s large hands tightened on your thighs, hiking your legs up until you were forced to wrap them around his waist. He stepped into the space, crowding you, pressing his crotch directly against your center. The friction of his denim against your almost bare skin was a delicious torture. And every time he ground his hips forward, a jagged moan was swallowed by his mouth as you arched into him.

He was solid, a mountain of a man; rough as a bull, they said. But in this room, as his sweet hands squeezed your hips, pinning you to his body, you felt like you were finally right where you were meant to be.

The kiss stretched out, turning deeper and more frantic until there was no air left. And suddenly, Joel’s hands hooked under your thighs; he hoisted you up in one quick move. But you didn't break the contact, your arms winding around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck to keep him close as he carried you.

For a split second, a flicker of worry pierced through the haze. You thought of the bruises you’d just touched—Ridgeway. You wondered if his body was screaming under your weight, if maybe he was hurt. But that doubt vanished the moment you felt the unwavering strength in his stride. He wasn't staggering.

He backed up toward the wooden chair tucked against the table a few feet away. His eyes never left yours until he sat, bringing you down with him for a fleeting second. Then, he gripped your waist and forced you to turn around.

You stood there, back to him, trembling as the cool air hit your body. You felt his calloused fingers hook into the elastic of your underwear, slowly dragging the lace down the length of your legs, and then, you were completely exposed, wearing nothing but your boots. You started to reach down to tug them off.

"Leave 'em on."

You froze, your fingers hovering near the leather. And then, his hands returned to your hips, his thumbs digging into the dip of your waist as he pulled you back.

"On my lap," he murmured. "Now."

You sank onto his lap, one arm winding around the back of his neck to steady yourself. Joel adjusted you, hitching you higher against his chest as his palms roamed over your skin with kneading pressure; massaging your thighs, your ribs, before one hand settled firmly at your waist.

You let out a shaky sigh as he shifted your weight. He reached down to guide your legs, spreading them wide until he lifted one over his knee, leaving you completely undone and open to him.

The sight was intoxicating; you looked down to see yourself flushed, swollen, and glistening with a slick heat. And when your gaze flicked back to his, you saw he was staring too; his breathing was ragged as he stared at your dripping cunt. And without a word, he raised his hand toward your face.

You didn't need a command; you parted your lips immediately, welcoming his fingers into the heat of your mouth. You swirled your tongue around his fingertips, coating them in your saliva, and a low guttural groan rumbled in his chest. Just like that. And when he finally pulled them free, a wet pop came out of your puffed lips.

Joel watched you in silence for a heartbeat until you leaned in to claim his mouth. You kissed him with everything you had, your tongue tangling with his in a wet slide. And while your mouths were still fused, you felt his slicked fingers find you.

He began to work his hand against your folds, his touch teasing at first as he traced the sensitive skin before his fingers found your clit. He started with a steady slow rhythm, creating a friction that gradually sharpened.

You tore your mouth away from his and a broken moan escaped you as you looked down, and driven by the ache, you began to grind your hips. Joel let out a choked-off growl as he felt your weight moving against his stiff aching cock through the rough fabric of his jeans.

Joel’s hand became a blur, the friction sharpening until every nerve ending in your body was screaming. You gritted your teeth, your head tossing back as a desperate plea broke from your throat.

"Yes, Joel... please," you cried out, your breath coming in short jagged hitches. You began to move harder against him, hips rolling in search for more pressure, chasing the peak that felt just inches out of reach. Your skin was so sensitive that even the air felt like a caress.

Joel’s other hand clamped firmly over your stomach, his fingers splaying wide as he hauled you flush against his chest. He shifted his touch, pinning your clit beneath his thumb, and then, with a low growl, he slid two fingers inside you.

You went deathly still, and the air stopped in your lungs as you felt him stretching you open. Both of you looked down, gazes locked on the sight of his rugged thick fingers disappearing inch by inch into your slick slit. The contrast of his stained skin against your soft-slicked folds was mesmerizing; a slow, relentless invasion that filled the ache deep inside you until you felt like you might shatter.

Joel turned his head, his gaze heavy and molten as it locked onto yours. And then, a small uncharacteristically soft smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

He leaned in and pressed his lips right against the shell of your ear.

"The sweetest thing," he whispered. He pulled back just an inch. "All for me."

Without breaking eye contact, he began to move. His fingers started a deep slide inside you, and he watched with a predatory focus as your composure began to fray. Joel delighted in every twitch of your muscles, every hitch in your breath as you tried to stay steady under his eyes. But the pleasure was too much, too intense; a broken moan tore from your throat and your eyes fluttered shut as you lost the battle.

The sound of him working inside you was slick and unapologetically loud; a wet squelch that almost filled the entire house. The friction was building, more and more, as a pulsing tension that made your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

You forced your eyes open, glancing down to see his thick sturdy fingers disappearing and reappearing, curling and coated in your own slickness. They were dripping, glistening as they hammered into you with an increasing desperate speed. Every thrust was deep, hitting that sweet spot that made your vision swim.

You let out a jagged gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you threw your head back, exposing your throat. And Joel didn't let up; he hooked his thumb harder against your clit, circling it ruthlessly while his fingers continued their pace. He was milking every sound out of you, stretching you as he drove you higher and higher.

You clamped your hand over the arm he had anchored across your stomach, your nails digging into his skin as a loud, broken cry tore from your throat. It was a jagged sound, halfway between a scream and a sob, echoing off the walls as you threw your head back.

"Joel, oh God!" you wept, your voice fracturing.

Your hips bucked and jerked in a series of violent shocks as the first wave of the orgasm slammed into you. Joel didn’t slow down; he kept his hand moving with intensity, his own breathing coming harshly. It was a complete white-out; an explosion of heat that left you entirely undone.

And you couldn't stay quiet; you let out a string of high, breathless gasps and soft weeping moans, your body shuddering with every throb of pleasure.

He let out a guttural groan of his own and pressed his forehead against your shoulder as he felt the way you clamped down on him. You were squeezing his fingers, your internal muscles pulsing in tight desperate ripples, and Joel continued to curl them deep inside you, stealing the very last of the sensation from you.

And as the peak slowly began to level off into a low humming ache, your hips finally went still, little by little, and your head slumped against his neck.

Joel eased his hand out of you, the wet sound of his withdrawal loud in the sudden quiet kitchen. Both of you sat there for a moment, just a moment.

A short moment. Because even when you felt shattered and your mind was still hazy and a mess, Joel didn't give you long to recover. He pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin, and hauled you to your feet.

Your knees buckled, the world spinning for a second, but his large hands were there instantly, catching you by the waist and pulling you flush against his side to steady you.

He looked at you with dark hungry eyes.

"Upstairs," he muttered."Now, c'mon."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his hand at the small of your back acting as a grounding force as he nudged you forward.

Your legs felt like water, trembling with every step, but Joel didn't let you falter. He pulled you flush against him, his arm wrapping securely around you and guiding your pace.

You’d never felt him quite like this; stripped of his usual weary patience, replaced by a hunger so harsh it was almost tactile.

Joel marched you toward the stairs, but before your foot could hit the first step, he spun you around, pinning your back against the wall. He claimed your mouth in a feverish, soul searing kiss that tasted of pure, unadulterated need, and his hands dove under your thighs, hoisting you up until you instinctively locked your legs around his waist.

You let out a breathless, giddy laugh and your fingers curled into his shoulders as he began to take the stairs.

A part of you was still floating, high on the aftershocks of the kitchen, yet that small worry flickered again; how could he carry you like this after everything they’d done to him in Ridgeway?

But Joel didn't seem to feel a thing. He reached the landing, kicked the bedroom door open, and carried you straight to the bed, tossing you onto the mattress.

You bounced against the covers, your eyes wide as you watched him move. He didn't say a word as he yanked your boots off, one and then the other, letting them hit the floor. You scrambled back toward the center of the pillows, your breath hitching as he began to tear at his clothes.

His skin was flushed, his eyes burning with an intensity that pinned you to the spot. His shirt was gone in a blur, then his shoes, and when his hands finally went to his belt, the metallic clack of the buckle made you let out a shaky sigh. He shucked his jeans and boxers in one go, letting them pool at his feet.

He climbed onto the bed, towering over you, his cock heavy and stone hard, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Needy, you spread your legs for him immediately. And Joel reached out, hooking his large hands under your knees, and with one powerful tug, he hauled your hips toward him, hoisting your legs up until your ankles were draped over his broad shoulders.

A soft moan escaped you at the sudden deep stretch.

"Yes," you whispered, reaching out to trail your fingers over the soft expanse of his chest.

Joel’s hand went down, wrapping around his length as he guided the broad wet head of his cock to your entrance, merely teasing the opening for a heartbeat.

He adjusted his weight over you, folding you back until your knees were pressed nearly to your chest and your heels hooked behind his neck. It was a vulnerable, agonizingly deep position; your swollen center completely bared and tilted upward to meet him.

He hovered there, his muscles corded and shaking with the effort of holding back, and his eyes locked on yours as he prepared to drive himself home.

Holding your gaze, Joel guided himself to your opening and pushed inside. He took the first few inches at a crawl, stretching you slowly until you were full to bursting. Then, he hitched back, pausing for a heartbeat, before driving all the way in in one deep hard thrust.

A gasp broke from your lips; your eyes locked on his as your body adjusted to the stretching weight of him. And Joel’s jaw tightened, letting a low hiss escape through his nose as he pressed his forehead against yours, staying perfectly still for a moment as he buried himself to the hilt.

"You're so deep," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling. "I can feel you so deep, Joel."

He let out a jagged huff of air and nodded slowly, his eyes dark with a mix of pain and pleasure. And your palm slid up to his face, grazing his cheek to soothe his frantic pulse.

Despite the ache for oxygen in your lungs, you chose him over air; you sought the sweetness of his lips, capturing his mouth with yours.

And then, he began to move; slow, agonizingly deep strokes that felt like they were reaching right up into your ribs. The friction was so perfect, so complete, that you felt your entire chest melt against the mattress.

Joel’s teeth were gritted, his expression one of total battered surrender as he fought to keep his pace steady.

Then, with a sharp exhale, the restraint snapped.

He began to hammer into you, his rhythm quickening. His arms corded with tension on either side of your head, pinning you down as his hips slammed against yours with a loud wet thud, over and over and over.

It was a filthy, desperate fuck; it left no room for anything but your burning bodies.

"Yeah, baby," he growled. "Take it... take it. All for me, all to myself."

"Joel..." you whispered, your voice trembling as you tilted your head, exposing the sensitive line of your throat to him.

"That's it," he huffed against your skin. "Look at me. I wanna see it in your eyes..."

"I..." You caught your breath, your hands sliding up his chest "Joel, please..."

He shook his head slowly.

"You have no idea…" he choked out. "… You... all the time."

Without a word, you desperately reached for him, pulling him into a protective embrace. You felt him collapse into you, his strength giving way as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

And in that second, your chest felt like it was overflowing; a sudden intense ache of every emotion you’d been holding back for days. Your eyes burned, and you squeezed them shut to keep the tears from falling.

You held him tighter, tighter and tighter, anchoring him, and leaned your head against his.

The intensity was too much; the friction, the emotion. You hold him tighter, your head tossing wildly.

"Joel, I'm so close—" you cried out, your voice high and thin.

He let out a guttural tortured sound, his muscles jumping as he fought the urge to join you right then. But he didn't slow down, driving into you until you shattered.

You buckled underneath him, your internal muscles clamping around his dick in tight pulses that drew a choked-off moan from his throat.

Joel surged against you one last time, his hips crashing into yours as he found his own peak. With a broken moan, he finished, but after just a microsecond, he cursed under his breath and jerked himself out.

He didn't waste a second, his hand wrapping around his thick pulsing length. He stood over you, his chest heaving as he stroked himself. And a moment later, he let out a shuddering groan as he spent himself across your stomach; the hot white ropes splashing against your flushed skin.

You traced your hand along his arm, the one braced under all his weight as he hovered over you; your fingers climbed his bicep and pressed into the muscle there.

“Shit. I’m sorry, you okay?”

“Yeah… why?” Your breath was still uneven.

“I almost—” he shook his head, jaw tight. “I almost came inside you. I’m sorry.”

Your brain flickered for a second, short-circuiting, then snapped back just as fast.

“It’s okay. Come here,” you said, arms lifting, hands finding the back of his neck and pulling him down.

Joel went easy, letting you guide him, his mouth meeting yours. Your legs rested loosely at his sides, draped against his hips.

“Don’t move, alright?” he murmured against your lips.

You didn’t answer, but the faint, tired dip of your head was enough.

He pushed himself up and off you, and you watched him walk bare and unbothered toward the bathroom.

Your eyes fell shut. You were worn out, heavy in every limb, and more than anything, caught off guard. Every muscle ached, your skin damp and clinging, but sleep came crashing in anyway, too strong to fight; ridiculous, considering it was barely past seven thirty.

Half asleep, you tracked the sounds of him in the bathroom; the water running, drawers opening and closing. Then, seconds later, something warm touched your stomach.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Joel stood there, quiet and focused, wiping your skin clean with a damp towel. You watched him for a moment and your hand drifted to his waist, resting there briefly.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Mhm. Just a little tired.”

Joel got up, towel still in hand, and picked his underwear off the floor.

“Be right back, okay?”

You nodded, pushing yourself up slowly as you watched him step out the door.

With what felt like the last of your energy, you made your way to the bathroom and cleaned yourself up, glancing at the shower a little too long. Could you take one? Or was Joel expecting you to leave? Maybe he wanted some space. Maybe he had somewhere to be.

You stepped out again, quick and suddenly aware of your bare skin as you looked around for something to throw on. Your dress was downstairs, and there was no way you were going down like this.

Your eyes landed on the gray t-shirt Joel had peeled off not long ago, now crumpled beside his flannel. You grabbed it without thinking and pulled it over your head, needing something between you and the air. The door opened just then.

Joel stepped back in with a glass of water in one hand and your clothes in the other.

“Oh, thanks. That’s exactly what I need,” you said with a small smile, taking the glass from him.

He gave you one back. “Yeah, ‘course.” He lifted your clothes slightly. “Figured you might want these. Or that they shouldn’t be sittin’ on the floor.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them from his hand anyway. “Thanks.”

Joel nodded. “I’m gonna take a shower, yeah?”

“Oh,” your brows lifted. “Can I shower too?”

“Yeah, sure. Just… you should know I usually keep the water cold. Not cold cold,” he added quickly, frowning a little, “just kinda lukewarm. I can turn it hot if you want.”

“It’s fine, take your cold shower,” you said with a small smile. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Doesn’t bother you?”

You frowned, confused for a second. “No. I mean— oh.” Your eyebrows lifted. “You mean, together?”

Joel went red instantly, color rushing up his neck and settling deep in his cheeks. You could’ve hidden the smile forming at your mouth, but you didn’t bother.

“I mean, sure, if you want,” you started, a hint of tease in your voice, “we could—”

“No, no, forget it,” he cut in, waving a hand. “You go first. Take advantage of the hot water.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Go ahead,” he said, already turning away.

You watched him cross over to his dresser, pulling open a drawer. He grabbed a dark gray t-shirt and a pair of black cotton sleep shorts.

When he came back, he placed them carefully in your hands. “Here. Put these on. There’s a drawstring, y’know, so you can tighten it. Around your… your waist.”

“Alright. Thank you.”

He smiled. And his cheeks were still red.

A little over an hour later.

God, you’d been sleeping so deeply that when you woke, your eyelids felt heavier than ever.

It didn’t take long to place yourself; time, space, all of it. Even with your eyes still closed, you knew you were still at Joel’s. But what time was it?

You pushed yourself up on the bed and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:50.

Joel wasn’t anywhere in the room, but the smell of food and the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, utensils clinking against marble and things shifting around gave you your answer.

After your shower, you’d changed and laid down while Joel went in after you. You’d tried to stay awake, really tried, but before he even finished you were out completely.And he hadn’t woken you.

And realizing you’d been asleep for nearly an hour made something pinch faintly in your chest; were you overstaying?

You reached over and switched on the lamp, rubbing at your eyes and just as you were about to swing your feet off the bed, the bedroom door opened.

“Hey.” Joel stood in the doorway, t-shirt and sweatpants on, looking at you. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked tired.” A beat. “You hungry?”

A soft huff of laughter slipped out of you.

“Yeah. Starving.”

Joel made steak with sautéed vegetables. By the time you came down the stairs, the smell hit you full force and your stomach growled full with real hunger for the first time in days.

He told you to sit, nodding toward the kitchen island, so you did. You watched him from behind as he plated your food, and when he set it down in front of you, you gave him a small smile. Thanks. It smelled like heaven.

And it tasted even better. You had to stop yourself from closing your eyes at the first bite; the meat tender, the vegetables delicious and perfectly seasoned. You found yourself wondering who you had to thank for produce that good. I wonder who.

Joel sat down beside you, poured two glasses of water and started eating. Soft music drifted in from the radio on top of the fridge; you hadn’t even noticed it earlier because it was not there before, not when he’d set down the letter you gave him.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded with a mouthful. “Yeah. You’re not such a bad cook.”

“I never said I was.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he shot you a sideways glance, one brow raised. “Just said I ain’t exactly gifted.”

“But you still haven’t tried my blueberry pie, have you?”

“Tried your carrot cake,” he said, taking another bite. “We’ll get to the pie after dinner, if you want.”

“Sure. If I have any room left.”

Joel smiled faintly. “Vegetables are real good,” he added. “Should I be thankin’ you or Zach for that?”

“Both,” you said, looking at him. “Though Zach’s been paying more attention to the vegetables lately. I’m more into the plants, you know… the rest of it.”

“You like bein’ out there?”

“Yeah. A lot. It’s peaceful.”

He huffed lightly. “Don’t you get hot as hell sometimes?”

You laughed. “Yeah, but only in certain areas. It’s all pretty well protected.”

“Huh.” Joel nodded slightly. “Saw Zach this afternoon, he told me to tell you you didn’t have to come in tomorrow.” His brows lifted a fraction. “Which got me wonderin’ two things. One, who the hell does he think he is, decidin’ whether someone shows up to work or not?”

You let out a small laugh through your nose.

“And two… why?”

You shrugged. “His idea.”

“He said you needed rest. That true?”

Oh, Zach. Damn him!

“No, he’s exaggerating,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’m perfectly fine. I barely even push myself.”

“You been workin’ with Erin?”

“Yeah. Though Fabrizio’s been helping a lot lately too.”

“Right.” He nodded, a quiet exhale leaving him as he shifted a little, turning more toward you. His palm rested against his thigh. “You know… if you wanted to come back to the office, you could.”

You took a bite, glancing at him.

“I’m sure everyone’d be glad to have you back,” he went on. “You’re good at it. Got a knack for it.”

“What about Emily?”

Joel shrugged lightly. “Ain’t a problem.”

You smiled, nodding slowly. “Well… I don’t know if seeing each other every day is such a great idea, don’t you think?”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m pretty sure we’d fall right back into our old habit of arguing all the time.”

“We’ve been gettin’ along better lately.”

“We’re also sleeping together,”

“And that changes the fact we’re gettin’ along how?”

“It’s a process,” you said, spearing a carrot with your fork. “If we saw each other every day, I’m sure it wouldn’t take long before something I say or do gets on your nerves… or I get tired of you bossing me around. I still sigh all the time,” you added, lifting your fork slightly.

Joel’s mouth tilted into a crooked smile. “Been gettin’ familiar with your sighs in other ways lately. Don’t mind them.”

You watched him as you chewed, taking your time before answering. When you finally swallowed, you rested your elbow on the counter, your hand coming up to your neck.

“Tell me something, does Emily not argue with you, or what?”

He let out a small laugh. “She doesn’t. Which I appreciate.”

“Well,” you shrugged, “there you go, then.”

“I’m just sayin’. You could come back if you wanted.”

“Well… I actually couldn’t. Between patrols, the greenhouse, the animals… I don’t really have the time. And school’s gonna start up soon, so that’s one more thing.” You glanced back at him. “But I’ll keep it in mind. Who knows.”

Joel nodded, lifting his glass to his lips.

You took your last bite, chewing quietly, your gaze drifting down, landing on his hands. More specifically, his wrists. There was a faint pink mark there, already fading.

You thought about asking. About Ridgeway. But you were almost certain it would shift the mood, ruining dinner. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it either.

“And where’s Ellie?” you asked instead. “She’s not in the garage, is she?”

Your eyes widened slightly, the realization hitting you all at once.

Not that long ago, you’d been right here on this very kitchen, in his lap, completely lost in it. There were windows. Covered, sure, but the curtains were thin. And even if no one saw… They could’ve heard.

Joel smiled faintly. “Out with Jesse and Tommy. Said not to worry. Didn’t invite me, though.” He huffed. “Why?”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing.” You glanced around. “I mean… no one could’ve noticed us here, right?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

You nodded, not entirely convinced. There was no way in hell Joel would’ve put you both in a position to get caught like that. So either you trusted that… or maybe he wasn’t thinking it through as much as you hoped.

You’d walked out naked toward the stairs, what if someone had seen you through a window?

“I was in her room the other day,” you said, shifting the topic. “She showed me her drawings.” You smiled. “She’s really talented.”

“She is.”

“She even did a portrait of me. But I left it there,” you added, rolling your eyes lightly. “Can you tell her to give it to me? I would really like to have it.”

Joel opened his mouth, then paused. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you.”

“Well,” he leaned back a little, stretching out his shoulders, “what d’you say we try some of that pie of yours?”

You smiled, nodding. “Okay. I’ll do the dishes.”

In the middle of the counter sat the pie. Joel cut two slices and set them on small plates, sliding one in front of you and placing a fork on top.

“That’s a big slice,” you laughed, eyeing the thick piece.

“Better with your hands,” he said, dead serious, carefully trying to pick up his slice by the edges.

You frowned, an uncontrollable smile pulling at your mouth as you watched him struggle with it. And slowly, he opened his mouth and took a bite.

You studied every shift in his expression; the slight furrow in his brow, the way his eyes shut for a second. Joel let out a low hum and nodded to himself but didn’t say a word.

“Well?” you asked. “What do you think?”

He took his time, savoring it a little longer before finally swallowing.

“Delicious. Every bit of it,” he said, looking at you. “Now you, go on.”

You sighed softly, not all that hungry anymore. Dinner had filled you up, but there was no way you weren’t going to try it with him. And of course, he didn’t know you’d already had a mini pie back at home, and you weren’t about to tell him.

You reached for the fork beside your plate, but he clicked his tongue.

“No, no. Use your hands.”

You laughed. “Why? I’m gonna make a mess!”

“‘Cause it tastes better that way,” he said, nudging your plate slightly. “C’mon.”

You rolled your eyes and snapped your fingers lightly. “Alright, let’s see.”

Careful, you picked up the slice from the sides and brought it toward your mouth, inch by inch. You parted your lips, leaning in, and the second you bit down… the base gave out.

Blueberry filling spilled down your chin and over your hands, and a muffled yelp caught in your chest.

Joel laughed, grabbing your plate and guiding the collapsing slice back onto it before it could fall any further.

Your hands were a mess. So was your chin and the skin just below it.

“Hey,” you protested, catching the way he was looking at you, barely holding back his grin. “Don’t laugh, this is your fault.”

“Look at you,” he said, shaking his head, reaching for a dish towel. “First bite.” He handed it to you. “So? How is it?”

You stuck your tongue out, tasting a bit of the filling from your palm.

“It’s pretty good, actually.”

That did it. Joel laughed again, but this time it broke out of him, a full-on laugh.

You frowned slightly, watching him in confusion. For some reason, this was way funnier to him than it should’ve been, and you weren’t about to question it. Honestly… you probably would’ve laughed too if it had been him.

“Well,” you muttered, glancing down, “now your shirt’s all sticky.”

He clicked his tongue. “I’ll get you another.”

That pulled a small smile out of you. You dropped your gaze and carefully stood, heading over to the sink to wash your hands.

You used a fork to finish your slice. And Joel flat-out refused to let you wash the dessert dishes; told you to head upstairs and change instead. Anything you find in the drawer, he’d said.

So you did. A little hesitant, you went through his things feeling like you were crossing some invisible line. Maybe it was normal, feeling like that in a situation like this. And you still weren’t entirely sure what was happening with him… this version of Joel; lighter and quick to laugh.

After changing, he came into the room and shut the door behind him. You watched him move into the bathroom, washing his hands and brushing his teeth. You did the same, standing in front of the small hand mirror.

After that, you slipped into bed.

His eyes were already closed, but the second you settled beside him, his arm found you, wrapping around you instantly. But sleep didn’t come right away.

Your mind wandered, circling things that felt heavier than they should’ve been. But when sleep finally took you, it did so all at once; deep and quiet.

divider by: omi-resources

(if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, let me know!)

You normally sleep in on Saturdays. But when you wake up today and remember that in a few hours Frankie will be arriving to take you on a date it’s like every cell in your body has been directly injected with caffeine. Its 7:15 and you’re already absolutely wired.

You check your phone and smile when you see you already have a message from Frankie.

F: Good morning beautiful.

You: Good morning Frankie. I hope you slept well.  

You lounge back in your bed and think about him, about last night. How easy it was to talk to him. And do other things with him. Your face burns as you remember how shameless you were with him. How filthy his words were. But he’d been so kind and sweet afterwards, giving you aftercare when he wasn’t even in the room with you. That was more than any of your previous partners had ever bothered to do.

Your phone buzzes, you grab it from the nightstand and almost drop it on your face in your haste to unlock it.

F: Like a log baby. How about you? You have more of those sweet dreams?

You: The sweetest

Your phone buzzes as a little heart emoji pops up on your message.

You: I can’t wait to see you later

 F: Me either baby. Good thing I have some errands to run or I’d be fixing to turn up on your doorstep 4 hours early.

You: I wouldn’t mind…

F: Oh baby please don’t tempt me!

You giggle. High on the feeling of someone choosing you. And choosing you without the hesitation or mind games that usually come with dating.

 You: Haha, go and do your errands baby, I’ll see you in a few hours.

F: Yes ma’am

F: I like it when you call me baby 😉

You put your face in your hands and scream. With embarrassment or joy, you’re not sure. You hadn’t even realised you’d done it. It had just flowed into the text naturally, like you were always supposed to call him that. You realise with glee that you have not overthought or spiralled once during this whole interaction. Angie is gona be so proud of you.

You’re halfway through your breakfast when you get a message from her.

A: So how did it go last night?? 

You: Amazing, he’s so lovely. 

A: C’mon, give me details! Where’s he taking you, did you talk long?

You: We talked for a bit but then we got…distracted.

A: ??? What does that mean?!

You: Things got a little frisky...

Your phone is ringing before you can even put it back on the table. You’re giggling as you answer and have to hold the phone away from your ear as Angie screeches down the line.

“WHAT!! What does frisky mean, I need details right now!” 

You giggle again, completely giddy at the memory of last night.

“Well we were talking about our days and then making plans for today-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, get to the good parts.”

“Well, he said if he’d seen me last night he wouldn’t have the energy to be a gentleman…so I asked him to tell me what he would have done if he was here. So he did. And things kinda escalated from there.”

“YOU DID WHAT?! Who are you and what have you done with my girl?! How escalated are we talking?” 

You’re laughing all through Angie losing it on the other end of the phone. It’s normally her telling you about her various escapades and you living vicariously through her. Or you recounting sad tales of mistreatment by the men you’re seeing. It’s nice for it to be the other way round on both counts. 

“Well he said some very lovely but very filthy things and we um, we listened to each other…y’know.”

“You had phone sex?!” 

“Well, yeah,” you laugh. 

“And how was it?”

You sigh dreamily, “it was amazing. I swear I’ve never had an orgasm like it.”

Angie squeals down the phone.

“And how was he after?”

“So sweet. Checking in with me, making sure I was ok.”

“Oh I love that! Sounds like you hit the jackpot! So where’s he taking you today?”

“Picnic in the park.”

“Oh that’s cute! What’s the outift?” 

“I was thinking the blue sundress and sneakers.”

“Yes, I love that on you! That is so your colour. He's gona be blown away." 

"You think?" you ask, first signs of nerves making themselves evident in your quiet voice.

"Honey I know! And by the sounds of it, you could turn up in a bin bag and he'd still be all doe eyed for you. Bet he turns up on your doorstep with a big bunch of flowers too."

Panic rips through you. "You think?

"Well yeah, it is Valentines Day," Angie says, registering the change in tone, "you love flowers, why would that be a problem?" 

"I didn't get him anything. He said he had errands to run, what if he's spent the morning doing something thoughtful for me and he turns up and I have nothing for him? Oh God but then what if I do get him something and he hasn't got me anything and he thinks I'm a weirdo?" 

Angie laughs in relief. "Ok, there's my girl, was beginning to worry you'd had a personality transplant."

"Angie!" you whine, "what am I gona do? Do I have time to go shopping? What would I even get him?" 

"Ok ok, relax. It's gona be fine. You don't have to go shopping. Men are impossible to buy for at the best of times and I know how much you hate generic gifts. You'd work yourself up into a tizzy trying to work out the best gift for a man you've spoken to twice."

"This is not helping!" you scold her. 

She just laughs, "ok, I'll stop teasing you. I'll help but you have to calm down first. Take a big deep breath for me."

You comply, just because you know you will get her assistance much quicker if you do. 

"And another one... there how's that, feeling calmer?"

"Yes," you tell her sulkily. Because you actually do and you hate it that she's right all the time. 

"Ok, so no shopping is needed. What is the one thing I always ask for when I want you to show me that you love me?"

"Brownies," you tell her with an exhale, a smile spreading over your face. While you hate it when she's right, you have to hand it to her. It's perfect. Its a thoughtful gift, that shows you thought of him without going over the top. And if he shows up empty handed then you can just say that you baked them for the picnic and he will never know what a loon you are. 

"Brownies," she agrees. "Poor sucker really doesn't stand a chance. If he's not already in love with you now, wait til he gets a mouthful of those bad boys. You'll have him eating out of the palm of your hand."

You laugh at her. Her love for your brownies knows no bounds. "Thanks Angie. I mean it. You always know what to do. I'd be lost without you you know?"

"I do know. And if you want to thank me with a brownie, I'd be all for that."

You snort. "You know there's no way in hell I'd make a batch of brownies and not save you one."

"And that my dear is why I would be lost without you too. Now, go get baking, time is ticking! And I want date details later on ok?"

"Ok. I'll speak to you later."

You hang up and immediately get to work. Brownies first, then they can be cooling while you get ready. 

It's as you're taking the brownies out of the oven that things start to go wrong. You catch your arm on the side of the tray and almost drop the whole batch on the floor. You somehow manage to make it to the worktop with the burn on your arm searing. The tray clatters onto the surface and you see a big crack form in your carefully crafted bake. Fucking great. Tears start to prick at your eyes as you run your arm under cool water. It stings like a bitch. 

Once the brownies have cooled you try to cut around the crack, but they're a crumbling mess. You try picking out the best brownies, putting them carefully in your nicest tub with a pretty napkin in the bottom. They look messy and the perfectionist in you wants to throw them out and start again but you don’t have time. 

You manage to make it through your shower without incident and try to shake off your earlier mishap. You focus on getting yourself ready, moisturising your body and listening to an upbeat playlist, singing along at the top of your voice, completely out of tune. 

You carefully do your make up, opting to keep it light and fresh but somehow manage to drop your foundation bottle and you groan in frustration as it smashes on the floor.

“Fuuuuuck!” you groan, staring at the mess of broken glass strewn across the floor and oily liquid seeping into your rug. You’re so annoyed, it had been almost full and you don’t have time for this but you can’t just leave it. You run to the kitchen for a dustpan and brush, googling the best way to clean foundation out of fabric. Head in your phone and panic setting in you completely misjudge where you’re walking and smack straight into the corner of the dining table with your hip. You scream in agony as the sharp corner makes contact. That will definitely leave a bruise. 

You’re sniffling as you make your way back into your room with your gathered cleaning supplies to clean up the mess, the flesh of your hip now tender and throbbing along with the burn on your arm. You do your best to clean up the glass without smearing the foundation further into the rug but you can see the sharp little shards that remain. Would be just your luck today to scratch yourself to smithereens. 

You blot up the oily liquid as best you can, not rubbing, trying to minimise the damage. You apply dish soap and blot again with warm water, hoping that it will work. You keep at it until you think it’s not going to get any better. The stain is still visible, the rug totally ruined.

You heave a defeated sigh, getting to your feet and fetching the vacuum to try and pick up all the remaining glass. 

You chance a look at the clock. You’re so far behind schedule. You’d planned your timings with such care so that you wouldn’t be rushing, knowing how stressful you find that and wanting to be in as calm a headspace as possible for when Frankie arrived. But now it’s already tipped past 12 and you still have to finish your make up, get dressed and get all your shit out of your drab work purse into the cute one you planned to bring today. 

You take a deep breath and try to calm your hammering heart. Of all the days for things to keep going wrong. You finish your make up and get up, quickly throwing on your underwear and your dress. You look at yourself in the full length mirror, and groan in despair, You’re so bloated your stomach looks round and protruding under your dress. 

“No, no, no, no,” you wail. Not today. You curse yourself for your food choices yesterday, a burger AND pizza the day before a date! What were you thinking?! This is by far your most flattering dress and you usually feel so good in it. It had been a no brainer for your date outfit but as you stare at yourself you feel so hideous and worthless you can’t help but burst into tears. 

You have nothing else to wear. If this dress looks bad on you, everything else will be 10 times worse. 

You rack your brains for a way to try and hide your belly but your mind has shutdown to rational thought and is instead berating you for being so stupid. For ever imagining that you could be good enough for Frankie. For making bad decision after bad decision.

You turn away from the mirror, knowing that the reflection isn’t going to change no matter how badly you wish it will. There is no comfort for you there. 

You manage to take a few deep breaths to calm yourself. It helps a little. You sit back at your dressing table to try and fix your make up but its made decidedly more difficult every time a tear slips down your face. 

And to make matters even worse your doorbell rings at 12:20. He’s early. But you told him you wouldn’t mind if he was so you only have yourself to blame. You trudge to the front door, no spring in your step. No excitement. You dread the moment Frankie takes a look at you and you see the light of desire for you burn out in his eyes. 

You steel yourself. You swing the door open and there he is, your breath catches in your throat. He’s even more handsome than you remember, his deep brown eyes look so deep in the light of day, the bright sun painting his face in golden glow.

His face lights up and his shoulders relax when he sees you and you and he’s holding out something to you. A Lego rose. Not the bunch of flowers Angie had predicted but something real and solid that you’ll be able to keep forever as a reminder of your first date.

The joy quickly drains from his face as he takes in your appearance and you think you’re about to vomit, certain you’ll never find anyone as wonderful as him again.

But instead of making his excuses and swiftly departing he’s pulling you into his arms, wrapping you up in his tight embrace. You break almost immediately, sobbing into his chest.

“Baby, what’s wrong, did something happen, are you ok?” His voice is full of concern and his hand is stroking up and down your back in an attempt to soothe you.

“Baby, please talk to me,” he pleads and you try to get yourself under control, to stop the embarrassing flow of tears, to catch your breath enough that you can respond.

“I-I’m s-so s-s-sorry Frankie,” you gasp between sobs and hiccups, “I’m so s-stupid.”

“Hey, none of that,” he tells you sternly. “You’re not stupid, you’re allowed to be upset, tell me what happened.” He clutches you tighter to him and your body just wants to melt. If he wasn’t holding you up you think you’d be a puddle on the floor.

“I-I burnt m-m-my arm, and I r-ruined your present a-and I s-stained my rug and I banged my hip and I-I look t-t-terrible in my dress, a-and I w-w-wanted to be perfect for you, I’m s-so sor-ry Frankie.”

“Hey, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. You are perfect, just as you are. Let me see you.”

You shake your head against him and bury your face fully into his chest, fists balling in his shirt. You know your face will be swollen and tear stained and your make up will be ruined. Paired with your awful big, fat belly you’re not fit to be seen.

"Ok, ok, just stay right there a minute and let me hold you," he whispers. His palm resumes the slow stroke of your back before he asks, "you said you hurt yourself baby, will you let me see? Will you let me take care of you?"

"You're t-too kind Frankie. Y-you don't n-n-need to take care o-of me. I know you're p-probably w-wanting to leave."

"What?! Baby no!" he tells you, forcing you out from his chest this time, one big hand firmly but gently wrapped around your upper arm and his other arm still linked around your lower back. Moving you out but keeping you close. You still want to wail at the loss of contact. You feel his hand cup your chin and direct your face upwards, and you finally see him, his face the image of distress. You hate yourself for causing him to look like that.

"I'm not going anywhere. I know you've had a bad morning and I hate that you're sad but I hate it even more that you think that it's a reason that I'd want to leave. I told you I didn't want you to hide from me. And the reason I want to know when you're feeling bad is because I want to take care of you and make you feel better,'" he takes a deep breath and rests his forehead against yours, "will you let me?"

You nod your head, in awe of this amazing man and his seemingly never ending patience for your nonsense. He smiles at you, it's wide and radiant and makes your heart beat a little faster. "Words baby, use that pretty voice."

You take a shaky breath, unsure if it's the remnants of your meltdown or the way he's using that commanding tone again.

"Yes Frankie," you manage to croak out, too tightly wound to utter much more.

He hums in satisfaction, "good girl, now show me where you hurt yourself."

Still sniffling you lift up your arm to showcase the ugly burn on the inside of your forearm.

"Oh baby, that looks sore," he says as he gently takes your arm and bends to place the softest kiss against it. It still stings but it's such a tender gesture that you notice the steady pulse that starts in your core. You've never been treated like this before and your body is fully on board.

He straightens up and looks back in your eyes, "what happened?"

Your shoulders sag, "I was baking you something, when I took it out of the oven I caught my arm."

His eyes widen and the arm still around your back squeezes you in, pulling you flush with him once more, cradling your cheek in his other big hand.

"You baked for me baby?"

You nod and a fresh wave of tears leak from your eyes, "I ruined it though, I nearly dropped the tray and I was too rough when I put them on the counter and it cracked and- "

"Hey, hey, hey," he murmurs, cradling you gently against his chest again. "You are so sweet baby, baking for me! I can't tell you the last time someone did something like that for me. You're so thoughtful."

You sniffle, "I'm sorry I messed them up."

"Nuh-uh, I know whatever you've made me will be delicious, I can't believe you did that for me baby. Thank you."

You relax into him. The tension starts to ease from your body. You feel so safe with him. You think even if he were to leave now it would still be the best date you've ever been on. Just standing with him, talking to him, being held by him. It's incomparable. He's just watched you in full meltdown mode and he didn't even flinch. You don't know what you did to deserve him.

"Ok, what else?" he asks you, "you said something about your rug?"

You huff a laugh against his chest, he really was working his way through your tale of woes, crossing items off like a grocery list.

"You don't need to worry about that. I just was clumsy and knocked something off my dressing table. I tried to clean it but it looks as though it's stained."

"Show me anyway, maybe I can help."

You smile against his chest. As happy as you are tucked against him you're feeling better so you take his hand and lead him into the house and into your bedroom. It's only once you're in there that you register how intimate this is. Him seeing your private space. You'd always intended to invite him inside for a few moments, into the living room before you headed out. But this is another level.

You sneak a look at him. He's not looking around or trying to snoop, he's fixated on one spot, seeing the problem straight away. He drops your hand and walks over to the spot, crouching down to run his hands over it. It's then you notice he's still got the lego rose in his hand and you want to throw yourself at him.

"What did you use?'

"Google said dish soap and warm water."

He nods, matter of fact. "You got any baking soda?"

"Um, yeah I think so," you turn around and run into the kitchen to rummage in the pantry. An excited "aha!" escapes you when you locate the baking soda.

When you turn around he’s leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, watching you with a crooked smile. It takes your breath away how handsome he is. You can’t believe that he is here for you.

“This is for you,” he tells you, looking slightly unsure. He pushes away from the door and moves towards you, extending the rose to you. You feel your face heat as you take it from him, overwhelmed by how thoughtful it is.

“I’m uh, I’m sorry it’s not real roses, the ones that were left were kinda crappy,” he tells you nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

You silence him with a peck to his lips and both his hands land gently on your waist to pull you closer.

“It’s perfect Frankie, I love it thank you.”

“Really?” he asks and you can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“Really,” you reassure him, giving him another kiss, and looping your arms round his shoulders, “I prefer this actually, I’ll get to keep it forever.”

The smile he gives you sends warmth surging through your body. He leans in again and you meet him half way, savouring having him close, having his lips on yours. And when his tongue tentatively swipes at your lips you eagerly open to allow him entrance, moaning into his mouth as his tongue dances with yours and he holds you so close you can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

A whine escapes when he breaks the kiss. Just like at the bar. And just like at the bar he soothes you, pulling you in tighter to him and kissing softly over your cheeks.

"I know baby, I know. I'd stand here and kiss you all day but I'd really like to take you out, if you still want to go?"

"I want to," you tell him, "but how about just a little more kissing before we go?"

"You're killing me baby," he groans but it doesn't stop him leaning back in and thrusting his tongue back into your mouth. Where the first kiss was sweet and soft, this one is needy and passionate. Your arms loop back round his neck, rose still in hand and one of his wraps you tight and holds you against him, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. His tongue presses more forcefully against yours and he tastes so good it doesn't take long for your needy core to start throbbing again. You've never been so turned on just from a kiss.

When his hand on your back starts to roam lower and grabs possessively at your hip you break the kiss with a loud yelp. Frankie freezes for a moment, confused and horrified at your reaction.

"Baby what's wrong?" he begs you, taking a step back to give you space, afraid that he's crossed a boundary.

Tears prick at your eyes again, there's no point trying to hold them back, they always flow easier once the damn has initially burst and you've cried so many times today, their descent is inevitable.

You clutch at his shirt to keep him from going too far and the tension leaves his shoulders that you're still reaching for him, glad he hasn't ruined things.

"I'm sorry, I banged my hip earlier, it's a little sore."

He pulls you back into his chest, his arm back around your back and one hand gently cradling your head.

"I'm so sorry baby, I completely forgot. I can't believe I hurt you, please forgive me!"

You laugh against him, you're honestly starting to wonder if you've fallen ill and this is all some fever dream. Except you know it can't be because you know your brain could never conjure the prospect of a man this wonderful being interested in you.

"Shh Frankie, it's ok, you didn't do anything wrong. Honestly, I totally forgot about it, you had me very distracted."

He lets out a relieved huff, refusing to let you go for a minute, finally kissing you on the crown of your head before releasing you.

"How about we sort out the rug and then we go on our date? What do you say?"

"I say yes," you smile at him, "just going to find something to put my rose in, two seconds."

He picks up the baking soda off the counter and turns towards the bedroom, "you sort that out, I got this."

You watch him walk away, checking out his cute bum and broad shoulders. And those curls that make you want to run your fingers through them, maybe give them a gentle tug.

You shake your head to dispel those images from your mind, your panties are already soaked and you're not sure you're going to be able to sneak another pair to change them while Frankie is in your bedroom.

You hunt through your cupboards for something to put your rose in but you can't find what you're looking for. You head into the bathroom and find the vase you had in mind. A quick glance in the mirror reveals your make up is totally ruined so you quickly give your face a wash. You will have to go au natural the rest of the day seeing as your foundation is now soaked into your rug.

You put your rose pride of place on the bookshelf in the living room. the vase isn't ideal and you resolve to buy a better one but it will do for now. You can't help but smile as you admire it. The thought that he went out to look for roses for you and deemed none of them worthy so took the time to build you this instead makes your heart flutter and your oussy clench.

You take a deep, happy breath to steady yourself and try and force your body into line. You like him a lot and you feel so comfortable with him but you're not ready to share your body with him yet. Too many bad experiences built up in your past to make it an appealing thought. Except your body doesn't seem to have gotten the memo. Your pussy wants you to walk in there and throw him on the bed and let her take her fill. Your brain is wondering whether the first time he sees you naked he'll be able to maintain a boner. Because that's definitely not an experience you want to relive. Even if that guy had turned out to be a douche of epic proportions that you were better off without, the fact that his body had physically rejected you still stung.

You shake your head to try and dispel the memory. Frankie isn't like Dickhead Derek. He wanders out from your bedroom and you can't help but smile back at him. All thoughts of other men evaporating in a cloud of mist.

"I put some baking soda on the stain, needs to stay on for a little while, can clean it up when we get back."

You nod, "ok, thank you." You feel a little bad for making him do that for you on your first date. It really has been calamitous so far. But he doesn't seem put off by it.

"Shall we go?"

"Yes, lets." You start to head towards the door then remember, "oh wait!" You dash back into the kitchen and grab the little tupperware with his brownies in. You shyly hand them over to him and he pulls you in to give you a quick peck on the lips.

"I still can't believe you baked for me, sweet girl."

"I hope you like them."

"I know I will."

He ushers you out the door and into his truck. Before you set off he reaches over to the glove compartment and pulls out a little blue bag. He unzips it and pulls out a little silver container that when he opens contains a clear gel.

"Give me your arm a second baby." You hold it out for him and he gently smears some of the gel over the burn on your arm, it's cool and soothing on your skin.

"Aloe vera," he tells you with a wink, packing it away, "always getting little burns working on the chopper so always try to keep some close, it'll help."

"Thank you Frankie," you tell him. He definitely clocks how breathless your voice is because his mouth twitches into that crooked smirk that you find so endearing.

"You're welcome baby."

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

The rest of your date is thankfully uneventful. He takes you the bakery and you choose some delicious treats. You walk through the park hand in hand until you reach a little lake. He sets up a blanket and you get settled on it, he pulls out the food you bought and some drinks and you talk and spend the time getting to know each other.

You feed the ducks and at one point he gets up and pulls you into his arms to slow dance to a busker who has set up near the path. And it's so easy and lovely. The conversation flows so fluidly and the quiet periods are never uncomfortable. He listens attentively when you talk, nodding and offering insights when you ask for them.

Despite all the goodies you got from the bakery he still insisted on bringing the brownies with you. And when he opens up the tub he groans and tells you how delicious they smell. And he groans again at the first taste, fawning how delicious they are, pulling you down into a very chocolatey kiss when you've both finished your brownies, murmuring his thanks against your lips.

And then you sit on the blanket cradled against his chest and watch the sunset before packing up and heading back to the truck. He drives you home, his big hand settled over your knee the whole way. And you love it, the claim of it. The way it screams that you are his. By the time you get home you feel almost drunk on the endorphins that are coursing through you.

He opens the door of the truck and walks you to your door. You curse yourself for putting off changing the bulb in the porch light as you see him frowning up at it. He doesn't say anything though, just pulls you into his arms and kisses you on the lips.

"Thank you so much for today, I had the best time," you tell him and he looks like you just hung the moon and stars.

"Me too baby, thank you for letting me take you out. I'd really love to see you again if that's ok?"

You let out a little giggle, "yes baby, I would like that very much." And he groans when you call him that, pulling you into the most needy kiss yet, it's sloppy and frantic and your hands have looped round his neck and finally wrapped your fingers in those curls. Your body is pressed fully against his as his tongue dips into your mouth, his nose tickling your cheek as his mouth moves desperately with yours.

And you're moaning now too, right into his mouth and you tug on his hair drawing a pathetic whine out of him as his hands sink to your ass, carefully avoiding your bruised hip and you're now very thankful that you didn't change that light bulb so that all your neighbours aren't getting a show.

A growl rumbles in his chest as he squeezes the flesh of your ass and he crowds you against the door, breaking away from your lips and kissing down your jaw to your throat. And fuck you want him. You want him so bad as you feel his hand on your thigh, still over your dress but it's enough to send a wave of slick into your already sodden panties.

And it hits you all at once. How devastating it will be to lose him. You've been on one date but you're already addicted. You're not ready to take any risk of putting him off. Your head that was buzzing with want just a moment ago is now buzzing with fear. You're not ready to be physical with him.

So you gently push at his shoulders, "Frankie, Frankie, wait."

And that's all it takes. He straightens immediately, hands returning to your waist as he looks you in the eyes.

"Sorry baby, I got carried away."

"I'm sorry Frankie, it's not that I don't want to," you desperately try to explain yourself, "I really do, but I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"Hey, it's ok, you haven't got anything to be sorry for. We go at your pace and not a bit faster ok?"

You bite your lip and turn your head away. You're so annoyed at yourself as you feel more tears pricking at your eyes. You're such a fucking mess.

"No, don't cry sweet girl, tell me what's going on."

"I'm so confused Frankie. I want you so bad but I'm so scared. It's like my mind and my body are at war with each other. And I know I'm sending you mixed signals and I don't want to scare you off but I'm terrified you'll get bored and give up on me."

He leans in and kisses his way over your cheek and back to your mouth. It's softer, more chaste and sweet.

"Baby, I want you too but you don't ever have to do anything you don't want. All of you. We don't have to go any further until your brain and your body are both ready, you hear me?"

You nod.

"Words baby," he directs you.

You sniffle, "yes Frankie."

"Good girl, come here." He pulls you into his embrace, your head finding a home on his chest once more. It's quickly becoming your favourite place to be.

He sways you gently, his arms engulfing you until he feels your heart and your breathing begin to calm.

"There now, feel better?"

You nod and belatedly throw in a "yes Frankie," already expecting to be told to use your words. "But..."

"But what baby?"

"I'm still so turned on."

He lets out a surprised laugh and kisses you again. "You're gonna be the death of me baby." He cradles your face and gives you lots of sweet little kisses that leave you mewling. You feel his cock twitching in his pants and that almost breaks your resolve but before you can even say anything his forehead falls to rest on yours and he's nudging your nose with his to get your attention.

"Did you like what we did last night baby? On the phone."

Your pussy clenches violently at the memory, a strangled "yes" escaping you as you clutch at his shirt.

"Would you like to do that again?" he asks, his voice sounding low and gravelly just like it did last night and you think you might pass out.

"Fuck yes!"

"Hmmm good girl," he murmurs against your check, his hot breath on your skin causing goosebumps to erupt over your body. "Here's what we're going to do," he starts, pulling back and looking you deep in the eyes, his pupils blown wide with desire. "You're going to go inside and I'm going to get back in my truck and I'm going to call you."

You whimper as he starts to kiss down your throat again. "And you're going to answer and let me listen to you playing with your pretty pussy ok?"

You whine as his kisses continue down over your chest, one soft kiss placed on the swell of each breast over your dress and still he's sinking lower.

"And while you play with your pussy and let me hear how wet she got for me, I'm going to stroke my cock and imagine how she'll feel when he gets inside her."

"Fuck," you whimper, your head tips back and thuds into the door, your legs already feeling like jelly at the thought of Frankie jerking off in your driveway. You look down and he's on his knees now looking up at you, and it's absolutely sinful how debauched he looks.

He leans in to kiss your belly and he feels you tense. Knowing you're sensitive about that part of your body, he diverts and places a gentle kiss on your hip, right on the bruise that this morning he grabbed by accident.

His hands are on the outside of your thighs now, and you think you're about to lose your mind when he says, "and if you want to be a really good girl for me, you'll let me take these panties, so I can smell your pussy while I stroke my cock."

Your whole body spasms with want. Fuck, he's so filthy but in the best way. He wants you but is willing to do this entirely on your terms. And seeing him on his knees for you makes you weak. You think you'd give him anything he wanted right now. You'd let him fuck you despite your own reservations, so how can you deny him when he's asking so little.

"Yes Frankie, take them," you tell him through your panting. Your chest is heaving, your body feels like a live wire.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your mound, making you whine as his hands sneak under your dress to hook into the elastic of your panties and slowly start to inch them down your legs, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time.

And you're completely mesmerised as you watch him gently help you out of your underwear. This feels so much more intimate than you've been with any other man. And you love it.

"Good girl." He lifts his prize and you see him run his thumb along the gusset. "So wet for me baby."

And you should be embarrassed. You really should be, but as you watch him bring his thumb to his mouth and suck off the moisture and see his eyes roll back in his head as he groans, "fuck baby she's a tasty little puss", you feel like a fucking Goddess.

"Frankie!" you whine, so fucking gone now that you think you could come just from watching him. But your desperate little whine snaps his restraint. He's on his feet in a flash, pressing a quick kiss against your lips and growling, "inside, now."

Your body reacts immediately, following his command without question. You fumble your keys out of your handbag and desperately try to get the door open. Once it is you feel him press a kiss against your neck and he's gone, rushing back towards his truck, panties in hand. He turns back before he climbs in and gives you a reassuring nod. You return it and close the door, rushing close the blinds and lay down on the sofa, pulling your phone out of your bag. 

Your heart is beating like it's about to burst out of your chest. And even though you're expecting it you still jump when your phone starts to vibrate. 

You answer immediately, "Frankie please!" you beg, needing to come, needing to hear him. 

"I got you baby, I got you. Gona make sure you see fucking stars."

"Fuck yes," you moan, your free hand already squeezing your breast. 

"Hmmm sound so pretty for me baby," you can hear a zipper through your phone and the thought that Frankie is sitting right outside your window, getting his cock out. 

"You in your bed baby?'

"No the sofa, closer," you huff. Closer to where you were or closer to him, you're not sure, maybe both. 

"Hmmm good girl, what are you doing now, tell me."

"I'm groping my breast."

"Fuck yes, those pretty tits need some attention. Can't wait to get my hands on them properly baby. Gona kiss them and suck on them and then I'm going to fuck them"

"Frankie!" You vocabulary seems to be diminishing by the second.

"You want that baby? My big cock sliding between those beautiful tits?"

"Yes God I want it, I want it so bad." 

"Good girl. Now I want you to slide that hand into between those gorgeous thighs and start playing with your clit while you tell me what else you want to do with my cock."

You whimper as you follow his instructions, your clit is so sensitive you cry out when you make contact. 

"Oh baby is she that worked up for me?" he asks as if he's not sitting outside with your soaking wet panties as evidence for how much he'd riled you up. 

"Oh Frankie!" you moan as you get used to your own touch. You hear him through the phone, the wet thwacking as he beats his meat right out there on your driveway. You hope none of your neighbours get an eyeful. 

"C'mon baby talk to me, where else do you want my cock?"

"Oh fuck! Want him in my mouth, want to suck him and taste him and make him feel good."

Frankie groans down the phone to you and it's a beautiful noise. "Yeah baby, can't wait to fill up that beautiful mouth, feel you all warm and wet around me, fuck! What else baby?"

"In my pussy, I need him in my pussy," you confess.

"Yes, fuck baby, I want to fuck your pussy so bad. I just know she's going to look and feel  as good as she tastes. And smells." He punctuates that with a very loud inhale and you can picture it, him in his car, his leaking cock in one hand and your panties held to his nose in the other and it makes you feral, your fingers speeding up against your poor clit. 

"Gona fill that pussy up so good for you baby, make her fucking sing for me. Put your fingers inside baby, I need to hear her."

You do as he says with a moan, two fingers sinking into your needy hole. You start to pump fast and filthy and the squelching rings round the room, loud and undeniable. 

"Oh yes baby, just like that, fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Gona come baby, tell me you're close."

"I'm so close Frankie, come for me, want to hear you!"

He growls and groans through his peak, panting and calling your name. 

You fucking burst, pleasure scorching through your veins, your whole body spasming, back arching off the sofa as you scream his name. It's fucking transcendent. Your fingers still inside you, your pussy convulsing around them as you pant and groan. Your body finally stills and you flop back on the sofa. 

"Woah," you murmur. You sound like you've just run a marathon, sucking in mouthfuls of air, your chest heaving and your body covered in a sheen of sweat. That was the most intense orgasm you've ever had. 

"Baby, are you ok?"

"Mmmm, I'm amazing baby, that was so good," you tell him. 

He groans again, "fuck, I love you calling me baby."

You giggle, "I love it too."

"Can- can I come in baby. Just to help you get settled and hold you for a while?"

Your heart wants to burst. The way he can go from being the filthiest to the sweetest in seconds is as astonishing as it is delightful. You've never had anyone take care of you or make you feel the way he does. So you don't even need to consider it, "yes please baby."

You hear a relieved sigh, like he'd been scared you would deny him something precious to him, "thank you baby."

"Um Frankie, my legs might be out of action for a few more minutes, but the door is unlocked." 

A minute later he gently knocks on the door before opening it and coming inside. You've managed to drag yourself into a semi-seated position. He rushes to you, "here let me help you up." He helps you to stand on very shaky legs and you can't help but lean in for a kiss. It's fairly PG compared to what you just did but it's so nice. Nice enough to give you the confidence to ask him to stay a little longer. 

"I'm going to go and get cleaned up and get into some pjs, would you like to stay and watch a movie with me?" 

He gives you a dopey, blissed out smile, "I can think of nothing I'd rather do."

Npt: @easybbgrl @aurorawritestoescape @magpiepills @mystickittytaco @misstokyo7love @puduvallee @katw474 @joelsprettygirl @ess-evo @ivoryandflame @brittmb115 @the-sophverse @baronessvonglitter

Tagging some people who enjoyed the first stories.

Switching on the bedside lamp, bathing the bedroom in its yellow light, you observe him. He is lying on the other side of the bed with his back to you. 

Javier’s presence -spending the night between your sheets- is not a novelty. It's not a regular occurrence either; it's just something that has been happening more and more frequently since your arrangement started a couple of months ago. Sometimes, it happens because Javier's lust remains unsatiated, paused for a couple of hours before it ignites again, voracious and greedy, while the sun emerges from the horizon. And other times, it occurs for no other reason than to share a lazy morning, to sit in the mismatched chairs of your kitchen table, drinking coffee and indulging in the pastries he buys from the bakery around the corner of your building.

Leaving marks, harmless yet irrefutable, imprints of his presence in every room of your home; a spare toothbrush next to yours in the bathroom, a t-shirt you stole from him mixed with your clothes in the wardrobe, an astray with the remains of his smoked cigarettes in the living room. One of his jackets hung on the coat rack of your foyer. And a mug, perhaps not his favorite, yet, but one he favours, ocean-blue with a gold rim, waiting for him to use it again on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker.

Nurturing an unforeseen seed, blurring the edges, twisting the wordless agreement between the two of you, showing you a side of him, an unattainable possibility, poisonous and more addictive than the sex you've been having. The feverish fucks against the furniture, those that make the wood creak enough to fear its crumble while he rails you, and leave you quivering, pleasantly sore with your body branded by his palms. The obscene sounds of his hips slapping your asscheecks as he rams into you from behind, pushing your shoulder blades to the bed as you beg for more, or resting his hand around your neck as he holds you against his chest. The heady power of riding him roughly when he lets you, of commanding his pleasure, of taking yours unashamedly. The sight of his arms, his muscles bulging when he takes your weight like it’s no more than a feather, when you're coming so hard that your eyes roll backwards, moving you at his will as you mewl, selfishly seeking his own release. 

Pushing you to realize what you're not ready to admit, forcing you to accept that, despite your best attempts, if not completely, you’re at least halfway in love with him.

He's naked, as you are, with the sheets barely covering his hips and legs, displaying his bronzed skin, his broad shoulders scattered with freckles, tempting you to touch him, to sneak your arms around his torso, and fold yourself around him.

There’s no repose in his muscles, though. They are eerily still, taut, vibrating with the tension coiling underneath his skin as he huffs, grinding his teeth, as if he's fighting his mind, muttering words you don't understand.

The understanding hits you like lightning.

He’s having a nightmare.

The surprise hits you first. But it doesn't last. It fades quickly, replaced by the remorse, the grief at the possibility that he's had more nightmares and you haven't noticed, that he's had to endure their torment, their aftermath once awake, the pain of the wounds they reopened, alone, while you kept sleeping, oblivious. Numbing you for a spell. 

You try to break through his nightmare with your voice. His name becomes a plea slipping from your lips. It's for naught, tough. Even your raised tone is unfruitful. He remains trapped, deaf to your worry. Until the need to help him compels you to nudge him, gently.

He bolts at the first contact of your hand against his shoulder, sitting suddenly with chest heaving, clutching the sheets in his palms. Adrift, still lost in the demons that plagued his dreams. 

"Javier," you murmur his name before he tries to leave, abhorring the idea of spooking him any more than he already is, be the reason causing him to move, try to escape, abandon the bed, driven by his embarrassment to lick his wounds in private, down them in alcohol and cigarettes.

You don't move, granting him the space he needs, waiting patiently to touch him again till he gazes at you, accepting your comfort.

The initial brush is electric, barely a gaze of your fingertips tracing his bicep, hesitant, ready to retreat if he desires so. It grows bold as soon as he leans on your warmth, fingers spreading, traveling down his forearm, circling it as much as you can, gently tugging him towards you.

“Come here,” you beckon him.

He offers no resistance, yielding to you, following the path you offer him, helpless, stealing your breath with the sorrow consuming his brown eyes, the significance of this moment, the trust Javier bestows upon you.

Cradling Javier in your arms, providing him the shelter he craves but doesn't know how to ask for, comes instinctively. 

You stay silent, not asking what he has seen, what his mind has betrayed him with. Not offering any void platitude, not pretending to understand what he's feeling. Aware of the horrors he confronts every day. The atrocities you only glimpse on the news, those you've started to pay more attention to, following them more meticulously since you met him. Anxious to know if he was doing ok when you hadn't seen him in a couple of days.

You just hold him tightly as his sobs rack him, burying his face on your neck, trembling, dampening your skin with his tears. 

You rock him, trying to soothe him with your body, ground him with your caresses, curling your fingers in his hair, and kissing the side of his cheek as he grabs your waist, almost painfully, begging for forgiveness. To whom you don’t know. Your heart bleeds for him. You ache for him, this man who feels so intensely and has been betrayed so many times, wounded so deeply that his scars have hardened him, caged him so profoundly that he’s almost unreachable.

You stay like this for a long time, with no hurry, till Javier's tears become kisses, breaking the spell. 

They are heavy, open-mouthed, relishing in your taste. Javier's mouth travels up your neck, tickling you with his moustache, teasing you with his breath, nipping the angle of your jaw with his teeth as his hands start to roam. Sensual, precise in their strokes to your ribs, the underside of your breasts, your nipples, masterful, intoxicating your senses, arousing you, making you gasp, and sigh.

“Por favor," he begs, edgy, pressing you against the bed. 

"Wait." You cup his cheeks, pulling him back to stop him, looking at him. “I don’t think it's a good idea.”

“Por favor, cariño (honey).” His plea is imbued with desperation, raw, stripped down of his cockiness -the bravado that infuriates and captivates you in equal amounts, sweetened with the pet name you adore, piercing you, shattering your resolve.

"Okay," you concede, inhaling sharply as you open to him, surrendering. You want to give him what he needs. 

It’s your turn to follow him, to trust him.

He pushes his weight into you again, until you're lying underneath him, unknowingly doing your favorite thing, settling between your parted thighs, slotting your bodies perfectly. He cages you, pressing every part of him against you, flesh against flesh, almost smothering you with his weight, in the way you like, that drives you crazy, making your blood boil and your core pulsate with want.

His lips seek yours, fervent, licking your mouth, swallowing the moan ripping your throat as you rock against his cock, hard and thick. 

You kiss him back. Dizzy. Sucking his lower lip between yours, sliding your palms down his ass, fervent, tugging him closer. With your sweaty skin glued together, you assure him your consent, releasing the last chains holding his control. 

He aligns his cock against your center, grinding against your folds, coating himself with your arousal before sinking into your core. He pushes gradually, allowing you to relax with every inch he takes till the coarse hair around his cock rubs your clit. You’re still open from your last round, but his thickness still overwhelms you, still threatens to split you. 

He starts to move, pulsating inside your walls. It's an intimate dance, you'd never dared to dance like this with him before, slow and perfect, where he takes and takes, panting into your mouth, whispering praises and his devotion. Those you'd savor in any other moment, but you can't. You can only focus on the pleasure, clawing at his shoulders, overpowered, mewling his name when he reaches that sweet spot deep inside you.

The first time you met him, crossing gazes across the counter of your uncle's bar, with his swagger and mustache, you recognized the trouble he was.

The easy banter you shared, while you worked to earn some extra money for your studies, fuelled the spark that ignited between you, making you reckless, emboldening you to take him home a couple of hours later, and start ripping his clothes before the door of your place had barely closed.

You had believed yourself smart enough to resist his allure, to play the game with him, and preserve your distance, protect your heart. Have fun with no strings attached.

But now, as you pull him closer to you, scratching his shoulders, circling his hips with your legs, you know the truth. He hadn't ruined you then. The road to ruin starts here as you drown in Javier's dark gaze, unguarded and ardent. The unbridled passion, wild and raw, that captivates you, revealing what he has kept concealed, the depth of his feelings, matching yours, that you're not alone.

"You take it so good." His thrusts are deliberate, possessing you. Intense. Unrelenting.

"I... Javi... I... Don't stop," you beseech, tugging his hair. Unable to move, still captive under him. 

"Give it to me, cariño." He sneaks his hand between your bodies to circle your clit, making you gasp and flutter around his shaft. And you're gone. The wave of ecstasy breaks, and your orgasm hits you, making him growl as you squeeze him inside of you, taking him with you.

He grunts, ramming one last time, again and again, pressing his forehead to yours, throbbing inside you, claiming you with his seed, holding you, still as passionate but reverent, honest, as if he wanted to consume you, with what you'd dare to say, love.

You don’t know if this is the shift, the first step into more, or if it's what is going to destroy you. But you don’t care.

You're his. 

And maybe, hopefully, he's yours.

You liked Manhattan best in the evenings, when all the cafes and bagel shops began to roll up their awnings.  Midtown was never quiet, exactly – the subway always rumbled, steam gusted up from all the sidewalk grates, and neon signs thrummed in every run-down diner window. But there was a lull around twilight, after the commuters went home, when you swore you could feel the city readying itself, like some giant animal crouching before it burst into motion.

After a lifetime of following all the city’s rhythms, it felt wrong to go out this early, to wobble up from the subway in your tiniest skirt when the streets were still pink from the setting sun. But maybe tonight was meant to feel wrong. After all, this weekend marked the end of two eras.

The first was your era of trying to make a difference. The Manhattan you’d grown up in was slowly dying – all the affordable apartments, the run-down theaters and tiny bakeries had been priced out. For the last ten years, you’d devoted your life to saving them. But your legal aid firms were no match for corporate developers, and your pile of student debt was only getting larger. Earlier this year, your fourth employer in a row had gone out of business, and you’d finally given up. On Monday, you would start your new life as a sellout.

This was also the weekend that your favorite bar was closing. O’Henry’s was a sticky little dive, a New York staple, and you’d practically lived there all through your twenties. But the owners just couldn’t make rent anymore.  For their final weekend, they’d slashed all the prices and were throwing an “end of the world” celebration.

Doors opened at seven. You and your best friends Sky and Jana showed up at six. By then the line already wrapped around the block. By eleven, O’Henry’s was packed wall-to-wall.

It had to be eighty degrees inside, and the sticky room roared with a hundred conversations. You, Sky and Jana had claimed a prime booth in the corner, and the three of you were viciously defending it. Well, Sky and Jana were viciously defending it. You were viciously attempting to drown your sorrows in $4 martinis while winning at a game of Jenga.

You prodded one of the center blocks, and the tower wobbled above you.

“This Jenga game,” you declared morosely. “Is a metaphor for my career.”

Sky and Jana exchanged a long look.

“Towering?” Sky asked.

“Classic?” Jana added. “Fun for the whole family?”

You glared at the both of them. A cluster of finance guys with identical haircuts chose that moment to bump against the table, and the tower collapsed in a rain of wooden blocks. All three of you got hit on the head.

“Ow,” Sky muttered. They lifted a sodden Jenga block out of their cosmo and contemplated the remaining liquid. “Do you think this is still safe to drink?”

“Probably equally safe as it was before,” said Jana sagely. “I’m a medical professional. You can trust me.”

Jana was a yoga instructor, but she’d memorized all the bones in the human body for her certification, and in your martini-infused estimation this made her a doctor. You nodded your agreement, and Sky downed their drink.

You got to work fishing Jenga pieces out of the booth. You had a tower to rebuild.

“Hey,” said a voice. One of the finance guys. “Sorry about your game. But uh, you guys have been here a while, and we were wondering…”

“No,” you snapped. “You cannot both terrorize and claim our booth. Begone.”

Sky snickered behind you. The guy hesitated. You stared at him flatly.

“You’re still here,” you pointed out.

“There’s five of us,” he said. “And only three of you.”

“We have head wounds,” you said. “We need to sit down. My friend is a medical professional, and she thinks so, right?”

Jana bobbed her head. “It’s life-or-death.”

The finance guy still wasn’t moving. Your little disagreement had caught the attention of a few other patrons now, including a guy in the next booth over. You met his eyes for a second, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

Well. There was only one thing you hated more than losing, and it was losing with an audience. You leveled the finance guys with your steeliest glare.

“Lane v. McNab,” you said. “In 1991, a drunken Jon McNab crashed his bike into a pile of grocery crates. One fell and injured Susan Lane’s arm, and she won a civil suit for the damages. Fifty thousand dollars.”

The finance guy blinked. “What –”

“That was just an arm,” you continued. “Think of what we could get for head trauma. And there’s three of us.”

When the finance guys continued to stare blankly, you rolled your eyes. “I’m saying we’ll sue you, Brooks Brothers, if you give us a reason. There’s precedent.”

The five of them evaporated. Sky burst into laughter.

“Grocery crates? Seriously? You couldn’t have made up something better?”

“I didn’t make it up,” you said. “That actually happened. The plaintiff was a typist, and the defendant had to cover her backpay when she couldn’t work.” You dropped a handful of Jenga blocks on the table. “Now, do we think it’s sacrilege to try and build a pyramid?”

You felt the pull of someone’s gaze. The guy in the next booth.

He was kind of hot, you realized, with broad, round shoulders and wavy hair that curled around his ears. An expensive-looking watch glinted on his wrist, and he was dressed in a deep blue suit. It fit him well, but something about the set of his shoulders seemed out of place in formalwear – almost as out of place as formalwear seemed in a bar like O’Henry’s.

The man was alone in his booth, but he’d somehow managed to keep the finance guys off his back. It struck you that he wasn’t on his phone. Either his thoughts were so quiet they didn’t bother him, or they were so loud he had to look at them head-on.

He held your gaze, and heat fluttered through your chest.

You snapped your attention back to Sky and Jana. They’d apparently watched the whole exchange. Sky leaned over and stage-whispered in your ear.

“He’s been checking you out for, like, hours.”

“What?” you said. “No, he hasn’t.”

Jana turned to look over her shoulder at the guy, then nodded back at you approvingly. Your face burned.

“Stop that,” you muttered. Tonight was not about guys, no matter how very deep their eyes might look.  

Jana was mouthing something at you now. “You – should – talk – to – him.”

You shook your head at her. Meeting strangers in bars was a recipe for letdown, and you’d been through enough disappointment lately.

“Fine,” Jana said. “Sky and I will just go get another round. Maybe squeeze in a dance or two. You don’t mind watching the booth, right?”

Her tone was breezy, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. Before you could protest, the two of them got up, leaving you alone with the stranger.

You were sure they meant for him to come over, but the finance guys closed in first.

They’d refilled their drinks, and all five of them crowded around the edge of your table. Seriously? Didn’t they have anywhere else to lurk?

“Still occupied,” you told them.

“Come on,” their ringleader said. He had watery eyes, and he swayed slightly as he spoke. “There’s plenty of space. Look.”

He sat down next to you in Jana’s empty seat.  

Damn it. If you couldn’t get him to stand in the next few seconds, you’d lose the table for sure. On a different night, you might not have cared, but this was your bar. You’d come here five hours early to score this booth.

“Get up,” you said. “My friends will be back.”

The ringleader didn’t budge. He gave you a taunting look, as if he knew as well as you did that you couldn’t make him. Frustration crawled beneath your skin.

A smooth, commanding voice sounded from behind the pack of guys.

“Excuse me. You’re in my seat.”

It was the man from the next booth over. He’d come up to stand behind the finance guys. Now that he was on his feet, you realized how tall he was – enough to tower above the pack. There was something about him that emanated power, and it came from more than just his sheer size. You thought it was the way he carried himself, like he was used to bending the world to his will.

He glanced sidelong at you, and his expression softened, as if the two of you were in on some shared joke. Then the weight of his focus fell on the ringleader.

The smaller man appeared to be both deeply intimidated and trying hard not to be. For a tense three seconds, he held his ground, shrinking back against the leather of the booth. Then he dropped his eyes.

With a half-muttered “sorry, man,” he led the pack away. The tall stranger grinned at you.

“I’m surprised they came back after your threat to sue.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “Thanks. You should sit. If you want to.”

The booth he’d vacated was already full. It was the least you could do. And… okay, he was extremely good-looking.

The stranger hesitated, then slid into the booth beside you.

“I’m Marcus,” he said.

He held out a hand, and you scooted close enough to take it. His palm was warm, and it swallowed yours completely.

You told him your name, and he repeated it back to you.

“Pretty,” he commented.

Up close, you saw grey in his beard and at his temples. It suited him, in a hot forty-something way. Faint frown lines were etched into his forehead, but they seemed at-odds with the playful look he was giving you now.

“Where’d your friends go?” he asked.

You gestured toward the bar, where the throng hid Sky and Jana from view, and gave a vague explanation. The DJ had begun a long run of 90s throwbacks, so you’d probably lost them to the dancefloor.

Marcus watched you steadily as you spoke. Between the martinis and the pull of his attention, it was harder than it should have been to form coherent words.

“You know,” you said. “You’re the first person I’ve ever seen in a suit at O’Henry’s.”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Are you asking what a guy like me is doing in a place like this?”

You laughed. “I guess I am. But I actually want to know.”

“I’ve been coming here a long time,” he said. “I like that it’s always stayed the same as it used to be.”

“I get it,” you said. “The city feels like it’s disappearing sometimes.”

For a moment, Marcus’s face shifted, folding in on itself to fill in all his frown lines. Then the sadness fled his face so quickly that you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You grew up here, then?”

“Lower east side,” you confirmed.

“I knew it,” he said. “You act like a textbook New Yorker.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re telling me I’m bitchy right now.”

“I would’ve said direct…”

“Uh-huh. Good save.”

Marcus’s knee bumped yours beneath the table.

“I mean it,” he said. “Direct is a good thing. You’re probably a killer negotiator.”

“I am,” you agreed.

He grinned. “And I’m from the city, too,” he continued. “So if you’re… direct… then I have to be just as bad.”

It turned out Marcus had grown up in Brooklyn. The conversation devolved into reminiscing from there. You traded stories about the huge blackouts in the 2000s, about your shitty first apartments and the roommates who’d lived in them.

Marcus had a careful way of telling stories, always pausing to arrange all the information in the right order. The closer your questions got to his day-to-day life, the more he seemed reluctant to answer. He didn’t bring up his job, and a part of you was relieved. You hardly wanted to talk about your own.

You didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but you suspected he was already a few drinks in. His face was flushed, and he had a way of tilting toward you as you spoke, his long arm braced on the back of the booth.

At some point you’d shifted close to one another, and his thigh kept brushing yours underneath the table. He felt enormous up close, and the rest of the booth, not to mention the bar beyond it, felt somehow like a distant world. Your hand lifted of its own accord and trailed over Marcus’s arm. He was a muscular guy, with a thick chest and bulky arms, but he moved easily in his suit jacket. It had to be bespoke. Whatever job he wasn’t talking about, it paid very well.

A little too late, you realized you had both stopped talking. And you were now blatantly staring at Marcus’s chest. You trailed your eyes back to his face and saw him fight off a smile.

“Hey,” you said.  

Marcus’s eyes flickered with amusement. He brought his thumb up to trace your bottom lip.  

“Hi,” he answered.

He lowered his head, and you tilted up into his gravity. Your heart stuttered. Marcus’s nose brushed yours. He tucked a hand beneath your chin and guided you into a kiss.  

With a soft scrape of stubble, his bottom lip slid into your mouth. A sigh slipped out of you, and you felt Marcus shudder. Holding you in place, he coaxed your mouth open and licked slowly into it. Heat shivered through you, and you melted against him, splaying your hands on his chest.

A heavy sound drifted up from Marcus’s throat. His arms encircled you, and with one sharp tug he pulled you to sit sideways across his lap.

Time moved strangely, minutes dripping into one-another. Marcus’s hands roamed up and down your sides, pressing heat into you through your flimsy top. At some point you’d fumbled his shirt-collar open, and now your hand was inside it, trailing up the side of his neck. Marcus’s palms slid down your ribcage, and this time his fingers dipped beneath the hem of your shirt.

He touched your bare stomach, and your senses flooded. Heedless of your surroundings, you guided his hand upward.

Marcus groaned softly, and you felt him shake his head.

“People will see,” he murmured against your mouth.

You were about to protest that you didn’t care when you felt his hand move lower. He traced the outside of your bare thigh, then brought his fingers up beneath the hem of your skirt.

Some distant part of you - the part that hadn’t been destroyed by martinis or Marcus’s mouth – had the decency to wonder if this was wrong. But Marcus’s hand was sliding higher now, circling over your sensitive inner thigh, and decency seemed very unimportant.

You let your legs drift apart, and Marcus brushed you once through your panties.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re already soaked through.”

He shifted his hips, and a hot feeling bolted through you. He was hard. You could feel him straining against his pants, the thick line of his erection pressing against your upper thigh. It would be so easy to sling your leg around his waist, he could undo his zipper, and…

A glass shattered from the other side of the bar, and you and Marcus both stiffened. The kiss broke, and he rested his forehead to yours.

“What are you doing to me?” he murmured.  

“I’m not doing anything,” you protested. “You’re the one who – fuck.”

Marcus traced a finger over the outline of your slit. Static crackled through your mind. You whined softly, and Marcus tilted his mouth forward to kiss you again. He pulled your underwear aside and slid two thick fingers along your folds.

“Come home with me,” he said.

You didn’t know if he was asking or ordering, didn’t know which you wanted, could hardly even breathe with the way he was touching you, with the pad of his middle finger circling your entrance. You spread your legs wider, and he made a low, desperate sound.

“Please,” he murmured. “I need to have you.”

“Marcus…” you managed.

When you didn’t say more, he pushed his finger inside you. The stretch ached through you, deep and sweet and not enough. You felt something bigger than pleasure now – hot shame, and giddy exhilaration, a whole-body thrill that had you biting back a moan.

You’d never done anything like this before. How much of it was visible to the rest of the room? Marcus’s hand was moving beneath the table, but surely people could see how close you were, could guess where his arm led.   

“Come home with me,” Marcus repeated. “I can feel how bad you want it.” He slid his finger out of you, then pushed it slowly back in. “You’d take it so good.”

Your body throbbed with the need to say yes. But when you thought about it… getting in a cab with Marcus, riding the elevator to his apartment, seeing all the details of his life…

You didn’t know anything about him. Not really. You didn’t want that lonely morning-after feeling that always hit you after one-night stands. Not this weekend. Not when you’d come here to be with your friends.

You caught Marcus’s wrist and guided his hand out from between your legs, ignoring the pang you felt at the loss of him.

“I can’t,” you said.

Marcus loosened his hold on you and shifted back far enough to scan your face. His eyes were glazed over, pupils blown, and you thought you saw confusion knotting behind them.

“I’m not… I don’t like to go home with strangers,” you explained.

Some of the fog lifted from Marcus’s gaze.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. I understand.” He tucked a strand of hair back from your face. His mouth twisted, like he was deciding whether or not to say more.

“I… I don’t really do this either,” he blurted. “I don’t want you to think… I don’t know.” He ran a rueful hand over his swollen mouth, and let out a slow sigh.

“What’s your number?” he asked. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

You bit your lip. The rational thing to do was say yes. Marcus was gorgeous, and he’d stood up for you, and he touched you like he knew what he was doing. But who knew what he was really like outside of this? Even if he was this great all the time, that was almost worse than the alternative. You’d just been crushed professionally. You couldn’t also risk getting your heart broken right now.

“I’m not really doing phone numbers at the moment,” you said.

Marcus’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

“What, then?” he asked. “Instagram?”

You hesitated.

Marcus bent his head and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Email?” He kissed your jaw. “Messenger pigeon?” His lips brushed your cheek. “If you say Snapchat, that might be a dealbreaker.”

He pulled back, and you forced yourself not to return his grin. Understanding crept into his eyes, and a crease appeared in the center of his brow.

“It’s not that I didn’t have a good time tonight,” you began.

“You don’t have to explain,” Marcus said.  He slid you gently off his lap and unwound his arms from your waist. “I’ll leave you to your friends. It’s getting late for me.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

 He stood from the booth and buttoned his jacket in a single fluid motion.

“Have a good night,” he said.

You nodded. “It was… nice to meet you.”

Marcus vanished into the crowd, and you slumped against the booth. You felt a strange cocktail of emotions – an ache in your chest, lingering tendrils of desire, and a low pulse of dread for your coming Monday morning. You were still sorting through it when Sky and Jana returned.

They slid into the booth, both giving you pointed looks.

“What?” you asked.

Sky grinned. “You have lipstick on your face,” they said. “The non-lips part of your face.”

Oh, god, you probably looked a mess. Jana dipped a napkin in her vodka soda and passed it to you. She and Sky went into interrogation mode while you wiped your face. You told them more or less what you knew about Marcus – leaving out the biblical knowing part – and did your best to change the subject. You didn’t need them telling you you’d done the wrong thing.

“It’s not a big deal,” you finally said. “It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.”

In the end, you were glad you hadn’t gone home with Marcus. He was better as a memory, one wildly slutty moment outside of your real life. You… remembered it… that following night before you fell asleep, and again the one after that. It was a good distraction from the first-day-of-work outfit laid out on your dresser, from the pit of guilt twisting in your stomach.

Your new job wasn’t any old corporate law position. You’d been hired by Roman Industries, the biggest real-estate developer in the city. Roman had a way of jumping on every new property before it hit the market, and three of the four non-profits you’d worked at had folded thanks to the competition. It was impossible to build income-restricted housing when Roman bought all the would-be locations and turned them into luxury high-rises. And Roman was simply unbeatable: so massive that it was impossible to outbid them, and so well-connected that legal checks didn’t matter.

You’d come close to outmaneuvering them a few times at your old jobs, and apparently impressed Roman's legal team enough that they wanted you. If they’d approached you five years ago, you would’ve happily told them to go to hell. But nowadays, in property law, there was hardly anywhere else left to work.

You knew that you didn’t have much choice. You told yourself it would be temporary. You really tried not to get excited when the signing bonus landed in your checking account. But you still felt like a traitor when Monday morning rolled around and you showed up to work at the Roman Industries skyscraper.

A marble façade surrounded the building, made of tall, ridged columns that towered up over Park Avenue. More marble lined the lobby inside. It was three stories tall, and so dimly lit that it had to be intentional. A river of commuters poured in through the revolving doors, and the cavernous room echoed with hundreds of clacking footsteps. Maybe you were biased, but the overall impression was a little too much like the gates of a dark lord’s evil empire.

You half expected your orientation to be some sort of occult ritual. Blood oaths, or at least a vow of loyalty. Instead, you spent the morning in run-of-the-mill HR trainings, the same ones you’d gotten at all your old jobs. Even dark lords needed two-factor authentication.

You wouldn’t be working as a part of the legal team at Roman. Not directly, anyway. They’d contacted you last week with your assignment, and you were now head counsel for their biggest department. The Acquisitions Team. The exact people who’d bought all the properties out from your previous companies.

You were determined not to like them, but the woman from Acquisitions who came to get you after your trainings was perfectly pleasant. Her name was Ava, and she had a low, musical voice. She introduced herself as a director, which you thought was the highest rank after the department’s president.

“Next highest,” she corrected. She held open the elevator door, then pressed the button for the second floor from the top. “Technically, legal counsel is the second-in-command.”

You were in charge? Briefly, you wondered if this meant you could make everyone stop buying up the city. But the department president would probably veto that.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped out into a commotion. A huge open space filled the middle of the Acquisitions floor, dotted with clusters of desks where suit-clad associates talked loudly on phones, or talked to each other, or wrote up long proposals on their computers.

Ava led you through the center of it, and you realized there was some sort of underlying structure. Each cluster of desks seemed to be a sub-team. One had models of buildings set upon it, another stacks of financial documents. There seemed to be a head to every cluster, and you were reminded briefly of army platoons.  

Ava walked on into a carpeted hallway, and the conversations faded to a muted roar. You passed a long row of doors with brass nameplates, and stopped in front of the second one from the end of the hall.  

The door was made of smooth wood, inset with a panel of frosted glass. You turned the polished brass doorknob, pushed open the door, and for the first time understood just how different your life would be at Roman.

A thick burgundy carpet spread out over the floor, bridging two walls lined with deep built-in bookshelves. There was space enough between them for a massive desk, and a pair of armchairs arranged around a good-sized coffee table. But all of that paled when you took in the windows.

There was a whole wall of them, floor-to-ceiling panels spilling morning light into the room. The city glittered outside, and – woah – you had a view of the Chrysler Building?

You caught Ava biting back a smile and realized you were probably gaping. You took another look around and noticed a comfy-looking executive chair behind the desk. There was also a second door in your office, inset in the wall opposite your desk. You’d have to find out where it led.

“Are all the offices this nice?” you asked.

Ava shook her head. “Yours is second-best on the floor. Almost as good as the General’s.”

“The General?”

You already hated the Acquisitions President on principle. But if he insisted on being called the General, you might be hurling yourself through your new windows.

Ava laughed. “Don’t tell him I used that name. He hates it when we call him that. But it’s fitting.”

“That’s sinister,” you said.

“No, he’s alright!” Ava insisted. “I’m supposed to take you to him now. Unless you’d like to check out the floor’s kitchen first? It’s stocked with Roman’s own brand of bottled spring water.”

You suspected she was serious, but you’d have to check later. You’d been dreading meeting your new boss all morning, and it was time to get this over with. You were certain that you wouldn’t like him, but you had no choice except to work alongside him, and you’d feel better once you knew what he was like.

“I’m good for now,” you said. “I think I’m General-ready.”

Ava nodded. You expected her to walk back out the door you’d come through, but she went instead to the one inside your office. She knocked smartly on it and didn’t wait for an answer before pulling it open.

The office on the other side was a slightly larger mirror of your own. The built-ins were full of neatly bound files, carefully displayed Diplomas, and a few awards emblazoned with Roman’s glossy burgundy logo. Instead of armchairs, a low leather couch stretched out facing the windows.

You turned your attention to the desk, where a dark-haired man in a perfectly tailored suit was pushing to his feet. He closed the button of his jacket in a single, all-too-familiar motion, then looked up at you and went completely rigid.

You looked back at Marcus in utter shock, your pulse thudding in your ears. A rapid-fire sequence of emotions was flashing across his face. Delight. Confusion. Horror. Disbelief.

He was so terrible at hiding his feelings that it would have been amusing if your mind wasn’t currently on overdrive. Ludicrously, you found yourself racking through all the HR trainings you’d just attended, as though you might have forgotten one entitled, “My New Boss Just Had His Fingers Inside Me.”.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Ava glance between the two of you

“Sorry,” she said carefully. “Were you in the middle of something, Marcus?”

“No,” Marcus said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, and spoke again louder. “No. I… wasn’t.”

“Okay…” Ana said. “Well, the new legal counsel is here.”

“Right,” he said. “Yes.”

He rounded the desk and offered you the same handshake you'd accepted on Friday. You clasped his palm, and the both of you held on a little too long.

In the daylight, you could see his coloring more clearly. His hair was a rich brown, threaded through with silver, and his eyes were warm and dark.

“I’m Marcus Acacius,” he said.

“Yes,” you agreed. “You are.”

A hint of a laugh showed behind Marcus’s eyes. Warmth curled inside you, and for a moment you were back in that dark corner booth. Distantly, you hard Ava saying your name, telling you she’d meet you in the kitchen.

The door closed behind her. Marcus gestured to the couch, and you both sat down on opposite ends.  His stunned expression had worn off, and it was harder now to read the look on his face.

“So,” he finally said. “Did you get home safe on Friday?”

“No,” you quipped. “My cab driver axe-murdered me.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. “That’s a shame. I really need a new legal counsel.”

“Because you’re the president of Roman’s acquisitions team,” you said.

Marcus nodded.

“How long have you worked here?” you asked.

“Going on twenty-five years,” Marcus said. “Most of the people who trained me are retired by now, and the whole board’s turned over since I started, but… I’m still running Acquisitions.”

There was something in his voice that tugged at your chest, but you were having a hard time focusing on it right now. How was Marcus the guy who’d stolen all those properties out from under your old companies? The guy leading Roman Industries in their takeover of New York? How had you hooked up with him?

He’d been at O’Henry’s to mourn its closing… but Roman was the reason prices had skyrocketed so much. What the hell was going on?

Part of you felt vindicated that you hadn’t slept with him. This was just about the worst case scenario, as far as who he could’ve turned out to be. Part of you was furious with him for everything he’d done. Part of you was heating up with humiliation, because you’d touched yourself to the thought of him last night. And the rest of you… the rest of you was watching the seams of his jacket buckle around his shoulders.  

You forced yourself to think of something else.

“So, we have adjoining offices?” you asked.

“We do. It’s been useful in the past, being able to talk to Legal without alerting the whole floor.”

You bobbed your head, privately thinking that Marcus could just message you on Teams if it came down to that.

Marcus hadn’t stopped studying your face.

“I know this is a… specific situation,” he said. “If you want, there’s an HR form we can fill out. For conflicts of interest. There’s a power structure here, so –”

“No thanks,” you said.

Marcus was a department president who’d been around for a lifetime. You were a highly replaceable lawyer. If HR got involved, it wouldn’t be to help you.

“Look,” you said. “I think we should pretend this never happened. It was just a kiss.”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow in obvious disagreement, and your skin burned at the memory of his finger pushing into you. You’d take it so good.

You cleared your throat. Marcus was suddenly intently studying a patch of carpet, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Anyway,” he said. “Whatever you say. Nothing ever happened.”

“Right,” you agreed. “Yes.”

Marcus pushed up from the couch. “In that case,” he said. “We should get to work.”

He crossed over to the bookshelf and reached up to take down a file. You took in the tall line of him, the smooth taper down from his shoulders to his waist, and promised yourself that this would be completely fine.

part 2: coming soon

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September 1st, 1988

Thirty days after Flight AA8934’s departure

You were only one month into NYU, and you were already behind.

It was well past midnight. Your desk lamp cast a weak yellow circle over your notebook; the rest of the room was swallowed in shadow. Highlighters lay uncapped. Index cards were stacked. Your marketing textbook sat open to a chapter that had been mocking you for three straight hours.

Consumer Behavior and Market Structures. You hated it.

You could recite the definitions. You understood surface-level frameworks. But this unit of segmentation models, elasticity curves, and behavioral forecasting was something else. How did demographic segmentation translate cleanly into predictive buying behavior? Why did the data say one thing when the theory suggested another? 

You poked through your Chinese takeout with your chopsticks, lifting a piece of lo mein and blowing on the steam before eating. Too hot. You chewed anyway, eyes scanning your notes.

Okay. Not that. Not that either. You flipped a page. Chewed. Flipped back.

Your fingers came up to pinch the bridge of your nose. Don’t get a migraine again.

You still remember the last one. You’d dragged yourself to the computer lab at six in the morning, typing an email to your professor through tears, apologizing. Then you’d come back here and cry into your pillow because it hurt too much to sleep.

You’d never had migraines like that before college. You exhaled slowly and opened your eyes again.

Your side of the dorm was functional. A small desk, a cheap lamp, a corkboard with a few ticket stubs and orientation flyers pinned crookedly. You hadn’t had the time—or the money—for decorations.

Your roommate’s side was larger, polished. A framed photo of her parents in the Hamptons sat beside a stack of colour-coded planners. Throw pillows. A rug. Effortless abundance.

You didn’t resent it. Not really. You liked your desk. Especially because of the window.

New York stretched below you: glowing, restless, and utterly enormous. The city had a way of making you feel small. Your problems shrank against the skyline, became dots. You were part of something massive. Replaceable, maybe—but also held.

You looked back down at your notebook and tried again, thinking of your professor’s voice.

Okay. Storytelling. Data. Bridge the gap.

The lock on the dorm door clicked.

You didn’t look up right away—just heard the door open, the shuffle of bags, a long, exhausted groan.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Me too, Michelle. Me too.”

Michelle Heyward was a pretty girl. Beautiful tan skin and dark curls that matched her dark glasses. She constantly wore cashmere cardigans with pretty floral designs on them. Today was no different. 

You liked her when you first started trading emails and planning out your dorm life. She was born and raised in New York, or rather, Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Why she of all people wanted to room with you, you’d never know.

Her bag hit the floor with a dull thud. Glasses clattered onto her desk. She flopped onto her bed face-first.

“I hate late classes,” she muttered into her pillow. “I swear to God, if Professor Klein puts me with those boys for the first group project of the year, I’m going to—”

“Did you eat?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. And I’m not hungry,” she said. Then, louder, “Which is a miracle, considering I have homework and I always get hungry when I have homework.”

“Let’s trade.”

She peeked at you over the edge of her pillow. “What are you stuck on now?”

You gestured vaguely at the chaos on your desk. “Consumer Behavior.”

“Oof. Was that the class you mentioned to me before?”

“Yeah. That class.”

“Didn’t you start those problems before I left?” she asked, sitting up now.

“Still on them.”

“Seriously? You’re usually done before I even get back.”

You shrugged, staring at your notebook. “They’re just… harder.”

Michelle watched you for a beat, then pushed herself upright. The mattress creaked as she slid off her tall bed and crossed the room barefoot. “Okay, then let me see what you’ve got so far. You got the answer key?”

You glanced up. For a second, you hesitated, but then you nodded. You reached into the desk drawer, fingers brushing past loose pens and folded flyers, and pulled out the stapled packet you’d printed earlier that afternoon. You handed it to her.

She took your notebook first, flipping to the back where you’d numbered each answer carefully. “You stopped at thirty-nine?”

“Because forty makes no sense. None of it does.”

She hummed, already comparing answers.

You felt the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I mean, look at this—segmentation models are supposed to isolate variables, right? Demographics, psychographics, all that. But then they throw elasticity curves into it like consumer response is linear when it’s not. And behavioral forecasting—don’t even get me started. How are you supposed to predict purchasing decisions when half the data contradicts itself?”

Michelle didn’t say anything. Just kept flipping pages.

“And everyone else in that class acts like it’s obvious,” you went on, voice tightening. “Like, oh yeah, of course income elasticity affects brand loyalty differently across age brackets—like that’s intuitive. And I keep thinking I’m missing something fundamental.”

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the proof. If you were struggling this much one month in, what were the next four years going to do to you? Midterms. Internships. Expectations stacked on expectations.

And if you couldn’t do it, then he was right.

“What are you talking about?”

You blinked, realizing she’d stopped flipping pages. She was staring at you now, brows furrowed for a completely different reason.

“What?” you said, dumbly.

She held up your notebook and the answer key side by side. “Did you get them wrong? Is that what you’re freaking out about?”

Your heart jumped. “I mean—yeah. Obviously. There’s no way I didn’t.”

She frowned. “But you didn’t.”

You stared at her.

“You got them all right. Every single one.”

“No,” you said, already reaching for the papers. “That’s—no.”

You took them from her hands, flipping back and forth yourself. Question one. Right. Five. Right. Twenty-three. Right. Your breath came quicker as you checked again. And again.

Thirty-nine. Right.

Question forty was blank. The only one.

You sat there, stunned, the room going quiet around you. Even the city noise felt muted, like it had stepped back to watch.

Michelle leaned over your shoulder. “I don’t get why you’re so hard on yourself. You clearly understand all of it..”

She stepped away, heading back toward her bag. Zippers rasped softly as she pulled out notebooks and pens, settling in like this was just another normal night.

You stayed frozen at your desk.

Then you closed your eyes and took a slow breath through your nose. In. Out. Again. Your hands were shaking a little.

You snapped the notebook shut. You stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the floor, and crossed to your closet. You grabbed your jacket, shrugged it on, then bent to pull on your shoes with clumsy fingers.

Michelle looked up. “Where are you going?”

“Just—I need a walk.”

“What about your takeout?”

“You have it.”

She studied you for a second, then nodded. “Well, I don’t eat takeout, but I’ll put it in the fridge. Be careful.”

You grabbed your keys and wallet, shoved them into your pockets, and headed for the door. The hallway lights were still on, casting that dull institutional glow over the carpet. A few doors were cracked open. Someone laughed somewhere down the hall.

You walked to the elevator and pressed the button. When the doors slid open, you stepped inside and hit G. The car began its slow descent. 

You grabbed your keys and wallet, shoved them into your pockets, and headed for the door. The hallway lights were still on, casting that dull, institutional glow over the carpet—the kind that made everything feel temporary and tired. A few doors were cracked open. Someone laughed somewhere down the hall.

You walked to the elevator and pressed the button. When the doors slid open, you stepped inside and hit G. The car began its slow descent, cables humming softly above you.

The doors opened onto the ground floor, and you stepped out into the lobby. A couple of students were hunched over a low table, textbooks spread everywhere, one of them chewing on a pen cap like it owed him money. Someone else was asleep on a couch, backpack hugged to their chest. The TV murmured quietly in the corner, some late-night news anchor droning on about things that felt very far away from you.

You pushed through the main doors of Weinstein Residence Hall.

The night air hit your face immediately—cool, sharp, sobering. It cut through the leftover heat in your cheeks, through the buzzing in your head. You inhaled deeply, then again, like you’d forgotten how good air could feel.

You started down the path, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement. The city wasn’t sleeping. It never was. Cabs sped by in streaks of yellow, horns blaring for reasons that probably made sense to someone. Music spilled out of an open window somewhere above you. A siren wailed in the distance and then faded, swallowed by everything else.

You walked and thought, because of course you did.

How did you ever let yourself think so lowly of yourself?

Back in Arlington, you’d been fine. More than fine. You’d gotten good grades without breaking much of a sweat, teachers praising you like it was inevitable, guidance counselors nodding like they’d known all along. You’d raised your hand. You’d spoken up. You’d taken up space without apologizing for it.

Now here you were, spiraling because you’d convinced yourself you didn’t belong.

The content wasn’t the problem. That was clear now. You’d proven that.

So what was?

Construction blocked part of the sidewalk ahead, metal fencing rattling softly as trucks idled behind it. You slowed as you passed, watching workers move under harsh lights, dust floating through the air like tiny ghosts. They didn’t look lost. Tired, maybe. Focused. Sure of what they were doing, even if it was hard.

You kept walking.

It was him.

You didn’t say his name. You refused to.

He had done this to you. Somewhere along the way, he’d slipped inside your head and rearranged the furniture, left his words sitting there. His stupid mouth. His certainty when he’d said things that should never have been said to someone who loved him.

Great. Fucking perfect.

You’d tried so hard to keep him out of this part of your life. You’d made it clear—painfully clear—when your dad called, when Raymond asked gently, when Lorraine tried to soften her voice, that he wasn’t a topic of discussion. And somehow, impossibly, they’d respected it.

A whole month of silence. You hadn’t heard a thing.

Not how he was doing. 

Not what job he’d taken.

Not how far along Kaia was.

Not whether his face had changed yet, whether the lines around his eyes had deepened.

Not how his eyes looked when he was tired.

Not whether he was sleeping, eating, or breathing.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

You told yourself you hoped he looked dead in the face. That his chocolate-brown eyes were dulled down to something almost black with misery. That he slept like shit, barely ate, dragged himself through his days like a ghost.

You didn’t care if he breathed.

That was easier than admitting the truth—that some soft, barely-alive part of you wanted to pick up the phone, curl around it, and sob about how hard adjusting to university had been. How lonely it felt. How scary it was. For his voice to ground you, to rock you to sleep through the static, for you to wake up and call him again just to hear him say your name.

Easier to curse his entire existence than to admit how badly you wanted to hog the phone, twirling the cord around your fingers while you listened to him talk to your dad, tease Raymond, laugh softly like nothing had ever bad happened between you.

That was all too complicated.

So you cursed him instead.

You turned right again and nearly collided with a group of students walking toward you. They were laughing, loud and loose, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. One of them stumbled a little, shoes skidding, and another grabbed him, laughing harder.

“Watch it, man,” someone said, slurring.

“Relax, I got it,” the first one replied, grinning.

You slipped past them silently, eyes forward. Drunk, probably. You felt a flicker of envy before you could stop yourself—not for the alcohol, but for the ease of it. For belonging somewhere so loudly.

You missed Tommy then.

Sure, you had Michelle. She was good. Kind, in her own way. But it was hard to relate to someone who’d grown up cushioned by generational wealth, who didn’t understand why you stocked up on instant ramen “just in case.” Who once asked—completely serious—why you didn’t just eat at the Michelin-star Japanese place down the street.

Tommy understood.

You understood Tommy.

And you missed that understanding. 

You stepped over a crack in the sidewalk. The city kept moving around you, indifferent, loud, alive. Somewhere, a car radio blasted music you didn’t recognize. You kept walking, even though your feet had already started slowing.

He was the one person you’d actually tried to reach. Letters first—careful handwriting, jokes squeezed into the margins, little updates you pretended were casual. Then calls, timed around what you guessed his schedule might be. You’d let the phone ring longer than you should have, heart thudding stupidly hard, before hanging up and telling yourself it didn’t matter.

You knew he was still pissed. You’d missed him leaving—missed the last hug, the last look, the last chance to say something. You hadn’t meant to. Well, you did. It was just complicated. Everything was now. Life had gotten loud and messy and complicated all at once, and you’d blinked and lost your timing.

You’d heard through the grapevine—through Lorraine, really—that he’d shaved his head. That alone should’ve been enough to make him call you.

You could already hear yourself teasing him. Jesus, Tom, you look like you lost a bet. Or what, joined a cult and forgot to invite me? You smiled faintly at the thought, then felt it fade just as quickly.

When you’d brought it up with Lorraine, she’d sighed, that soft, tired sound she made when she knew something hurt but couldn’t fix it.

“He barely talks to me either,” she’d said, stirring something on the stove, eyes distant. “Give him time, sweetheart.”

You had nodded even though she couldn’t see you. “Yeah. I know.”

But knowing didn’t do much for the pit in your stomach.

You turned another corner, your feet guiding you on muscle memory alone. When you looked up, you were back where you’d started—standing across the street from the front doors of Weinstein. Light spilled out through the glass, warm and artificial.

You let out a slow breath.

Walks. Clearing your head. Better to talk to yourself than to sit alone and rot inside your own head. Better than becoming wonderful because you had no one—because that kind of quiet could swallow you whole if you let it.

You drummed your fingers against your thigh, restless.

You really, really didn’t want to go inside.

Inside meant your desk. Your notebook. That last problem waiting for youh. Inside meant tomorrow and expectations and the constant hum of needing to prove something—something you couldn’t even fully name.

And to whom, you didn’t know. 

Loneliness pressed in, heavy and familiar. It had followed you here, snuck into your dorm room, sat quietly beside you while you studied and pretended everything was fine. Sometimes it scared you how easily it settled in.

And still—under all of it—you knew something else was true.

This was part of it. The path. The tunnel you had to walk through to get where you wanted to go. Success wasn’t meant to be glamorous right now. It was the countless late nights and self-doubt and forcing yourself back inside when every instinct told you to run that made it all worth it. 

Few people got it. Fewer still kept it.

You wanted it. God, you wanted it.

You breathed out. Then in. Squared your shoulders.

You crossed the street and pushed open the doors, stepping back into Weinstein. The lobby greeted you with its familiar hum. You didn’t linger.

You were here to work.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

“And… if we were to accept this client, then I want to make sure that I can make the proper campaign.”

You didn’t expect an answer; instead, you continued by humming an answer to yourself.

Your office was quiet—sunlight slanting in through the blinds, dust motes drifting lazily. The hum of the building wrapped around you, distant and steady. Your desk was cluttered: mockups stacked to the left, a coffee gone lukewarm to the right.

Your chair squirmed underneath you, or rather, the person in your chair that was holding you. 

Joel’s chest expanded with a slow breath, his chin nudging the curve of your shoulder. His arms stayed locked around your waist, like he’d decided this was where you belonged and that was that.

“Yeah,” he murmured into your neck. “Mm. Yeah, that sounds… sounds right.”

You snorted, not even looking at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to agree with me if you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a yawn. His nose brushed your skin as he nuzzled closer, beard scratching lightly. “I know exactly what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

“Oh?” You finally leaned back just enough to glance at him. His eyes were half-lidded, lazy, mouth relaxed like he was seconds from sleep. “Then why are you using me as a pillow when you’re on the clock?”

He tightened his arms a little, unapologetic. “I ain’t nappin’. I’m restin’ my eyes.”

“That’s only because you haven’t been sleeping well.”

He went quiet for half a second. It was small, almost nothing—but you felt it anyway, the way his chest paused beneath your back. Then he huffed, like he was brushing it off. “Ah, well,” he said lightly, “What can you do, sweetheart?”

You set your pen down. The yellow pad stayed where it was, abandoned mid-thought. You turned fully on his lap, knees sliding to either side of him until your legs dangled, and looped your arms around his neck.

“You need to sleep,” you said. “You need real sleep. Sarah needs you to sleep.”

He scoffed, looking away. “She’s got her mama now. What she needs from me don’t matter much.”

Your tongue clicked, disapproving. Before he could dodge it, you took his chin in your hand and turned his face back to yours. He blinked, startled, eyes flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back again.

“Don’t do that,” you said not angrily. Worse—serious. “Don’t talk like that.”

He sighed, the sound heavy, and his shoulders slumped just a touch. “I’m just worried,” he admitted. “That’s all.”

“Worried to the point where you’re not sleeping?”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head once.

Memories rose uninvited. You waking in the dark with his chest tight beneath you, his arm locked around your back like a reflex. The restless shifting. The whispered apologies when he realized you were awake—soft, guilty, like he’d failed at something. One night, the bed was cold beside you. The hallway light spilling under the door.

You had found him standing in front of Sarah’s room, her door shut, his hand clenching and unclenching around the knob. You’d called his name softly, wrapped your arms around him from behind, and kissed his shoulder until he came back to himself. Even then, it had taken nearly an hour for his breathing to slow enough to sleep.

He tried to speak again.

“If you say ‘work,’” you cut in, “I swear I’ll jab your throat.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “Violent lady.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, your grip on his chin softening as your hand slid to his cheek.

He leaned into your palm without thinking, eyes closing for just a second. “My anxiety’s been kickin’ up,” he said quietly. “More than usual. That’s all.”

Your frown deepened. “Do you need another appointment with Dr. Harris?”

He shook his head. “No. Not that. Sleepless nights just come with it.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Was it always like this?”

He shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “Back when it was constant. Now I handle it better.” 

“Still. You shouldn’t have to go through that again.” You thought for a moment. Then your mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “Okay. I got an idea.”

He squinted. “That never means nothin’.”

“Tea,” you said brightly.

“Tea?” His nose wrinkled.

“Yes. Tea. I know you love your coffee—”

“I do.”

“—and I love that for you. But maybe that’s why you pace. Caffeine. You know?”

He considered that. “You sayin’ my coffee’s the problem?”

“I’m saying your coffee isn’t helping,” you corrected, smiling. You threaded your fingers through his curls, clenching once to feel the tug, “Back in New York, I would drink coffee by the gallon. But when I made tea right before bed, it knocked me out and gave me a good night's sleep.”

“Mhm. Really?” He cocked his head to the side, like he was contemplating your plan, all the while his hand ran up and down your thighs. “Sleepless nights for you too?”

“Way to many.”

“Well then, if your sayin’ it, then it must work.”

“See? I’m more of a smart lady, not so violent.”

Joel laughed full bellied, head tilting back. When he looked back at you, his eyes were filled with a humor you hadn’t seen from him since Kaia came back. His hand came to the nape of your neck, and he tilted your head. 

“Oh, but you’re that and more, sweetheart.”

“Am I?”

He nodded, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, “My petty, violent, genius girl.”

“If you think stroking my ego is going to get you anywhere, you're sorely mistaken.”

“Ain’t strokin’ anythin’! I’m just sayin’,” Joel kissed your cupid’s bow this time, “I may be in a shitty, sour mood all the time, but it would take the blindest of blind men to not be able to see how cunnin’ you are.”

“Me? Cunning? How dare you!” You mock gasped.

He nodded, his thighs spreading wider so that you could come closer to him, “C’mon, every time Kaia comes over, pick up Sarah, I have to hold your side to keep you from jumpin’ her. Or, you spend your nights researchin’.”

Joel was right. While he had his sleepless nights, you were constantly at your computer during every waking hour looking at every aspect of Kaia’s life. What you found so far was blood boiling. 

She was living that perfect, suburban life with Zaider and her son, Jax. A nice home at a roundabout with a cat and a dog. You also learned after her divorce to Joel, she went to community college before getting an accounting job. Through the years, she rose up the ranks to the point where she was the head of something that didn’t catch your eye. But what did catch your eye was that she and Zaider made a good amount of money, enough to send Jax—ironically—to soccer. 

 It was all some cruel joke. How could one of the worst people in Joel’s life go off jack-free, spend thirteen years living the life he and Sarah deserved. It was a twist of fate that pissed you off to no other extreme. 

“Hey.” You blinked out of your haze, meeting Joel’s eyes. He was searching your face, and you felt his fingers brush a strand of hair and tuck it behind your ear. “Lost you for a second.”

You shook your head, “Ignore me, I’m thinking too much.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, I was,” You leaned forward, kissing him once, twice before pulling away, “As I said, ignore me.”

Joel grumbled low in his chest, before pull you flush against him, your arms pressed against his chest, noses brushing. “Impossible sweetheart.”

You smiled at that, and kissed him again. And again, and again. Your lips moved with him. Joel was the biggest possible distraction between you and your work. And you loved your work, but you loved him more.

You could spend hours like this, talking to him about work, getting lost in your passion that he didn’t understand but tried to. Then, for him to distract you when it became too much and love you wholly.

That was just what Joel Miller did to you, and luckily, it was one of your favorite parts about him.

Well, that had that thing he does with his hands when he’s—

“Joel? Joel?! Get your ass out where I can see you ‘cause I won’t have this bullshit in our office—”

You and Joel pulled off each other real quick. Your bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth, a sharp little sting that you barely had time to register before you would’ve slid straight off his lap—if his hands hadn’t shot out on instinct, gripping your hips. 

Then you both looked up.

Tommy stood in the doorway, flushed and furious, chest heaving like he’d sprinted the length of the building. A vein throbbed visibly at his temple. His eyes darted from you to Joel

You scrambled upright, heart hammering, smoothing your skirt like that might undo anything. Joel, on the other hand, didn’t move right away. He stayed seated, jaw tight, eyes already sharpening.

Tommy pointed at him. “Did you call her here? Really, Joel?”

“I didn’t call anyone.”

“Then why,” Tommy snapped, voice rising, “Is Kaia standin’ at our front door right now?”

Your stomach dropped so fast you felt dizzy.

You pushed fully off Joel’s lap this time. “You’re… you’re joking?” you muttered, already moving.

Joel stood abruptly. “That’s not possible,” he said, too quickly. “She’s s’pposed to drop Sarah off after lunch. That was the deal.”

Tommy gave a humorless huff. “Yeah, well, that’s cute. ‘Cause both of ‘em are out there.”

Joel was already moving, brushing past his brother hard enough to make Tommy stumble half a step. You followed, pulse roaring in your ears, Tommy falling in beside you.

The main entrance was mercifully empty.  Kaia stood near the door, sunglasses perched perfectly on her head like this was a casual visit. Sarah hovered at her side, her purse strap clutched to her chest, shoulders drawn in.

Joel went straight to his daughter. He grabbed the sleeve of Sarah’s jacket and pulled her to his side. His body angled instinctively between her and Kaia.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he hissed.

Kaia crossed her arms. “Excuse me?”

“You were s’pposed to drop her off at home,” Joel said, shaking with restraint. “After lunch. Not bring her here.”

“I didn’t do anything behind your back,” Kaia shot back. “We decided to go to the mall, and I was smart enough to ask you first.”

“The mall? You ain’t takin’ her to the mall.”

Heat flooded your chest. You took a step forward without thinking.

Tommy’s hand closed around your bicep instantly. He leaned in, voice tight. “I get it. I’m ‘bout two seconds from callin’ the cops myself. But you need to not get to hot.”

Your jaw clenched. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything permanent.” Even though you wanted to.

Joel pointed toward the door. “I agreed to lunch. That’s it. One meal. Not a damn shopping trip.”

“We wanted to do girl things.” She glanced at Sarah. “Right, honey?”

Sarah mumbled something, eyes fixed on the floor.

“See? Girl things. You just don’t understand.”

Joel’s face went red. “I don’t understand? Me? I raised her.”

“Oh, we all know that, Joel,” Kaia said sweetly. “But this is how Sarah and I are going to get close.”

The audacity was not lost to you. Joel went very still. For a second, you thought he might explode. Instead, he inhaled slowly, jaw working. “Fine. Then I’m comin’ with.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t know ‘bout what?”

“Well,” she said lightly, “Girl shopping includes… girl things. Things I don’t think Sarah would be comfortable with her father around for.”

“And what girl shoppin’ would that be?” His jaw ticked. “‘Cause I’ve taken her girl shoppin’ plenty of times. There ain’t nothin’ mysterious about it.”

“Do you really want to list all the things that don’t require you? You’re embarrassing her the longer this goes on.”

Sarah’s head dipped, hair falling forward like a shield.

You had grown up without much of a mom. But even at her worst, she had never weaponized love. Never stood in front of you and made you feel small just to prove a point to your dad. In fact, it was the opposite. When your mam got drunk, she would hole herself in shame, almost as if to spare you and your dad from what she was. 

You felt Tommy’s grip loosen for half a second as Joel inhaled. You took it. Slipped free. Stepped forward before you could overthink it.

You came to Joel’s side and rested your hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look at you. Kaia scoffed. 

You ignored her, and made your presence known to Sarah. “Hey. What actually happened, sweetheart?”

“We—we got lunch,” she said, finally audible.

“At that fancy place downtown,” Kaia cut in smoothly. “The one with the white tablecloths. Very exclusive. I didn’t realize it would be such a stretch for her.”

You smiled, polite and thin. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah. It was good. And then… Kaia mentioned the mall.” Sarah shrugged. “I mean, I do need clothes.”

Joel straightened. “I can buy you clothes, baby girl.”

Kaia laughed softly. “She’s a teenager. You can’t expect her to dress like—what is it now? A fourth grader? God, I’ve seen her closet.”

Then she put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. Her thumb rubbed slow, possessive circles. Joel’s restraint snapped clean in half, and Kaia didn’t move fast enough.

He stepped in and shoved her hand away from Sarah. “She don’t need your money. She don’t need your opinions. And she damn sure don’t need you pawin’ at her like that.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Real fuckin’ sure.”

The lobby went dead quiet. Then, after a beat, Joel contuined:

“Sarah. Go sit in my office.”

Sarah didn’t move. Seconds passed. You could hear the hum of the lights overhead, the distant traffic outside. 

“I… I do want to go to the mall,” Sarah said softly.

Joel finally looked at her. The anger on his face cracked. Enough for doubt to slip in.