"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring when he kissed you.

It had started innocently enough, if anything involving Jack Abbot could still be called innocent after the last few weeks. A late dinner that turned into drinks after because neither of you had been ready to call it a night. A table tucked into the back corner of a low-lit restaurant where the candles guttered in their glass holders and threw amber light over the lines of his face, catching in the silver at his temples and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The place smelled like charred citrus and expensive liquor and rain drying off the pavement outside every time somebody opened the front door.

He’d looked unfairly good all night.

Not in a polished, trying-too-hard way. Jack never looked polished. He looked lived-in. Worn in all the places that mattered. Dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, broad hands around a whiskey glass, wedding ring still on the finger he never seemed to think about until you caught him turning it once with his thumb when the conversation went quiet. Hair a little mussed by the end of the evening, not styled so much as left alone, with that slightly unruly way it had of falling however it pleased. Tired eyes that missed absolutely nothing. A mouth better suited for dry remarks than pretty ones, which only made it matter more when he said something gentle.

Especially tonight.

Tonight he’d been quieter.

Not cold. Never that. Jack’s silence had texture to it. It had weight. It lived between you in the pauses after a joke, in the way his gaze rested on you a beat too long before he looked down at his drink, in the warm press of his hand at the center of your back when the hostess led you to your table. He listened like he always did—completely, with that unnerving kind of focus that made you feel not just heard but studied—but there had been something else under it tonight, something steadier and darker and impossible not to notice.

Want.

It ran beneath everything like a live wire.

By dessert you’d been so aware of him you could barely taste what was on your plate.

By the second drink you’d stopped pretending not to know what was happening.

By the time you stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the city had gone glossy and dark around you, the street damp from an earlier shower, the air cool enough to wake up the skin at your throat. Traffic hissed past. Somewhere half a block over, music thumped behind a closed door. Jack stood beside you while you got your coat settled, one hand low and brief at your waist to steady the fabric, and that simple touch hit with such clean force you nearly lost the thread of whatever you’d been saying.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His mouth tilted at one corner, not quite a smile. “You good?”

“Fine,” you said, and heard how unconvincing it sounded.

That earned you a soft exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah?”

You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead you found yourself smiling back at him, warm all over and a little breathless in a way the cold air did nothing to fix. “Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t starting anything.”

That was the problem. He hadn’t had to.

The walk to your building wasn’t long, but it felt stretched thin with awareness. Your shoulders brushed once at the crosswalk, then again half a minute later, and the second time neither of you corrected it. His stride was easy despite the slight unevenness that was more apparent on longer walks, a detail you never stared at because you knew he’d hate that, but one you were always aware of all the same. He carried himself with that same unshowy competence he brought to everything—like whatever hurt, whatever history he hauled around with him, none of it got to dictate the terms.

He asked if you’d had a good time in that low voice of his, the one that always seemed to land somewhere below your ribs.

You told him the truth. “I had a really good time.”

His glance flicked to you, then forward again. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?”

“That was me agreeing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re a real charmer, Abbot.”

“I got you out with me twice, didn’t I?”

“More than twice.”

“Then I’m doing better than I thought.”

It should’ve been easy, that exchange. Light. Harmless. But something in his tone kept it from floating away. He said things dry, understated, almost like he was trying to throw a layer over them before they could mean too much. The trouble was, he meant everything.

At the entrance to your building, he reached past you to get the door before you could, his sleeve brushing your bare wrist. The clean scent of his cologne—cedar, soap, the faintest trace of something smoky—slid through the cool night air and settled into your head. You stepped inside first, and he followed you into the quiet of the lobby, where the overhead lights were dimmer than they ought to have been and the old tile floor clicked faintly under your steps.

Neither of you said much in the elevator.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the opposite. It was crowded.

He stood beside you with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose, looking at the changing numbers over the door like he wasn’t acutely aware of you standing there in a dress he’d spent all evening trying not to stare at. You could feel the heat of him beside you. Feel your own pulse ticking faster with every floor.

When the elevator opened, he let you walk ahead of him down the hall.

At your door, you turned, keys already in hand, and that was where everything slowed down.

There was the hallway, quiet and softly lit.

There was the muffled hum of somebody’s television behind a neighboring wall.

There was the jangle of your keys going still in your hand.

And there was Jack in front of you, close enough now that the details sharpened all at once—the tired set of his eyes, the crease beside his mouth, the shadow at his jaw, the way he looked at you like he’d spent all night being careful and was running out of room to do it.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said, because somebody had to say something.

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then came back up. “Anytime.”

He should have left then.

You felt it—the point where the evening could still split into two different endings. One where he kissed your cheek, maybe, or touched your arm and told you to get some sleep. One where he walked back down the hall and the two of you did this again another night, and another after that, stretching the tension until it frayed you both raw.

Instead he stayed where he was.

So did you.

“Jack,” you said quietly.

He inhaled. Held it for half a beat. Let it go.

There was something almost brutal in the restraint of him. He wasn’t a young man fumbling his way into impulse. He wasn’t careless. He looked like somebody standing on the edge of a decision he’d spent a long time refusing to make.

When he finally lifted a hand, he did it slowly enough that you felt every inch of the movement. His knuckles brushed a loose strand of hair back from your cheek. The touch was rougher than it should’ve been, callused, warm. It left your skin tingling in its wake.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, voice quiet enough to disappear into the hall, “and I won't trust myself to be a gentleman."

The line should’ve made you laugh. It nearly did. But the way he said it—worn and honest and a little wrecked around the edges—sent a pulse of heat right through you.

“Maybe I don’t need a gentleman tonight.”

Something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Not exactly. More like the last brace of restraint giving under pressure.

He kissed you then.

Not tentative. Not careless either. Just deliberate in a way that made everything in you go still before it all rushed back at once harder than before. His hand moved to the side of your neck, his thumb settling just below your ear, and his mouth covered yours like he’d thought about it too many times not to do it well. There was no rush in it at first. Just heat. A long, deep first taste of him that had your keys slipping against your palm and your free hand catching at the front of his shirt.

He made a sound—low, rough, barely there—and kissed you again like that sound had gotten away from him.

The second one broke something open.

You felt him step in, felt the wall cool against your shoulder blades, felt the shift in him as the carefulness started to burn off. His mouth moved against yours with more urgency now, still controlled, still precise, but the control had stopped being distance. It had become intensity. His hand slid from your neck to your waist and held there, firm enough to make your breath hitch.

When you kissed him back harder, he answered at once, a low sound catching in his throat as his tongue swept into your mouth. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, messier in the span of a breath, all that hard-held restraint giving way to something far more dangerous. You tasted whiskey and heat and the sheer force of how badly he’d been trying not to do exactly this.

That was maybe the most dangerous part of him, the responsiveness. The fact that for all his steadiness, for all the hard-earned discipline in him, he felt everything. Every small shift. Every shaky breath. Every press of your fingers into his shirt.

He pulled back only far enough to look at you.

For a second all you could hear was both of you breathing.

His forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes stayed closed, then opened. You saw it then, plain as anything—the want, yes, but also the other thing beneath it. The hesitation. The knowledge of what this was.

His hand at your waist tightened once.

“I was trying to take this slow,” he said.

You swallowed. “Maybe slow is overrated.”

That almost-smile touched his mouth and disappeared again. “You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, not speaking. You knew enough about him by then to understand that silence wasn’t emptiness with him. It was effort. It was him sorting through what he was willing to say, what he was willing to let you see.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Lower. Stripped down.

“You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

The truth in it went through you even faster than the question itself.

You could have made a joke. Could have eased the pressure, given both of you an out. Instead you said, just as quiet, “Probably the same thing you’ve been doing to me.”

His eyes shut briefly, as if that landed harder than he’d expected.

When he opened them again, there was less distance in them than you’d ever seen.

“I haven’t…” He stopped, jaw working once. Started again. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

Not dramatic. Not overexplained. He didn’t say her. Didn’t say wife. Didn’t have to.

The history was there all the same, a shadow laid carefully at your feet.

Something in your chest ached.

Your hand came up to his face almost without thinking, palm against the rough warmth of his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Just a little. But enough.

“I know,” you said.

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh in a different mood. “Do you?”

“I know this isn’t casual for you.”

“No,” he said, and there was nothing dry in his voice now. “It’s not.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around you.

You could feel the next moment waiting. Could feel the choice still sitting there between you, changed now but not gone.

Jack stepped back a fraction, not far enough to leave, just enough to give you room if you wanted it. His hand slid from your waist but didn’t leave you entirely, fingertips skimming your side once on the way down.

“Tell me to go home,” he said. “I’ll go.”

The generosity of that nearly undid you.

He meant it. Even like this. Even with his mouth still pink from kissing you, his breathing heavier than before, his whole body carrying the strain of holding himself in check. He would go if you asked. He would walk away from this and take it with him.

You fumbled the key against the lock on the first try and heard the tiny metallic rattle it made. Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted slowly back to your face.

“Jack,” you said, opening the door. “Come inside.”

The look he gave you then was enough to make your knees go weak.

Not triumph. Nothing so easy. Something deeper, denser, almost disbelieving in its intensity.

The door swung inward. You stepped back into the apartment, and he followed you in.

The click of the door shutting behind him sounded louder than it should have.

Everything changed with that sound.

The apartment was dim except for the lamp you’d left on in the living room before the date, its warm light spilling across the hardwood floor and the books stacked on the coffee table and the throw blanket half-fallen from the couch. Familiar space, ordinary space. Except not anymore. Not with him standing just inside the door, shoulders squared beneath the dark shirt, looking at you like crossing that small distance had cost him something real.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Jack dragged a hand over the back of his neck and gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked around once, like he needed somewhere to put the force of what he was feeling and found nowhere for it to go. Then he looked at you again.

“You ask me in here,” he said, “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

Heat bloomed low and hard in your stomach.

“Good.”

That did it.

He crossed the room in two steps and kissed you again, not careful this time. Still controlled—he would always be controlled, even like this—but no longer pretending he wasn’t half out of his mind with wanting you. His hands found your waist, then your back, then settled hard at your hips as he walked you backward until the backs of your knees met the couch. He stopped there only long enough to look at you, chest rising under your palms, eyes dark and fixed on your face like he was giving himself one last second to think better of this.

Then he kissed you again.

Deep. Hot. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth slanted over yours with enough force to make your breath catch, and when you opened for him, he took full advantage, tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that felt far filthier than it should have, all heat and intent and hard-won control fraying at the edges. A wrecked sound broke from him when you clutched at his shirt, and he answered by pulling you closer, one hand spread wide at the small of your back, the other still locked around your hip like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. The kiss went molten in seconds—slow nowhere, urgent everywhere—until the room, the lamp, the whole apartment blurred at the edges and there was nothing left but the drag of his mouth on yours, the press of his body crowding you into the couch, and the staggering relief of finally being touched by him the way he’d clearly been denying himself all night.

This close, you could see the tiny shifts in him. The effort. The disbelief. The sheer force of everything he’d spent the whole evening packing down until it had nowhere left to go.

“Still want this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want this.”

His eyes held yours another second, confirming, grounding, making sure.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened back up for him. The sound he made was low, almost pained, and it undulated through you. His hand slid from your back to your hip, his fingers pressing into the curve there, pulling you closer until you felt the hard line of his erection against you stomach.

He didn’t lay you back against the couch, instead turning you both, sitting first then pulling you into his lap so you straddled him. The position was intimate, decisive. Your dress rode up your thighs, the worn microfiber of the couch scratchy against your bare skin.

His hands settled on your hips, holding you there. He looked up at you, his eyes dark in the lamplight. The grey at his temples was silver now. He was studying your face, reading every shift, every breath.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He reached for the first button on his own shirt. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled for a second. He got it open. Then the next. He pushed the fabric apart, revealing the taut plane of his chest, a dusting of dark hair. He didn’t remove the shirt, just left it hanging open.

His hands returned to you, sliding up your sides, over the dress. He found the hem. Gripped it. Lifted it slowly up your body. The cool air touched your stomach, your ribs. He pulled it over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind the couch. You sat before him in just your bra and panties, exposed in the soft light.

He didn’t move for a long moment. His gaze traveled over you—the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts above the lace, the softness of your stomach. It wasn’t a leer. It was an inventory. A remembering.

“Christ,” he breathed, the word full of awe.

He leaned forward and put his mouth on the skin between your breasts. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. You felt the scrape of his teeth, the wet stroke of his tongue. Your back arched, a silent plea.

His hands went to the clasp of your bra. It gave way. He peeled the lace down your arms, letting your breasts spill free. His control was a visible thing, a tightness in his jaw as he looked at you. Then he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out. His tongue was rough, his suction relentless. He lavished one breast, then the other, until the peaks were hard and wet and aching. His free hand cupped the weight of you, his thumb circling the neglected peak, and the dual sensation made your thighs clamp around his hips.

“Please,” you heard yourself say, not knowing what you were asking for.

He understood. His hand slid down your stomach, over the front of your plain cotton panties. They were already damp. He pressed the heel of his hand against you, and you rocked into the pressure.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, and then you were bare, straddling him, his open shirt the only fabric between you. The head of his cock, trapped within his dress pants, pressed insistently against your damp heat.

He looked down between your bodies, watching as your wetness darkened the fine wool of his pants. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He brought his hand back, his fingers glistening now with your arousal. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.

The groan that left him was raw, unfiltered, your name leaving his lips in a breathy exhale.

His hand returned to your, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit. He circled it once, twice, a slow, maddening tease. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.

You gasped, your head falling back. He was deep, his knuckles pressed against you. He curled his fingers, searching, and brushed a spot that made your vision blur. A wet, squelching sound filled the quiet room as he began to move his hand, a slow, thorough fuck with his fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, and the fullness was exquisite. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles in time with the thrust of his hand. The coil in your belly pulled tight, too fast, too soon.

“I’m close,” you warned, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, met his gaze. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes locked on yours as he worked you with his hand. He saw the exact moment you started to come. Your cunt clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a pulsing, milking grip, and a broken sound tore from your throat. He kept his hand moving, drawing the orgasm out until you were shuddering and limp against him.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and shining. He brought them to his mouth again, his eyes holding yours, and licked them clean with a slow drag of his tongue.

“My turn,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

His hands tightened on your hips, lifting you just enough. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.

He freed himself, his cock springing hard and thick against his stomach. The head was flushed dark, already drooling pre-come. He guided you with a firm pressure, the tip of him nudging against your soaked entrance.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained.

You dragged your eyes from where your bodies met, finding his. His gaze was locked on yours, unblinking, as he began to lower you.

The first inch was a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that made you gasp. He stopped, his whole body rigid, letting you adjust. His breath shuddered out.

“Okay?”

You nodded, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “More.”

He lowered you further, another excruciating inch, and the wet, tight slide drew a groan from deep in his chest. He was thick, filling you completely, and the sensation was overwhelming. You felt every vein, every pulse.

He didn’t move, just held you there, impaled on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. A fine tremor ran through his arms. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.

Your name was a broken moniker on his tongue.

He lifted his head, his eyes glassy. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking you cheekbone. Then he kissed you, deep and slow, his tongue mirroring the join of your bodies below.

He began to move you. His hands on your hips set a deliberate, rocking rhythm, lifting you almost off him before pulling you back down. The drag was exquisite, a wet, slick friction that made you whimper into his mouth.

The sound of your bodies repeatedly meeting was obscene—a steady, squelching slap of skin on skin, your wetness coating him with every rise and fall. He broke the kiss to watch, his eyes dark with a kind of ravaged hunger.

“See that?” he rasped, his gaze fixed on where he disappeared into you. “See how you take me?”

You looked down. The sight of his length, glistening with your arousal, sliding in and out of your swollen flesh, made you clench around him. He groaned, his hips jerking up to meet your next descent.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that. Keep squeezing me.”

His control was fraying. The measured lifts became more urgent, his thrusts upward harder, deeper. The couch creaked beneath you both. He found an angle that made you cry out, a spot that sent sparks up your spine.

“There?” he gritted out, chasing it.

“Yes—yes. Right there.”

He hammered into that spot, his rhythm turning relentless. The wet slap of your bodies filled the room. Sweat gleamed on his chest. His open shirt was damp, sticking to his skin.

You felt the coil tightening again, a fierce, fast build. “Jack, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Come on my cock.”

It shattered you. Your cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and you sobbed his name as the waves tore through you. He watched you fall apart, his expression one of awe and agony.

His own release followed, triggered by your clenching heat. He drove up into you one last, deep time and held there, his body bowing against yours. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse filling you. You felt the warmth spread deep inside.

He collapsed back against the couch, taking you with him, still joined. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. His heart hammered against you ear. His breath was ragged in your hair.

When the both of you finally came apart, it was slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you was quite ready to break the spell of it. You stayed where you were for another minute, straddling his lap, foreheads nearly touching, both of you breathing hard, before you shifted off him and onto the cushion beside him, legs unsteady and skin still warm everywhere he’d touched.

The apartment felt quieter than it had before, though nothing outside had changed. The same distant traffic moved below the windows. The same lamp burned in the corner, casting soft gold over the room. Somewhere in the building, plumbing knocked faintly in the walls. But inside the cocoon of your living room—couch cushions displaced, throw blanket dragged half to the floor, both of you breathing easier now—everything had settled into that strange, suspended calm that only came after something long anticipated had finally happened.

Jack sat at the edge of the couch for a moment, elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth while he caught his breath.

The sight of him undid you in a wholly different way than before.

Hair a mess now. Shirt hanging open, damp with sweat and pasted to his skin. Head bowed slightly, broad back rising and falling, the hard lines of him softened not by weakness but by exhaustion, by release, by the fact that he wasn’t trying to be anything except exactly what he was. When he finally lowered his hand, he stared down at the floor for a beat, then scrubbed both palms over his face.

You smiled despite yourself. “You okay?”

His laugh was short and rough. “Ask me in ten minutes.”

“Bad sign?”

He turned his head to look at you then, and something in his face gentled so completely it made your chest tighten. “No,” he said. “Pretty much the opposite.”

You shifted closer, pulling the blanket up over yourself. He noticed at once and reached for the edge of it automatically, tucking it around your legs with absentminded affection before leaning back into the couch. The movement was so instinctive, so quietly caring, that it hit even harder than it should have.

Jack looked tired.

Not in the everyday way you’d seen before, not the end-of-shift version of him with that brittle edge to it. This was different. Looser. A little stunned, maybe. As though some locked room inside him had finally been opened and he wasn’t yet sure what all the fresh air in it was going to do.

You touched his arm. “You got real quiet.”

“That surprises you?”

“No.” Your fingertips traced once over the coarss hair on his forearm. “Just trying to figure out if I should be nervous.”

His brows drew together faintly, and he turned more fully toward you. “About what?”

“That you regret it.”

The answer came so fast it was almost sharp. “No.”

You believed him immediately.

Not because he’d said it quickly. Because of how he’d said it. Clean. Certain. Like the idea itself offended him.

Jack exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment to where your hand still rested on him. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer.

“I don’t regret you.”

The simplicity of it made it land harder than anything more elaborate could have.

He was quiet another second, then added, “I think maybe I’m trying to catch up to the fact that this was a terrible idea.”

Your heart sank for exactly half a beat.

Then his mouth twitched.

“Terrible,” he repeated, “because now I’m not gonna be able to think about much else.”

You laughed, relief bright and immediate, and he finally smiled properly—small, tired, devastating.

“There he is,” you murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

He shook his head, but there was no argument in it. Only that faint lingering disbelief, like he still couldn’t quite accept that this night belonged to him now too.

For a while you sat there in the warm quiet, tucked against his side, his arm along the back of the couch behind you. Not rushing. Not filling the silence for the sake of it. It was one of the things you had learned fastest with Jack: the right kind of quiet could be its own form of closeness.

At length, he tipped his head back against the cushions and looked at the ceiling.

“I should probably go,” he said, without sounding like he meant it.

You angled your face up toward him. “You should?”

“No.”

“Good.”

That drew a softer laugh from him. He turned then, lifting a hand to brush his thumb over your cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it almost made you stop breathing. His eyes searched yours for a moment, not guarded now exactly, but open in a way that felt rarer than anything else he could have given you.

He looked less haunted like this.

Not healed. Not transformed. Nothing that false. Jack Abbot was still Jack Abbot—still a man built from long nights and hard choices and grief he carried with practiced silence. But some of the strain had eased from his face. Some old brace had loosened.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

You went without hesitation, folding into him, his arm coming around you with a firmness that made the whole world outside the apartment feel irrelevant. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested his cheek there, and the intimacy of that nearly outmatched everything that had come before.

No performance in it. No seduction. Just the truth of him.

After a minute, you felt his mouth move against your hair.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

He sighed, caught. “I said this date got out of hand.”

You smiled into his chest. “In the best way.”

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah.”

The room was warm. The lamp cast everything in honey-colored light. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere far off and then faded, taking the city back with it. Jack’s hand moved once, slow and absent over your back, then stilled there as though he’d found where he wanted it.

If you’d looked up just then, you thought you might have seen it plainly on his face—the knowledge settling in, undeniable now.

Not that he’d wanted you.

That part had been obvious for weeks.

No, the more dangerous thing.

-

What a stupid decision, Joaquin thinks to himself. Jaw flexing, his finger trails the rim of the whiskey cup in front of him before downing the drink in one go. The shoddy, dimly lit bar was not where he wanted to spend his Saturday night and the stench of sweat and alcohol filling the air was somehow worse than some of the bases he’s been on. The worn leather is scratchy beneath his jacket, and he does his best not to focus too much on how his combat boots were sticking obnoxiously to the floor below him. Misery exudes off of him like a warning to any passerbyers. 

But he pays them no mind. His eyes are focused on you. 

You’re across the room, only a small distance away from him but somehow it feels like worlds. Perched on a barstool, your legs are crossed and one elbow rests casually against the bar, as if you were the most relaxed you could ever be. Joaquin’s eyes follow as you pick up a tall glass, fingers wrapping around the condensation before bringing it to your familiar lips. The carbonated, bright red liquid glides down your throat, and Joaquin’s lips part as he watches you swallow. 

It’s a mocktail, he knows this. The reminder of why you opted for some bubbly soda sickenly reminds him of what the pair of you were doing in this seedy town to begin with. Naturally, Joaquin’s gaze moves to the man across from you. 

CIA Agent Matteo Locke. 

Zero, he said his codename was. Joaquin scoffs out loud. Dumbass codename. His name is The Falcon. He has wings. 

Whatever.

Joaquin observes as your glossy wet lips spread into another wide smile, and his finger twitches in irritation at the way you throw your head back, hand landing on the bicep of the federal agent across from you. 

Your laugh was loud. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe no one else in the bar could really hear it over the loud of conversation and camaraderie, but Joaquin hears it loud and clear, ears picking up the melodic giggle through the busy room. But a bitterness chokes him at who you were sharing it with. 

He’s not that funny. Joaquin thinks to himself, eyes glued on your manicured hand that remains on his arm. Not that Joaquin would really know. They’ve only met five hours prior. Other than a brief introduction and a solid handshake once you and Joaquin were boots down in Arizona, which was truly the extent of his interaction with the man, Joaquin hasn’t really had the pleasure of getting to know him. 

That honor was all yours it seems. 

He’s brooding. 

At the recognition of his own behavior, Joaquin lets out a sigh, forcing his eyes away from your couple with much difficulty. Instead, they scan the room. He checks every exit, surveying all the patrons. Despite the task at hand, he still finds his mind wandering to you. 

You’re just trying to pass as casual customers, Joaquin reasons, that’s why you were so close to Locke. He hears you laugh again and grits his teeth.

He’s heard the laugh a million times, loved it a million more, but he can’t help the way his discomfort blooming in his chest at the idea that it may never be directed at him again. 

All because of a stupid decision. 

Two nights before you knew about the upcoming mission, you found yourself at Joaquin’s in the middle of the night. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, slamming his head back against the wall. It took everything in him not to push his hips upwards and he remembers the feeling of his thighs shaking in restraint. You seemed to enjoy his misery, as teary wide eyes looked up at him. Joaquin opened his eyes just a smidge, sneaking a peek down at you. He couldn’t help the shuddering breath that left his mouth at the mischievous gleam in your eyes. 

Lips wet with different liquid than the one you’re nursing at the bar now and spread wide over the girth of his cock, Joaquin thought you look absolutely mesmerizing. 

He brought a large palm up to cup the side of your head, swiping sweaty strands of hair away from your forehead. Joaquin was absorbed in the moment, feeling every time your cheeks suctioned inward, every swipe of your tongue over the slit of his head, every inch of him that you sucked him in deeper and deeper.  

With one hand, he gathered all of your hair, fisting it in his palm. A tight grip. But he didn’t so much as move your head an inch. Joaquin had let you take control and you had gone at your own speed until you found a rhythmic pace, his hand a simple accessory to your motions.  

He had let out another groan when your hand came up to stroke the parts of his shaft your mouth couldn’t fit, hips had thrust upwards to chase after the warmth of your palm. The sound of you gagging had only turned him on more, but he would never push you further than comfortable, and forced himself back onto the bed. 

But he eventually had enough, Joaquin needed more. 

His hand had let go of your hair and gripped your upper forearm, pulling you up to his chest with ease. Joaquin tried to not let your displeased whine get to his head, giving you a satiating kiss to the cheek, murmuring some complacent phrases as his hands roamed along the sides of your body, gripping and massaging your curves as he went. 

Joaquin remembers the way his fingers danced along the edge of your panties, your wet core grinding against his cock as one of his hands guided you back and forth. His head was spinning from pleasure, his cock aching to feel more of you. 

Skillful hands had gripped the back of your panties before a gentle finger ran along the seam pressed against your ass until he reached your hole. His large hand was stretching the fabric, and he prayed that you wouldn’t care, but you hardly seemed to notice at all. Joaquin had teased, pads of his fingers just brushing against your entrance before pulling back. 

At the sound of your moan and the feel of your hands fisting the curls at the back of his head, Joaquin finally pushed your panties to the side. He had adjusted his grip, each of his palms finding the flesh of your cheeks, his right palm pinning the thin fabric of your ruined underwear between his hand and your ass. 

Joaquin had let out a relieved sigh, guiding your hips down the length of his cock slowly. The initial push past your hole made him throw his head back again, eyes closed in pleasure. Inch by inch, you gripped him like a vice and he had let out a guttural moan at the feeling. 

Soon enough, in the dark of his room, salacious sounds had begun to fill the air. The two of you had found a harmonizing pace, a more than familiar one, as you worked in tandem to pleasure each other. 

A loud sound of glass smashing makes Joaquin snap back to reality. Some drunken himbos had gotten into a fight it seems, and Joaquin just leans back into his seat as he watches security escort them out. It’s a non-threat. 

He shifts uncomfortably in the booth, unsticking parts of his jacket from the patchy leather to adjust his pants discreetly. He shouldn’t even be thinking about this, should be focused on the whole reason they’re at the bar. But then his eyes find their way back to you. 

You lean back, letting out another laugh, but that’s not what he pays attention to this time. Instead, Joaquin watches the way your denim shorts ride up your thighs, and there’s nothing he can do about the way that his mind flashes back to that night again. 

In the glowing aftermath, Joaquin’s boxers rode low on his hips as he walked back into his room. Tangled in the sheets, you sat up at the sound of him returning, and he had passed you a cup of iced water without a word. Joaquin had sat on the edge of his bed, the cold of his gold chain pressed against his flush skin as he reveled in the silence. It wasn’t an unusual routine. 

But then you reached over, placed the glass onto his nightstand and said, “Joaquin, we need to talk.” 

His heart dropped in his chest. No good thing ever came from those four words. His lips had turned downward in a frown, and he rubbed a hand across his chest to ease the ache. You were making him nervous. “Alright, what is it?” 

Joaquin had watched patiently as you sat up, and though he forced his face to remain stoic, he dreaded the many possibilities of what you could say. Joaquin watched as you hesitated, and dread only seemed to sink deeper in his stomach. 

“I think…” Your brows knit together in what Joaquin perceived to be confusion. He gave you the time to find your words, unmoving at the end of his bed. “I don’t think we should keep doing this.” 

His frown deepened. The words rushed through his head and Joaquin wasn’t sure what to make of them. He’s not sure what in his expression gave it away his distress, but you rushed to continue before he could respond. 

“I mean,” you nibbled on your lower lip. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just need clarity.” 

“Clarity about what?” Joaquin replied, frown unchanged as he straightened. He had folded his arms, thinking maybe if he kept his body in control, then his mind would follow. But Joaquin’s stomach had twisted anyways, slow and nauseating, and he’d been in enough missions to know that one wrong move here and things would go sideways quick.

“This,” you had gestured, a frantic wave between the two of you. “Us.” 

“I don’t understand,” Joaquin had tiptoed. “I thought we were on the same page.” Things were going well, the two of you had a good thing going. One that you had already established. So what more did you want from him? He felt a lump form in his throat as he considered what you might truly be asking, and he had frustratingly hoped the conversation never came up to begin with. 

Your loud sigh had him panic, but he willed himself to sit still. His eyes simply watched as you pushed yourself out of his bed, reaching for your discarded clothes on the floor. You were upset, that much was obvious, and he hated seeing that, so he called out your name. 

You slipped your pants on before turning to look at him, shirt fisted in your hand as you sighed. “We are.” You replied before pausing. “We were.” 

Joaquin’s arms had dropped from their defensive position, and at your admittance, he had forgotten how to breathe. He remembers the way his mouth opened, and then shut again, because what was he supposed to say?

“I think I bit off more than I can chew with you, Torres,” you had told him, voice significantly quieter than before. The way his name sounded when it fell from your lips, soft and tired—Joaquin didn’t know what to do with that. “I like you.” 

He felt his chest crack wide open. All that did was remind him of why things had to be the way they were. Afterall, if he couldn’t handle how you sounded merely confessing, what would he ever do if he did pursue things? What would he ever do if it didn’t work out and he hurt you? 

Joaquin’s jaw had clenched, and nothing had come out. Not an explanation. Not the reassurance you needed. Not the confession he didn’t want to admit. He had wanted to reach out to you at that moment, grasp your wrist in his hand and pull you towards him and say, “It’s okay. I like you, too.” 

But his throat was tight. He felt his hand have the slightest of tremors, and all he could do was stare at the floor. Joaquin couldn’t trust himself. Not with you. You would matter too much and things could go too wrong. You work together, for Christ sake, there was too much on the line. He couldn’t lose you. 

So the room fell quiet. Too quiet. 

“Right.” He heard you say. Sounds of shuffling signaled to him that you were getting dressed and gathering the rest of your stuff. Still, Joaquin didn’t move. He had told himself that silence was the safest option here, knew that if he looked up at you he’d give in to you. 

Joaquin heard his bedroom door open and without looking, he knew you had paused there. “You know…I didn’t need you to say everything, Torres.” He tried not to wince at how distant your voice sounded, cold and at arm's-length, but still low. “I just needed you to say anything at all. But your silence said enough.” His door closed with a soft click. 

Joaquin felt like such a coward. 

He shouldn’t have started anything with you to begin with, because then he wouldn’t be here. But he was selfish. And stupid. So, very stupid. 

Joaquin sighs, shuffling in his seat in the booth again. Agitation crawls under his skin, exhaustion creeps in between the crevices. They’ve been here for so long and unlike you, Joaquin is not having a good time. Guilt sits heavy on his chest, dull and persistent, like an old bruise that aches when pressed. Rubbing his jaw, Joaquin relaxes it, realizing how tense it’s been from all the clenching he’s done. 

“Iago’s not coming.” 

His head snaps up, taking you in. One hand on your hip, the other presses flat against the table as you lean in towards him. Besides you, Agent Locke stands a bit too close for his liking, and Joaquin’s eyes narrow. 

“We got word that TSA did an unexpected search on him when he landed in the States and after they let him go, he fled. Chances are he’s laying low on the West Coast for a couple days before heading over here,” you relay to him. Joaquin just takes in your words, mind shifting into work mode. 

“So, he’s probably going to push the deal.” Joaquin’s voice is deep and horse, hours of not talking and alcohol doing a number on his system. 

“That’s what we’re thinking,” an unwelcome voice chimes in, and Joaquin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he keeps them fixed on you, and the two of you inadvertently enter an unspoken staring contest, neither of you refusing to break away first. 

Joaquin’s eyes are smoldering as he watches your movements. You reach across the table, picking up the empty glass sitting in front of him. Joaquin is silent as you bring it up to your nose. “Drinking on the job, Torres?” 

His posture is relaxed, leaning back into the cushion of the booth, but underneath Joaquin can feel every muscle taut with tension. It’s a performative calm as he reigns in his embarrassment of being caught by you. 

“How do we know he won’t bail?” Joaquin murmurs, deflecting. “He’s a cautious guy. What if he got spooked? Worried the Feds are onto him, and calls it off?” He waits for you to answer despite knowing you won’t be the one who would have that information. 

“He won’t bail,” an irritatingly grating voice responds. “This is a huge trade. He won’t let it go that easily and he won’t risk leaving and coming back. Chances are he’s not off U.S. soil unless he’s got eight million dollars tucked in his pocket.” 

Joaquin’s eyes don’t leave yours as he digests the CIA agent’s analysis. Despite his grievances, Joaquin has to agree with the man. With that realization, Joaquin’s lips press into a thin line. Still looking at you, he says, “Let’s get out of here, then.” 

-

Joaquin should’ve taken you more seriously. 

He swears that did in the moment, but Joaquin didn’t understand the gravity of the situation until now, as he lives in it.

The reality of your dynamic was one where he never asked you about your previous partners and never bothered to check if you had ones other than him. It was arrogance, he admits. Security in the fact that he believed you weren’t with anyone else, despite the non-exclusiveness of your relationship. But it was mutual. Joaquin would never disrespect you like that, and despite the ambiguity of your label, it was monogamous. He hopes you know that. He wouldn’t be surprised if you thought so little of him, though. 

Regardless, certainty he felt meant he never had to deal with this. Jealousy. 

The room is quiet as the two of you shuffle around each other, preparing for bed after a long day of travel and work. He hates that he’s uncomfortable in the silence now, a space that used to be filled with understanding now filled with hesitation and acute awareness of the other person. 

Joaquin’s mouth opens as he turns around, preparing to break the discomforting silence, but a quiet click of the bathroom door has him locking his jaw back into place. The sound of the shower starts to take over the quiet, and Joaquin forces his mind to think of something other than your soft, wet body naked in the small bathroom. 

With a shake of his head, he walks away from his duffle bag that sits in one of two armchairs, the other occupying your bag. He makes his way towards the nightstand, in pursuit of a pen and paper; might as well make use of the time and jot down some strategies. 

But his foot gets caught on the way, getting tangled. Looking down, Joaquin lets out a quiet sound of confusion. Blankets and a pillow are laid out on the floor, next to the bed, and Joaquin’s head whips back towards the bathroom door where the shower is still running. His initial confusion narrows into realization—you were planning to sleep on the floor. To create distance. From him.

He’s frozen for a second, the sting of rejection hitting him in the chest at your deliberate actions before it’s replaced with a quiet guilt. His own actions made you feel this way. Joaquin wonders if he should move the blankets back on to the bed, wonders if you’d even let him. 

“Hey.” Your voice is neutral, breaking Joaquin out of his trance. He instinctively straightens up, as if he had gotten caught snooping somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Turning around to face you, his mouth parts, getting ready to defend. But once he realized there was nothing to defend, he shut it. You point behind you, “Bathroom’s free now,” you alert him quietly. 

“Yeah, alright,” he replies hastily, breathless for some odd reason. His heart hammers anxiously in his chest at his discovery and at being caught making said discovery. Grabbing fresh clothes on the way to the bathroom, he passes you, the smell of vanilla body wash invading his senses. “Take the bed,” he murmurs before shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Leaning against the wooden frame, Joaquin lets out a sigh. He strips slowly, distracted and lost in thought by the events of the night. Despite the newly founded sexual avenue that the two of you have been exploring, at the base of it all was always friendship—one of the most important ones in Joaquin’s life. Working together for years, the two of you have always managed to ebb and flow so well. He shouldn’t have jeopardized it, should have been stronger.   

Hot water droplets hit his back, but it does little to relax him, his chest feeling a bit too tight. He keeps replaying your neutral tone, the space you made on the floor. It’s dumb of him to feel surprised—he’s the one who pushed you away—but stupidly he still hurts. 

He towel dries his hair with one hand, tugging his shirt down with the other. Stepping out into the room, his jaw tightens. You’ve already laid down. On the floor. 

You don’t even look at him as he enters the room and that makes it worse. 

Breaking the silence, Joaquin’s voice is low and frustrated. “You’re really sleeping down there?” 

The sheets ruffle, but you don’t turn to look at him. “Yeah.” 

“That floor’s gonna kill you. Last thing we need is you throwing your back out in the middle of taking down some bad guys.”

For a second, you don’t respond, and Joaquin’s heart seizes in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been this distanced from you, ever. 

Then you let out a small chuckle. 

Well…more like a huff of air. But it’s something. 

“Come on, get up,” Joaquin insists, tone softening. 

“Joaquin—” 

“No,” he demands. “Seriously, get up.” 

You turn over to glare at him, but Joaquin can feel the corners of his mouth lifting anyways because at least you’re looking at him. He’s patient as he watches you move at the slowest speed known to mankind. Snails have moved faster than you, he’s sure of it. Yet, he doesn’t dare utter a word, feet solidly planted near the bathroom entrance as you make you ascend from the floor to the bed. You’re stiff as a board, laying horizontally on the furthest edge of the bed you can manage, and Joaquin can’t stifle the snicker that he lets out this time. 

“Goodnight,” he says gently, flicking the switch for the both of you. Joaquin bends down to the floor, lifting up the thin sheet that you were planning to use as a blanket for the night before his head settled on the pathetic excuse of a pillow this motel offered them. He slaps the pillow a few times, doing his best to fluff it up, but he stops midway when he hears you shuffle to peer over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” you inquire, and Joaquin looks up at your scrunched up brows. 

“Uh,” he hesitates. It’s the most direct attention you’ve given him for the past few hours and Joaquin feels like he’s malfunctioning, cheeks warming under your gaze. “Just…thought if I smacked it enough times, it might remember how to be a good pillow.” 

He winces when your expression is unchanged and he’s disappointed in the fact that his joke may not have landed; he might have pushed the thin ice he was already on with you. 

“No,” you combat. “What are you doing down there?” 

Your clarification does little to alleviate his confusion. Maybe it’s the gaping expression on his face or maybe it’s the lack of a swift response, but you steam onward. 

“I’m not letting you sleep down there! Last thing I need is for you to throw your back out mid-battle. I’d never hear the end of it.” 

Joaquin sits up, hands braced behind him. A warmth spreads through his chest because the worst part of him loves to hear how you care, no matter how threadbare it truly is. Part of him feels a sense of relief that you’re speaking to him, but then he looks up at your narrowed eyes and his smile drops the slightest bit. Vulnerability slips through his usual confidence as he takes in your face in the dark room. The only light that comes through is a soft, distant glow from the large neon sign out front shining the word ‘Motel’. It frames you like a halo. 

He knows you made a joke of it, but he couldn’t help the honesty that bleeds through his words. “Figured it was only fair.” Joaquin’s eyes soften as he looks at you. “Didn’t want to push it.” 

Your lips part, and an unfamiliar expression crosses your face before it settles into a frown. “Just get up here.” It’s quiet, a mere whisper, and Joaquin’s heart throbs in his chest. 

“Relax,” he responds, voice significantly louder than necessary, intentionally breaking the ambiance. How soft you look, the concern in your voice—it’s too much for Joaquin to handle. So he reverts back to what he feels safe with—humor. “I’ve survived worse than some dingy one star motel room floor. Have you slept over on Sam’s couch? Not much better than this.” Joaquin lays back down and forces himself to turn his back to you, but his eyes stay open. He just stares at the carpet in front of him, and he hopes that you didn’t hear the crack in his voice. 

The bed creaks, and Joaquin’s eyes shut in relief, thankful that you’ve dropped it. He lets out a shaky exhale, but then he freezes. 

Familiar, warm skin brushes against his back. Not flushed, but close enough that he can feel the faintest kiss of your skin, and Joaquin tries not to jump that spark that dances along his back. He doesn’t dare move. 

“What’re you doing,” he whispers. 

You shush him. “Go to sleep, Torres.” 

And despite the hammering in his chest and the rush that he feels when your skin ghosts against his in the faintest of movements, Joaquin feels his eyes growing heavy anyways. 

-

Faint streams of sunlight shine through the small break in the curtains. Joaquin winces, blinking his eyes open with a slight groan. He tries to stretch his sore limbs, but instead finds himself restricted. Still in the midst of his dream and awake state, confusion floods him, until he starts to look around. 

Regaining his senses, Joaquin starts to feel it. A pressure on his chest, his arms trapped underneath something, and his leg pinned down. 

Holy—

Joaquin snaps awake, jolting in shock before forcing his body rigidly still. Steadily, he tilts his head downward until he sees you fast asleep. Arm slung around his waist, one of your legs hiked up over his, Joaquin melts at the attention. Your face is tucked below his jaw and your even breaths fan across his skin. 

He should move. Create space. 

But he hesitates. 

Your grip tightens unconsciously and Joaquin finds himself relaxing into you, the smell of your shampoo has him closing his eyes in comfort. In and out, he forces, willing his heart to stop its incessant thudding. You’re holding on to him like he’s worth holding on to, and it’s doing things to him. 

Joaquin’s eyes snap open. 

No. He can’t think that way, it’s too dangerous. 

But the feel of your body against his. It’s so…intimate. 

You’ve been so distant these past few days, and Joaquin can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to deserve this treatment now. Maybe you didn’t mean to end up wrapped in him last night, even more reason Joaquin should let you go now, but he can’t. 

A selfish hero. 

Yet despite the realization he remains still, laying motionless with his breathing shallow to prolong the moment as much as he can. 

His mind spins. The two of you have done a lot together, bodies wound in moments of primal instinct and heat, but never like this. Never lingering. 

It’s his own fault. Admitting that truth, Joaquin swallows hard. 

This isn’t sex. This isn’t a rushed need for physical touch. It’s simple closeness, the kind that terrifies him more than anything in this world ever could. 

And it’s undoing him. 

A soft groan below him makes Joaquin’s body stiffen before he forces himself to relax. In pure panic, Joaquin closes his eyes and forces his breathing to even out in a false illusion of sleep. It takes everything in him not to move as he feels you awaken. 

A soft hand on his chest makes Joaquin sigh, the feeling bringing him an odd sense of comfort. His ears strain as he listens to your movement, some confused muttering before you sit up and untangle yourself from him. He instantly misses the warmth. 

Joaquin hears you stretch, the loud moan you let out as you do so tells him all he needs to know. 

“Joaquin,” your groggy voice calls out. He doesn’t dare move. A sharp finger digs into his waist, and he bites down on his lower lip in response. Stretching, Joaquin lets out a fake yawn before blinking his eyes open at you. Sitting with your legs crossed, you’ve turned your body to look at him. He smiles softly at your bedhead, a grouchy expression on your face that consists of the cutest pout he’s ever seen. 

“Morning,” he bids you, pretending to rub his eyes. 

“We gotta get ready,” you say through a yawn. All Joaquin can do is watch you. 

You’ve been on missions together before, many times. And though Joaquins never admitted it out loud, one of his favorite versions of you is the one he’s looking at now. Early morning, fresh out of bed—you’re at your softest. God knows Joaquin has done nothing to deserve being on the receiving end of anything soft, but he cherishes the moment anyways. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a fallen strand of hair on your forehead. 

Instead he’s silent, watching as you get out of the makeshift bed the two of you shared the night before. Joaquin doesn’t even care when you rip the comforter off of him and drops it on the mattress where it belongs, simply thankful that you had enough consideration last night to drag it down with you when you joined him on the floor. 

“I’m g’nna go first,” you say, voice still shrouded in sleep, stretching up towards the ceiling. Joaquin wets his lips when your shirt rides up as you do so and the tiniest sliver of your belly reveals itself. He doesn’t argue with you, too entranced by the sight in front of him. 

You mumble something about your back, both hands placed on it as you head towards the bathroom, but when the door slams close Joaquin falls backwards flat against the limp pillow. Both hands run over his face, and he cups his mouth with a loud groan. 

Weirdly enough…Joaquin thinks he just had the best sleep of his life. 

-

Five days into the mission and Iago still hasn’t made a move to cross the Arizona border. After days of endlessly following Iago’s very bleak paper trail, endless debriefs in some fancy CIA building, and spending more time than necessary in an entire life with him—Joaquin’s patience is wearing extremely thin. 

“This guy’s good, I’ll give him that,” Agent Locke mutters from the bed. Joaquin’s side of the bed. 

After the development of the first night, you had insisted that the pair of you share the motel bed instead of the floor. 

“Don’t let it get to your head, but you might’ve been right,” you had muttered. “Damn floor might kill us before Iago even gets past border patrol.” 

Granted, the two of you hadn’t cuddled since, much to Joaquin’s chagrin. The line of pillows you built between the two of you each night was a clear boundary that wasn’t to be violated, and despite missing the warmth of your body, Joaquin never pressed for more. 

A container of takeout was held tightly in Locke’s hand, chopsticks sticking out as he uses his free hand to scroll through his computer. Joaquin scowls from his seat in the armchair, his own laptop going unattended. 

He hates the way you’re brushing against Locke, your arms pressed against one another as you peer over at his screen. Joaquin’s laptop is working just as fine, mind you. You could have easily shared with him. Instead, you sit at arm’s length away from him, biting your lower lip in concentration as you read whatever data Locke has pulled up. 

It’s distracting. How the hell is he supposed to get through any of the traffic cam footage if you’re over there doing that? 

Joaquin taps his trackpad, just to look busy, the blue glow of the paused video feed flickering over his face. His eyes keeps sliding over to the bed, over to you, and the way your head tilts ever so slightly toward Locke while leaning into him. Joaquin’s jaw clenches, forcing his gaze back to his screen and presses play. 

A car pulls up to the gas station. Not Iago. Don’t care. 

A low laugh from the bed draws Joaquin’s attention, fingers tapping frantically on the table. Joaquin’s eyes focus on the grainy footage in front of him but none of it is truly registering. Every few seconds, his focus drifts. Your shoulders are relaxed as they pressed against Locke’s. Your laugh was airy and unguarded, for Locke. Your smile is soft as you whisper something to Locke. Joaquin’s jaw clenches. 

You’re not together. That’s the unspoken truth. It’s not like he has a right to feel any sort of way, but it doesn’t stop the way his stomach twists and the ache in his jaw. 

Close enough to touch, always, but miles away from him. It’s all been polite conversation and civil reports and division by those goddamn pillows. 

He misses you. 

Not the sex—you.

Joaquin exhales slowly through his nose, his own share of the food going cold on the table in front of him. At the sound of another laugh, he snaps. 

The chair he’s in nearly flips backwards from the force of his standing, bumping loudly into the wall behind him. It has both yours and Locke’s gaze snapping up, but Joaquin avoids eye contact with you both. Instead, he slams his laptop shut and grabs his wallet. “Grabbing a soda.” 

He’s stepping out of the room before his thoughts can catch up to his actions, but he doesn’t miss the subtle, “I don’t think your partner likes me very much,” from Agent Locke accompanied by your giggle. It makes Joaquin slam the door shut in anger.

In the little nook to the side of the motel parking lot, Joaquin stands in front of the vending machine. Rubbing his nose aggressively, Joaquin lets out a loud sigh as the low hum from the machines fill the air, fluorescent light flickering above him. It’s dark out and cold, the whoosh of cars flying by on the nearby freeway could be heard, but Joaquin’s not paying attention to any of those things. Instead, he tilts his head back, closing his eyes to take a shaky breath. 

This is so much harder than he thought it would be. 

Huffing, he shakes his head and pulls out a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the cash slot. Only for it to be returned to him. There was a bent corner, and Joaquin did his due diligence in fixing it before putting the bill back in. It slides right out. Opening his wallet only leads to the discovery that he had no other small bills with him.

“Come on,” Joaquin grunts, forcing his only dollar back in. He groans in frustration at the sound of the bill being pushed back out again. Straightening the money against the denim of his jeans, Joaquin curses when the vending machine still refuses to take his bill. “Take the stupid dollar,” he yells at the inanimate object.

In the midst of his tantrum, Joaquin fails to realize that someone else has joined him, until a hand he knows like his own slaps him away from the machine. You insert your own dollar and it accepts on the first try. 

“Of course,” he deadpans. 

He feels your warmth against his back despite you keeping a careful distance from him, and it was so familiar that Joaquin doesn’t have the strength to turn around and face you. His deep inhale forces him to inadvertently inhale the smell of your sweet shampoo again, and Joaquin holds his breath, lungs squeezing painfully in his chest. 

You reach around him, pressing the code that has an orange soda tumbling against the glass before landing in the bottom compartment with a clank. 

Neither of you move. 

“That crap will clog your arteries before the age of fifty, you know that, right?” Your breath fans against Joaquin’s back, and it makes him shiver. 

His voice is low, almost lower than the hum of the lights as he mumbles. “I just needed a minute.” 

“What is going on with you?” you respond, matching his volume. 

Joaquin hates that he can hear the tone of compassion in your voice, knows that he’s done nothing to deserve it. Your kind nature is unmatched, and Joaquin doesn’t deserve any of it. Even in this moment Joaquin knows—what can he even say? The situation he’s in is the result of no one but himself, and despite how greedy he’s been about you, he’s not selfish enough to confide in you about having to bear the consequences of his own actions. 

But then a flash of you and Locke flashes in his mind, and his emotions turn into misguided anger. Afterall, how could you get so close to someone else in the aftermath of what happened? Did you truly mean so little to him? The hurt was too much for him, and instead bleeds into frustration. 

“Nothing,” his voice is gruff, jaw clenching. 

Your voice still carries the same tone as you state, “You were kind of being an ass in there.” Of course. Joaquin rolls his eyes. Is that what you were out here for? It sparks a flash of annoyance through him. Was he not being nice enough to Locke for your liking?

“Didn’t realize you noticed me there. Thought I was interrupting something.” It’s an obvious low blow, Joaquin should’ve taken better control of his emotions and kept it to himself, but he couldn’t stop the words from rushing past his lips anyways. 

He doesn’t have any time to feel regret before you scoff, though, and the sound has him turning his head over his shoulder to get a look at your face. You’re less than pleased with him, fairly so, but Joaquin had a hard time caring. Not when Locke kept touching you and looking at you, the two of you sharing laughs at his expense. 

You shake your head when the two of you make eye contact. “It’s called working, Torres. You should try it sometime this week instead of walking around like a brooding asshole.” 

“Yeah?” He challenges, licking his lips. “Looked more like flirting to me.”

A noise of disagreement strangles out of your throat. “You’re ridiculous.” It’s conclusive. You and Joaquin simply hold each other's gazes, both holding your own ground in this deliberate staring contest. 

It was you who broke away first, turning away from him with a clenched jaw. Looking back, there was something else in your eyes alongside the simmering anger, and all you do is reach past him to pull the soda out from the metal flap. A sniffle catches his attention, but you shove the drink into his chest before he can take a good look at you. “Don’t say I never got you anything.” Your voice is firm and decisive. 

With that, you depart, and all Joaquin can do is take in another breath as he watches your retreating figure. It was only when your shared room door slams shut that guilt begins to swirl in tendrils in his veins. The lights above him go out. 

-

That night, after Locke took his leave and confirmed that Iago’s been spotted at a nearby hotel, Joaquin merely watched in the corner of the room as you threw down an extra sheet and pillow onto the floor next to the bed before settling on the mattress. No words were exchanged, but it was clear: Joaquin was sleeping on the ground tonight—his metaphorical dog house. He took it in stride, laid down without a word, but his back wasn’t as prideful as him the next day. It certainly was not a good night's rest. And it definitely didn’t help when your foot landed on his stomach, using him as a stepping stone as you made your way to the bathroom the next morning. All he could do was groan and curl up on the floor, back and stomach now aching. 

Now, in the dark, dingy van, Joaquin shifts uncomfortably in his designated seat, body complaining from the events that took place. One hand rubs the crease in his forehead while the other taps against the armrest. His eyes remain locked on the various monitors in front of him. 

On the opposite side of the van, you sit just as tense and silent, working on the comms. 

For once, Joaquin’s glad Locke is there as a buffer, though the agent himself doesn’t seem to be too glad about it. It’s so apparently obvious and even without multiple years in the academy, anyone can deduce that things are tense. It’s palpable, and obnoxiously fills the already stale air in the tiny vehicle. 

To the right of him, Locke clears his throat, and Joaquin’s ears twitch in irritation. “So,” Locke drags. “Did something happen last night?” 

“No.” 

“Just focused.” 

Joaquin’s and your response overlap one another, answering Locke with haste in a stern tone. 

“Alrighty,” Locke sings, clearly unconvinced, but the message from both sides is clear and the man returns his attention to the same monitors Joaquin is watching. “Wait…” the CIA agent calls out, though all previous humor is devoid from his voice. The air shifts instantly, heavy with purpose, as everyone leans in. 

“Right there,” Locke’s finger comes up to tap on one of the screens, the grainy picture flickering slightly as he narrows his eyes. 

Following him, Joaquin’s eyes trail the screen, catching a small blurry figure peeking around a pillar before ducking into the building being surveilled, but not before turning around to look over their shoulder. Joaquin types quickly on his keyboard, the lens capturing the movement. The camera footage pauses, and Joaquin zooms in. “That’s him. That’s Iago.” 

The sound of a camera shuttering fills Joaquin’s ears, and once Locke finishes capturing evidence, Joaquin zooms out. 

“Wait, hold on,” you call out. Reaching across, you point at a different monitor on Joaquin’s side to the left—a different figure entering the frame from the opposite side of the building. “There’s Monica.” The confirmed buyer. 

The trio watches as she moves towards the back entrance of the building, her signature confidence radiating off the screen. She’s flanked by two guards. “They’re armed,” Locke confirms in a grim voice. 

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Joaquin keeps his eyes on the screen until all parties disappear inside. “They’re both here. This is it.” 

“Hold on,” Locke demands, fingers moving with speed as he switches the feed to the cameras they’ve placed inside. “We need confirmation of the exchange,” he announces. 

Watching in tense silence, Joaquin keeps his eyes locked on the screen. 

The criminals move through separate parts of the building, and each one of you watches with intent, tracking them. Joaquin ignores the radio static of Locke’s comms, telling his team to hold their positions. 

When Iago and Monica finally meet, it’s in one of the back offices, and Joaquin holds his breath as the two shake hands. Monica’s guards part slightly, forming a perimeter in the small room that barricades the door. The flash drive glints faintly as Iago pulls it from his pocket, and Joaquin can only watch as the two mouth to each other, unable to make much out due to the lack of audio and the low-resolution footage. The two of them take a seat on opposite sides of a round table centered in the room. Under different circumstances, Joaquin would have rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but he knows better. Big fish like these have a knack for flare. 

“Wait. Something’s wrong,” you murmur. You reach over Locke, taking over the comms, shifting the camera away from Monica and Iago. Joaquin shouts your name in protest, but you simply ignore him. “There’s more,” you hastily rush out. “There.” You were right. With the change of perspective back to the entrances of the building, Joaquin sees it. More shadows. More shapes. 

There’s others. 

Joaquin counts five…six…eight others. Unmarked and heavily armed, surrounding the building from the inside. 

“What the hell…” Joaquin’s heart rate starts to pick up. 

“She brought extra backup,” Locke sounds distant, as though his mind was processing the information. “That’s too many bodies for a simple deal.” 

Everyone falls still, watching the men on the screen. “Iago’s the biggest black market tech broker we know. He’s hacked into the U.S government more times than we can keep track of. All operative information—Super Soldier data, blueprints for war plans…” you let the insinuation hang in the air. “Whatever Monica’s buying…she’s not sticking around after,” you quickly pick up. “After the handoff, she’s fleeing.” 

Locke overtakes the comms, switching it back to Monica and Iago, who are still sitting across from each other, a seemingly casual conversation taking place. “The target is Iago,” he states. “We wait for the handoff. Let Monica leave first, then we come in for him.” 

“She’s right.” Joaquin jumps in to agree with you. “We can’t wait. Monica’s going to kill him after she gets what she needs,” he shakes his head. “I’ve read her file. With this many men, she’s planning something big. She won’t leave any loose ends.” 

“We will get there in time. We need Iago to transfer the drive to her or we can’t get either of them. Right now they’re only crime is meeting up in an abandoned warehouse.” Locke insists, voice firm. “Let the exchange happen and we track Monica from there. Going in now just blows this whole thing.” 

Joaquin’s lips part, ready to disagree, but the slamming of the van door draws his attention. 

“She won’t wait that long.” You’re flying out of the van before anyone can process it, gear half on and boots hitting the gravel with a crunch. 

Joaquin’s stomach drops. “Wait,” he shouts, calling after you, only to hear you shout back, “I’m not letting anyone die on a technicality.” 

“Dammit!” Joaquin lunges towards you, but you’re too fast, and he hastily grabs his own gear despite the shouts and protest of Locke. “Fucking shit!” Joaquin curses, ankles ringing when he lands harshly on the ground. Joaquin chases after you, but you don’t look back once, and he keeps his head on a swivel as he locks his vest into place. 

The two of you sprint down the alley, Joaquin only a few steps behind you, as you near the distance of the warehouse together. Slipping around the side, you crouch low behind a dumpster near the loading bay. 

Joaquin’s breath burns in his throat, not from the sudden adrenaline rush, but from the fear that grasps him at the sight of you rushing into a scene without telling him anything. You’ve never done that before. Each inhale scrapes sharply against his ribs and muscle memory overrides the flurry of thoughts crashing in his head as he secures his weapons. He’s pissed—at Locke for his douchery and at Monica for ruining the fucking plan—but mostly he’s angry with you. 

But none of that matters right now.

Dropping beside you, his back pressed to the rusted metal of the dumpster. Grasping your shoulder, Joaquin forces you to look back at him. “What’s the plan?” His voice comes out calm and focused—the exact opposite of how he feels on the inside, where he wants to shake you and yell at you for your reckless actions—but he knows the two of you have to make it out of this first. He needs to trust you. 

When you turn towards him, your eyes are sharp, and he knows you’re where you need to be. “We go in quiet. Straight to Iago. If Monica gets even a hint that something’s wrong, it’s game over. Once we get in there, if she makes a move to kill him, we take all of them down. I don’t care what Locke says—we neutralize and extract, even if the exchange hasn’t happened.” Your eyes flicker down to the gun in his hand. “No gunfire.” 

Joaquin looks down before tucking it back into the back of his waistband. He nods, once. 

It’s a terrible plan. Ten people versus two. But Joaquin forces himself to push that thought away, it won’t do him any good on the field. Joaquin exhales slowly, steadying his pulse. He doesn’t say it verbally, but the two of you know—he’s with you. 

Peering around the edge of the dumpster, the back entrance to the warehouse is maybe thirty yards away. Next to it, there’s a cracked loading door spilling yellow light onto the concrete. He sees a shadow move past the gap—tall and armed. Then he sees another shadow, moving the opposite direction—smaller feet, but Joaquin doesn’t dare make the mistake of assuming they’re any less dangerous. That’s two out of eight, not counting Monica and Iago themselves. 

Joaquin feels you tap his arm once—ready? 

He gives you the smallest of nods. Let’s move.

You both rush out from behind the dumpster, feet barely making noise against the concrete as you huge the warehouse wall. The two of you duck low, passing the cracked loading door and Joaquin holds his breath as you do. 

Once your duo gets to the back door, Joaquin is quick to move to one side, flanking it, while you remain on the other, facing the loading dock. Reaching over, his palm grasps the knob and gives it a steady turn. All he can focus on is the rhythm of his breathing, eyes scanning you and your surroundings. One wrong move and they’re done. 

You glance back at Joaquin and he nods before pushing the door open. 

Joaquin slips in first, hunched low as he surveys the environment. The smell of oil and dust fills the air, and he takes in the wooden crates that surround the place. He tiptoes behind one for cover. When you slip past the door to join him, Joaquin signals you to move further in. You’ve yet to be discovered by the two guards, and Joaquin waits until you’ve found a safe spot, too. Both of your eyes are on the men pacing near the open door. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

One of them turns in his direction. 

Joaquin shrinks down, hidden behind the wooden crate, just for a second. He presses himself to the side and turns to look at you. Joaquin holds up two fingers, waving them towards you then towards the guards. Take them down. 

You give a single nod in return, eyes sharp. 

Joaquin moves first, circling wide along the stacked boxes, steps-feather light. He keeps his ears trained on the sound of the guard's footsteps as Joaquin closes the distance between them. He times it. One heartbeat. Two. 

Then he springs. Arms locked around the guard’s neck, the other reaching to grab the man’s weapon as he brings him down in one smooth, silent motion. He tosses the gun away and it slides smoothly against the floors. Joaquin’s face scrunches, quiet grunts leaving him as he forces the pressure of his forearm into the criminal’s neck, straining to keep a grip on the resisting man. His biceps burn as he presses down as hard as he can, dragging the man backwards with him. 

Joaquin lets out a small breath of relief when the body slumps, unconscious, and he moves quickly to conceal the man’s body behind some crates. Then, Joaquin reaches down, stripping the man of his comms. 

He places the earpiece in his left ear before turning around to look for you. 

Across the room, you’re still in motion. A sharp crack as your elbow connects with the guard’s jaw before he can shout. The large man stumbles, and you’re quick to press him against the wall, arms braced across his throat until his body goes limp and slides to the ground. 

Joaquin’s own silhouette glides through the room, reaching your side as he breathes fast and quiet. “Clear,” he whispers to you. 

The two of you look ahead into the stretch of the warehouse—the endless grid of crates and towering shelves is casting fractured shadows across the concrete floor. You both knew that beyond them, tucked into the far back corner, are the offices. That’s where Iago is. That’s where Monica is. 

But between where the two of you stand and there is large open ground—space that requires you to directly pass the front lobby—where the rest of Monica’s minions stand guard. 

Joaquin hears a crackle of radio static in his stolen earpiece, and he reaches out to grasp your upper arm with a serious expression on his face. With a flat hand, he gestures across his neck. Don’t move. 

“Alpha post, status report.” 

A pause before another radio crack floods Joaquin’s ear. 

“Clear at the front. No sign of movement. ETA on exchange?” 

“Ten minutes. Boss says no one comes in or out. Keep your eyes on the doors.” 

In the distance, Joaquin can hear the echoing of multiple pairs of shoes shuffling against the floor and the movement of fabric—they’re pacing, getting impatient. 

“Bravo post, check in.” 

Shit. Joaquin’s pulse spikes. That was their post. The two of you meet eyes, and Joaquin knows that you easily detect the trouble in his. Silence won’t go unnoticed for long

“Bravo, do you copy?” 

Joaquin raises a finger, ready to press the comm, but your hand quickly clamps over his wrist. You shake your head fervently, and the scrunch in your brows reading the clear words, Too risky. 

“Sir, heading to West wing to check on team Bravo now.” 

His breath stutters in his chest, body going still, save for the twitch in his jaw as tension floods his limbs like ice water. Your warm fingers wrapped around his wrist serve as a reminder to wait, stay hidden. But they’re cutting it close, too close. Joaquin can hear them now, two pairs of footsteps marching in their direction. 

“Bravo post, all clear.” The delivery is low and clear, an octave lower than his own voice, in his best attempt to seem inconspicuous. He holds the button for a second longer than needed before a shaky finger lets go. 

The footsteps stop. 

Joaquin feels your hand squeeze his wrist, but he can’t focus on it, mind still racing. If they don’t respond…

His eyes flickering over to you before seizing into knots in his stomach. A sour taste of worry settles in his mouth as he takes in your slow blinks, watching him with intense focus. Despite his efforts to keep a sharp mind and despite all his trust in you, if anything happens—

“Copy that, Bravo.” 

Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, but the tension doesn’t leave him. He can’t take his eyes off of you, the close too close for his liking. At the realization that you’re waiting for an update, Joaquin mentally shakes his head of any previous fearful thoughts before giving you a singular nod. Then, one tap to your arm. With both hands, he holds all his fingers, relaying his intel. You nod back in understanding. 

You’re in a time crunch now. Ten minutes to get in and out with no casualties. 

But your problem still persists—open ground between where you stand and where you need to be. Wooden crates and shelves can only provide so much cover. But then Joaquin watches as you point upwards, head following your movements. 

Overhead. A narrow catwalk runs through the length of the warehouse. Even from below, he can see how old and rusted it is, hanging on with metal wires that look ready to snap. Joaquin frowns. But it’s intact. And it gets you directly to the back offices without crossing free space. 

His eyes flick to you. Smart. 

Together, you rush over to the shelves lining the warehouse wall, climbing in quick, practiced motions. 

Just a second after yours, Joaquin’s boots land on the metal in a quiet stomp as he pulls himself up. The steel groans under your shared weight, but Joaquin suspects that a gust of wind would have the old catwalk making the same noise. Straining his ears, Joaquin listens to the way the guards continue to pace, none the wiser. 

Looking ahead, Joaquin watches how fast you move, low and silent as you make your way down. He follows your lead. 

The whirling of vents overhead fill the air, and shadows from flickering lights cut across your forms as the two of you make your way towards the back offices. Focused and stealthy, being extra careful when you come into view of the lobby. 

Four gunned men. Just as you had figured when you did your recon. 

Soon, the back offices come into view and despite the multiple rooms in the row, you and Joaquin easily spot Monica and Iago’s location, for the small window on the door spilling yellow light into the hallway gave it away. 

The two of you crouch down, watching the space from directly above for a few seconds. Turning to each other, you hold up a four with your fingers. Four people. 

“How are you going to take them down? They’re all armed.” Joaquin’s voice is merely above a whisper, the hum of the vents blanketing his words. 

But you don’t answer with words. 

A mischievous gleam in your eyes makes Joaquin’s narrow in suspicion. When you pull a small metal bolt from your belt, some leftover scrap you picked up from the warehouse floor at some point, Joaquin shakes his head ‘no’. This time, it’s his hand clamping your wrist. “That’s a terrible plan!” he doesn’t hesitate to speak out this time, still whispering. 

He looks at you as you raise your brows innocently, accompanying it with a slight shrug. 

Joaquin’s gaze snaps back to the office door, and the counting he’s been keeping track of in his mind reminds him they only have so much time left. Shoulders tight, Joaquin’s teeth grit as he lets you go with a huff. The second he does, you toss the bolt over the catwalk, and the two of you watch as it clatters to the floor below, rolling. 

You both duck back into the shadows. 

Inside the office, one of the guards steps out with his gun in hand. He stands barricaded by the door, only peaking out to look back and forth down the hallway. Joaquin tenses, worrying that their plan backfired. Every line in his body is alert, gaze locked on the man’s movements. His mind is spinning as he calculates other options. 

But then you reach into your pocket again, this time pulling out another bolt. 

Joaquin’s hand shoots out, “Wait—” he hisses. 

Too late. 

The second small piece of metal sails down just as the guard begins to step back inside, landing directly at his feet. This time, the guard steps out, squinting upward in the direction the bolt came from.

You jump forward and drop.

Joaquin jerks with a sharp inhale, one hand gripping the edge of the catwalk as he watches you plummet downward. You land on top of the guard, hard, knees braced on his back as your arms snake around his neck before he can react. The two of you hit the ground with a loud thud. The man’s gun, strapped across his chest, slams into the concrete floor. 

His heart lurches into his throat, the sharp echoing crack of your bodies hitting the ground was loud and unmistakable. 

Shit.

He grips the catwalk’s edge tighter, knuckles going white as he grinds his teeth. Every instinct in his body was telling him that this is it—this is the moment where everything falls apart. Joaquin’s eyes snap to the left, panicking at the idea that the other four guards would head in their direction. They were running out of time. 

When his eyes rush back to the hallway, the second guard is bursting through the office door, gun already halfway raised. 

“Fucking dammit!” he curses. Joaquin doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe. 

Before his mind can catch up, Joaquin is already halfway over the railing. In one smooth, desperate motion, he launches himself off the catwalk. His body flies through the air, a blur of dark clothing and braced limbs. Joaquin feels the wind whip past his ear, pulse pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. His breathing is caught in his chest, and when the guard’s face tilts up and Joaquin’s boots crash into his shoulder. 

The two of them hit the ground hard, launching away from each other from the force and trajectory of Joaquin’s fall. Despite the wind knocked out of his lungs on impact, Joaquin wastes no time. Pure adrenaline rushes through his veins, and he jumps back up to his feet before he can even process it. 

Joaquin’s ears tune in to the way the guard groans, but before the man can reach for his weapon, Joaquin is already there, grabbing him by the collar and slamming his head into the floor. Releasing one hand, Joaquin swings his arm back before striking his fist into the side of the guard’s face. Once. Twice. Until the struggle stills. 

He sucks in a large breath, knowing silence was no longer a necessary cover, and Joaquin blinks to focus his blurry vision from the sudden drop and adrenaline. Sweat beads along his brow, and his hands are shaking. 

Whipping around, Joaquin searches for you. 

You’re still struggling, pinning your opponent down with your knees as he thrashes beneath you. Joaquin’s stomach twists when he sees a smear of red along your sleeve, but there’s no time to check. Rushing towards you, Joaquin’s leg is already cocked, and he slams his boot into the man’s shoulder, kicking him to weaken his struggles. The man howls in pain, and Joaquin watches as your grip tightens. With the full use of your body weight, you slam the man’s head hard enough to knock him out. 

Silence. 

It’s heavy and shallow. 

Joaquin's hands are shaking, and he kneels down to check on you. Hand brushing against your back, he asks if you’re alright. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, chest heaving. 

He doesn’t believe you, but there’s no time to argue. 

Both your heads snap up at the sound of screaming voices, coming from inside the office. Instantly, you’re both back up on your feet, and Joaquin reaches towards the door to swing it open. 

You both freeze. 

Monica is on the other side of the table, the furthest distance she can be from the door in the small room. Her arm is locked around Iago’s neck as she drags him backwards—a pistol is jammed into the underside of his jaw.

Joaquin takes the time to scan her and he feels his blood freeze in his veins. She’s steady with sharp eyes and face devoid of any sign of fear. His eyes flicker to the gun in her hand. Safety’s off. Finger on the trigger. Whatever she’s planning…Monica’s not bluffing. 

Iago is breathing hard, eyes flickering between the barrel and the two of you. His hands are raised in surrender, and Joaquin winces at his split lip, the blood dribbling down the collar of his shirt. 

“Nobody move.” Her voice is calm. 

Joaquin raises his hand in surrender and from the corner of his eyes, he sees that you do the same. “Easy, Monica.” 

The hardened villain doesn’t so much as flinch. Her grip in Iago stays tight, pistol unwavering. “The only way this ends is me walking out of this building unharmed.” 

Neither of you answer her. 

Taking the gun off of Iago, she waves it in the air to make her point, “I have men crawling all over this building. Even more outside. Snipers, runners, you name it.” 

The gun lands back against her captive, and Joaquin’s eyes train on him. He’s shaking like a leaf. “I walk out.” Monica proposes. “With him.” She flickers down to Iago, letting out a ‘tsk’ as she does, as though he was an afterthought. “And no one dies. Simple as that.” 

Joaquin takes a step forward, just enough to show her that he’s not scared. “I can’t let you do that.” 

From behind him, Joaquin hears you speak up, too. “Why do you want him?” 

Monica’s eyes flicker towards you, and heat burns at the pit of Joaquin’s stomach at the idea of her attention on you. 

“Want him?” She lets out a small laugh, though it sounds less than humorous. “Sweetie, I don’t want him. He just happens to be the unfortunate bastard who knows too much.” She slides the gun further down the column of Iago’s throat, and the man swallows harshly. 

“It’s a shame,” fake sympathy laces her voice. “We could’ve done so much together,” she sighs. “But I can’t work with cowards who reach out to people like you.” 

Iago parts his lips to protest, but before he can get a word past, Monica moves at lightning speed. She redirects the barrel of the gun in your direction with a whoosh, and a deafening, unmistakable crack of a shot flies through the air.

Before the echoing can finish ringing out, Joaquin’s body is in motion. “Get down!” he shouts, diving with all the strength he has towards you. His arm latches around your waist as he drives the two of you backwards, falling into the hallway behind you. 

You crash into the floor in a tangled heap. 

Joaquin tightens his grip on you when he hears you let out a strangled sound. A gasp or a cry, he can’t be sure, but then he feels it—warmth. He’s scrambling off of you in an instant, taking in your scrunched expression. 

Panic rockets through his chest, clenching around his heart. “No, no no,” he’s muttering over and over, both hands pressing against the bloom of red on your shoulder that’s starting to stain your clothes. “Shit,” he cries, hands starting to shake. Joaquin doesn’t know where to start, what to do. You’re groaning beneath him, face scrunched in pain with gritted teeth. 

His lungs start burning, and Joaquin realizes he’s been holding his breath. He lets out a stuttering exhale, fingers clenching against the wound. Whispering numerous desperate apologies, Joaquin continues to apply pressure despite your cries. 

“Joaquin,” you grit, “Joaquin, stop.” The hand from your non-injured side comes up to grasp at his forearm, nails digging into skin. He hears your ragged breathing, the struggle in your voice as you tell him, “Graze. Just a graze.” 

“Don’t move,” he shushes you. “Just…just wait, hold on—” He swallows hard, vision swimming for a second and Joaquin’s head starts to hurt, the way his brain is struggling to catch up. 

“Joaquin,” your nails dig further, but he can’t register the feeling. “I’m fine. Monica,” you gasp. “Go.” 

But it’s not fine. You’re not okay. You were nearly shot. 

“Joaquin, go!” you scream. 

He wants to argue, wants to scream at you for pushing him away because all he wants to do right now is keep you safe—the thing he should’ve done to begin with—and you’re not letting him. 

But then—

A clattering behind him. A muffled grunt. 

Joaquin’s head snaps around just in time to see it—Monica dragging Iago down the hallway. The man’s legs are failing and she’s got a grip on his collar, yanking him like dead weight, moving fast as her head occasionally snaps back to look at you and Joaquin. 

She’s getting away. 

He turns back to look at you. Beneath him, your face is twisted in pain, and the fabric around your shoulder only continues to darken with the passing time. His own hands are covered in your blood, fingers trembling. Your lips are parted, drawing in short, shallow breaths. 

But then he looks in your eyes, and all he sees is sheer determination. No panic or fear. 

Joaquin gets your message loud and clear: Trust me, you were saying. His heart constricts so sharply in chest, he aches and Joaquin blinks the tears in his eyes away. Slowly, he lifts his trembling fingers away from your shoulder. It’s the scariest thing he’s ever seen—the blood on your shoulders—but he wills his fingers to stop their shaking and clenches his jaw in resilience. “I’ll be back,” his voice is hoarse, and the words come out a bit choked up as they force their way past the lump in his throat. “You hear me? I’ll be back.” 

He drops lower, just long enough to reach you, and Joaquin cradles your face in his blood soaked hands. A brush of his thumb over your cheek is the only moment of solitude he can give you before Joaquin presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s rushed and apologetic. 

Then Joaquin’s gone. Running down the hallway, he doesn’t turn back once. He can’t. 

If he does, he won’t be able to leave.

-

The door creaks open on its old hinges, the sound echoing through the small townhouse. Joaquin steps in first, multiple bags slung over his shoulders as he holds the door open for you. The weight of them burns, and internally Joaquin wonders if you packed ten pounds of rocks for your mission, but the thought quickly evaporates when you step in and his eyes land on your bandaged shoulder. 

Joaquin watches as your eyes flicker to him on the way in. “I could’ve carried my own bag, you know.” He can hear the stubbornness in your voice, and all Joaquin can do is give you a sharp glare. 

After making sure he locked and deadbolted the door, Joaquin drops the duffles onto the couch with a dull thud. Huffing, he places his hands on his hips as he looks around. 

It’s nicer than the dump you’ve been holed up in the past week. Clean. Modern. A couch (his back is already thankful for it). Definitely a step up from the mildew and cigarette scented cardboard box you’ve been calling a room the past week. 

Although it’s only a place to rest for one night before you catch your flights back to Washington, Joaquin’s thankful for the rest stop nonetheless. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sam had someone stop by to clean up the place before the two of you stopped by. A smile graces his lips at the thought of his friend, looking forward to being back home already. He’s been on much longer missions, but God knows this one has taken the most out of him.

Joaquin’s eyebrow twitches in irritation, smile dropping the slightest bit. He can feel you looking at him again.

It’s been like this the entire ride over. 

He knows it’s wrong, knows that he should’ve been so much nicer to you considering the turn of events, but, simply, Joaquin is struggling. His usual optimism is locked in a chamber deep in his heart, unable to see the light of day, with the way his body is so busy aching over the reality that that mission could have gone a hell of a lot worse. 

He’s been counting your breaths in the long silence that stretches between you two as a way to remind himself that you’re there next to him, that you’re okay. But it’s little consolidation. It’s a sense of loyalty masked by the frustration of not being able to protect you, Sam had said, noting the way you lingered awkwardly in the background during Joaquin’s debrief with him. You make him not himself.

Joaquin thinks it’s bullshit. He’s mad himself, that much he can recognize on his own. But he’s also mad at you. 

You’re still looking at him, and it takes everything in him not to look back. Joaquin is sure that you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. Of course he does. All he does is notice you—how your hand kept ghosting over the center console towards him during the car ride, how you’ve been wincing and rotating your shoulder when you think no one’s looking, how you nervously picked at your fingers when the med tech cleared you hours ago despite wearing a stoic look on your face. 

The reminder makes his face tighten, resolve hardening as he recalls the words “it could’ve been worse.” Locke meant it reassuringly, but all it did was anger Joaquin. 

He’s being a dick. But he does it anyway, because what else is there for him to do? 

It’s safer, Joaquin reminds himself. Simpler, because if he keeps the space between the two of you wide, he won’t start unraveling everytime you so much as squirm in pain. It’s what he’s been working towards all this time. There’s so much space, truly, as you toe the line between coworkers and more. So much potential. But even with the distance and without ever crossing that thin thread, Joaquin is already so undone. 

He’s barely surviving you. 

And this accident—no matter how much everyone around him keeps saying that it was fine, nonfatal—has been stabbing at his already bleeding heart. Joaquin is shook in a way that he isn’t proud of, because he knows he should be stronger, but everytime he closes his eyes all he he’s is you on the ground, blood blooming dark through your gear, and everything inside him screams. 

He can’t be what you want, because caring about you like this? Risking feeling even more? It scares him in a way he can’t even begin to understand. If this is how hard he’s falling now, when nothing between you is even real…Joaquin doesn’t want to even imagine how much it might hurt one day if you might slip through his fingers. 

“I’m g’nna hit the showers,” he murmurs in your general direction, the heat of your stare burning at the side of his face. Joaquin manages to take only a few steps away when you call out after him. 

“What’s your problem?” Your voice is loud, echoing through the small living room. “Seriously, Joaquin, what is your issue?” 

“I don’t have a problem.” 

“Yes, you do!” you protest, voice getting louder. 

Joaquin clamps his mouth shut, confident that silence is the only solution here. But you come up behind him, taking him by surprise when you shove him in the back. It hardly does anything, Joaquin leaning forward in surprise more than anything, but it pisses him off nonetheless. Whipping around, he meets your furious eyes, but still, he’s silent, opting to simply glare. 

“Well?” you shout. “Joaquin, say something!” 

“You’re my problem!” The words burst out before he can stop them—sharp and heavy with everything he’s been holding back. As soon as the words come out, Joaquin regrets them. He recoils, shocked by the weight of his own anger and the volume of his voice. He’s never yelled at you, never so much as raised his voice, but he knows it’s too late to take it back now. 

“You don’t get it,” he shakes his head, hand running over his face. “You don’t—”

“Is this about Agent Locke?” your tone shrouded in disbelief. 

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Asshole!” Joaquin can’t help but shout, but he quickly turns around to take a deep breath. He’s never been this way with you before, but God does that name rub him in all the wrong places. 

Joaquin barrels forward, and though his voice grows quieter, it’s just as firm as he grits his teeth. He turns to you. “You getting hurt? That’s my problem. You bleeding out in some dark, crappy warehouse while I left, completely useless to you? That’s my fucking problem.” Heat crawls up Joaquin’s back, and his chest starts to rise and fall rapidly as he tries to rein his outrage back. Fists balled at his sides, his nails dig into his palm to remind himself to stay calm. “You were so reckless!” he accuses. 

“Hey! That was the only chance we had—” 

“I don’t care!” Joaquin cries, hands coming up to hold his head. He can’t believe the two of you are even having this conversation. Why don’t you understand? Why were you being so stubborn? His voice is cracking, exasperation seeping through every word. “The only thing that matters to me is that you got hurt.” He steps forward, forcing you closer to him as if somehow that would make you understand him better. His heart is pounding in his chest, louder than his thoughts. 

“Before we ran in there, we weren’t even—” Joaquin pauses, jaw clenching as he forces himself to look away from you. He sniffles, once, to compose himself. “You wouldn’t even look at me in the van.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Joaquin continues. “I was still mad. And then next thing I know, I’m holding you and you’re on the floor bleeding—” 

Before he can finish, your hand grabs the front of his t-shirt and yanks him forward. He barely has the time to register what’s happening before he feels your lips on his. It’s urgent and fierce, and instinctively, he kisses back. His hand finds your waist, gripping them tightly because it’s the first time he’s touched you in days. Starving for it, he pulls you flush against him. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck as he kisses you with everything he’s been holding in. 

Frustration, fear, guilt—it all drains into the kiss, making it messy and hot. 

You finally pull back, but Joaquin can’t just yet. He’s desperate, he needs more. So he trails his lips down the side of your throat, leaving sloppy kisses down the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your throat, and it’s less finesse than he usually has, but there’s not much he can do about that. Not when it’s driven from grief more than lust. 

Your moan makes his pants start to tighten, but hesitation starts to swirl in his mind. But then you throw your head further back, your hand coming up to grip the back of his head, pushing his head further downward. He takes the encouragement greedily, lips finding your clavicle as he bites down gently, licking the skin soothingly when you let out a small his. 

Joaquin’s hands don’t stop moving, brushing up and down your body and squeezing in various places. He needs to feel you, a physical reminder that you’re here and you’re okay. 

He’s busy pressing kisses against the column of your throat again when he hears you whisper. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” you say quietly, even though your fingers are scratching at the back of his head, twirling his curls. 

The words burn him, snapping him away from his hungry daze momentarily. Though your voice is low, the words are louder than everything around him—the sting of your nails, your ragged breaths. It echoes past everything. His lips still against your throat, and for a second Joaquin hates that you’ve said it out loud. Hates even more the fact that he knows he needs to hear it. 

This isn’t forgiveness or peace. 

The realization makes Joaquin’s hand grip your waist tighter, but his kiss against your neck is soft as he whispers back, “I know.” 

He ignores the way your hand soothes the back of his head, twisted in his curls in a shameful act of comfort. It makes his stomach sink in the worst of ways. 

So Joaquin does the only thing he knows how to do with you. 

His hands move quick, finding purchase at the junction between the bottom of your ass and the top of your thigh as he presses hurried, wet kisses to any surface his lips can reach. Joaquin squeezes the flesh there, letting out a satisfied groan before pulling you up. Ignoring your squeal of surprise, Joaquin forces your legs around his waist as he carries you through the townhouse. 

Blindly, he carries you around, occasionally peeking around you to watch his step but his focus rarely strays from you for more than a few seconds at a time. Your body is warm against his, and your legs around his waist has your core pressing against his hard cock in a way that is growing increasingly distracting by the second. 

Every part of him was trembling with urgency, and the way your breath is hot against his ear makes his knees buckle. Joaquin presses a kiss to your jaw, biting again, before finding the corner of your mouth in a feverish tenacity. 

“I need—” he groans, words getting tangled in his throat when you press yourself closer to him, grinding against him over the denim of his jeans. He doesn’t bother to finish his sentence, instead, he rushes you further down the hall until he reaches a random door. Everything in him prays that it’s the bedroom door as he fumbles with the knob, letting out a curse as you gently nip at the lobe of his ear. 

Joaquin pinches your ass in warning, and he marvels in the way you let out a surprised squeak. But his satisfaction is short lived, turning into annoyance as his shaky hands struggle to get the door open. 

The second it swings inward, Joaquin all but stumbles in. Though his instinct is to press you against the wall and strip you of your clothes with you dangling on him, he’s hyper aware of your shoulder and slows his movements. Instead, Joaquin walks the two of you further into the room, feet searching for the bed frame before laying you gently on the mattress. 

The movement makes your shirt ride up, and when you look up at him with plump, glossy lips, eyes hazy with lust, Joaquin feels his dick throb. He lets out a shaky exhale before climbing on top of you, palms reaching for your exposed skin like a man desperate for water. 

“Take it off,” you demand from him, tugging at his shirt. Joaquin obliges with no complaints, peeling off the tee that was growing increasingly unbearable with his rising temperature before undoing his pants as well. He reaches towards you, nimble fingers grasping the bottom of your shirt before his eyes flicker upwards with permission. 

You nod, and despite his previously ferocious movement, Joaquin works slowly, dragging the fabric upwards and pressing kisses along as he did. When he gets to your shoulder, Joaquin frowns at the white bandages. The sight punches the air out of his lungs. They’re so stark against your skin, so out of place beneath his hands. 

His breath hitches, lips hovering just above the wounded area but not close enough to touch. It’s too much. Another reason to not cross that line. 

So Joaquin swallows it. 

Ripping your shirt off, his mouth is on you again. Harder, deeper this time. His tongue parts your lips like he’s pushing away the foul memory on his tongue, and Joaquin’s hands start to palm at your breast. They slide away to reach down your thighs, peeling off your pants in one swift movement that only has Joaquin parting from you for a second before he’s back. 

This time, his lips trail down your chest. Undoing your bra with an expertise that typically would have him making an annoying comment, Joaquin throws it onto the floor into the pile with the rest of your clothes. 

This is familiar. This he can do. 

It’s not love, he denies to himself, just pure need. And right now, Joaquin needs you a lot more than he needs to feel okay. 

His mouth finds your erect nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a pleased groan. Joaquin’s tongue moves in precision, licking in smooth circular motions around the nub while you moan underneath him. His free hand comes up to grab your right tit, pinching the nipple while his mouth works on the left. 

Joaquin’s being greedy with the way he’s touching you; sucking on your tits brings him more pleasure than it does you, he believes, and he grinds his leaking cock against the sheets of the bed. But he knows that you feel good, wouldn’t do it if you didn’t, from the way you moan his name. It drives him insane. When he lets go, a thin strand of saliva connects his lips to your nipple, and it makes him lick his lips, effectively breaking it. 

Bites to your chest ensued until he was satisfied, the splotches of red blossoming on your chest the only red he’s comfortable with on your skin. For every nip his teeth imprint, several wet kisses follow. Then he’s dragging downward, following your smooth skin until he’s settled between your thighs. 

Any other time, he would have teased you, love feeling you squirm beneath him as breathy complaints fall past your lips. But this time, Joaquin wastes no time. In one flat, long motion Joaquin’s tongue licks you from your hole to your clit. The taste of you splashes against his taste buds in a way that has him groaning into you and the vibration has you mewling. 

Joaquin moves fast, heeded with motivation, but his movements are precise no less. Two fingers prod at your hole, working you open as his tongue sucks gently on your clit. You’re so wet, he preps you easily. It soaks his hand, your arousal pooling into his palm as he fingers you. 

Once Joaquin thinks you’re ready, he’s lifting himself up to line his aching cock against you. Licking your slick off the palm of his hand, he uses the moisture to stroke himself. The mixture of his spit and your wetness was more than enough to act as lube, but the precum dribbling from the head of his cock provided additional help as well. 

When he first breaches past your hole, Joaquin groans. The feeling never gets old, and the way you cling to him makes it all the better. The tension that’s been coiling in his chest for days finally snaps, unraveling in one sharp gasping exhale. You’re warm and tight, so impossibly wet around him, and it makes his eyes flutter shut. His forehead drops against yours, shaking as he struggles to keep himself up. It’s too much. 

But Joaquin knows it’s not just the feeling of you clenching around him as he pushes deeper and deeper into you, your body pulling him in. It’s the feeling of being able to hold you, feel that you’re there beneath him, because here, he can protect you. 

He tries to hold still and memorize the feeling of being inside you, the way your body curves around him. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” Joaquin whispers. It’s a reminder for himself, the words falling in a quiet cadence as his hips meet yours. He forces them out like acid burning his throat, heart clenched painfully in his chest.  

But you don’t know that, and you respond all the same, gasping out, “I know.” 

The admission makes him groan out your name, and he shakes his head in denial. Joaquin starts to move with urgency, not from lust, but from fear. He starts thrusting into you, gripping your thighs like they were the only thing anchoring him in the moment. Joaquin feels the sting of your nails in his back, the slick from both your bodies molding the two of you together. 

Joaquin’s hips stutter when you clench tightly around him, and he bends down to grasp one of your bouncing tits in his mouth again. His movements are fast-paced, and the way you’re a babbling mess beneath him only spurs Joaquin further. 

Broken groan falling past his lips, Joaquin’s teeth grazes over your nipple before pulling back just enough to look at you. You’re flushed—lips parted, eyes rolling back with his marks all over your skin. Fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts. 

He can feel you getting close, your moans turning breathy and uneven. Your thighs begin to tremble where they’re wrapped around his waist and Joaquin slips one hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles quickly, messily, focus divided on keeping his hips moving at the same pace while pressing the right amount of pressure against your sensitive bud. 

His free hand comes up to your throat, holding either side in a soft grip. Not a tight one. But equally possessive nonetheless. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he pants, eyes drinking you in without a blink as your moans grow higher in pitch. “Yeah? Just needed me to fuck you?” He’s being so mean, Joaquin realizes this, but the words are the only shield he has against you. Your moans in agreement have him concentrating harder on getting you to reach your orgasm. His teeth bite down on his lower lip, fighting to keep himself from cumming, but your wet grip was slowly dragging him under. 

“Come on, cum for me,” he urges you, before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. 

And you do. Your whole body aches into him as you let out a shattered cry against his lips, muscles clenching around him so hard that it knocks the air from his lungs. 

“Shit,” he curses, speeding up his pace. He’s working through your orgasm, but he can’t help the way he chokes out your name. Joaquin buries himself deep, hips shuttering as he spills inside of you in long, shuddering waves. His fingers tremble against your hip, his jaw going slack as his strokes turn into small, gentle ones. 

Waves of aftershock tremble throughout Joaquin’s body, and he feels you shake in a similar way. He’s heaving, trying to catch his breath with his forehead pressed against yours. Even when your spasms subside, Joaquin doesn’t move. Instead, he stays buried in you, chest pressed against yours. 

You make no move to push him off either. 

Not even when Joaquin shifts your position, hands bracing themselves against your back and your thigh to flip the two of you over so that you lay on his chest. Despite the readjustment, Joaquin keeps his cock inside of you. Silently, the two of you lay together, slicked with sweat as heavy breaths fill the air. 

You won’t talk. Not tonight. 

Afterall, you both promised each other: this changes nothing.

-

they’re all cut from the same cloth—high achieving, independent, confident. they rattle off the answers to complex questions and are caught up on the latest literature and they’re the ideal resident, each in their own way.

you are not one of them. you think robby tolerates your slowness and your occasional confusion and profoundly apparent lack of confidence because it’s been a couple months since the pittfest shooting, and he feels bad. 

it makes sense from the outside, you suppose. you are just an intern. you thought the whole point of this year was to adapt and understand and try to figure out where you fit in within the food chain that is the hospital hierarchy. 

day to day it depends on the senior resident you’re assigned to. you try, really hard, to stay caught up, to not let your mind wander, to have the right answer and make diagnoses as quickly as you can.

you think maybe there’s just something wrong with you. it hadn’t always been like this. you were getting better. 

and then everything happened and its felt like one step forward, two steps backward ever since.

robby is the one that finally caves and approaches you. he must have gotten enough complaints, or he must be fed up with your zoning out and freezing up, because he pulls you aside for a chat at eight in the morning.

“how do you feel about switching to the night shift for a little?” 

his idea, as he’d explained it to you, was that maybe being on the night shift would help your skills to grow. that the pace and the little extra time in between patients and dr. abbot’s tutelage might help you get more adjusted to the environment. 

i am adjusting, you want to argue, i’m trying my best. but your best is not enough when it comes to life and death. 

you know where your faults lie. slow to get to the answer, slow to move without thinking. even your muscle memory is slow—you feel like you’re always waiting for someone to tell you what to do, before you start doing it, just to make sure you’re not doing the wrong thing. 

it hurts your chest to think about it. you’d matched emergency medicine wide-eyed and excited. it’s hard to think about when you enjoyed the hustle and bustle, thought it was exhilarating to be in trauma rooms instead of terrifying, when you were excited to help people with their bad days and stopping them from getting any worse.

it’s you now that has the perpetual bad day. coated in embarrassment and anxiety, worried sick that you’re not doing good enough, that you’re going to be on the chopping block if you don’t get it together.

and then the rush of gurneys and yelling brings you back to the chaos of pittfest in an instant, and you think dealing with the triage patients’ burns and sutures is all the commotion you can handle for now. 

on your last day shift for the foreseeable future, you tell dana that you’ll see her at sign-offs tomorrow night. 

“you sure you’re doing okay, kid?” she asks, and you feel her concern like it’s something visible hanging in the air. 

you’re not doing okay. you don’t know the last time you felt okay. 

but you’re also not a nutcase. you don’t need any rumors at work that you’re not cut out for this—you don’t need to feel that burden weighing down on you, not on top of the others that are already there. you don’t think you could handle it, don’t think your own brain would let you process it. you might be close to giving up if that happens.

you snap out of it when dana repeats your name.

“i’m okay,” you lie, “just not sure about this sleep schedule. i need to set up my black-out curtains,” you say with a forced laugh, hoping she can’t see right through you. 

dana looks back at you a little quizzically, like she’s trying to figure out the real meaning behind your words, but she gets called away before she can finish her assessment.

“just let me know if you need something, okay?” 

“i will,” you lie again. it sucks—you don’t like lying to dana. she’s everyone’s work-mom and you know she actually cares.

maybe you don’t fully understand it yourself. you want to tell someone how you feel, but you don’t want to put your burden on her shoulders either, not when she already has so much going on, so much to worry about. 

it’d be unfair, you conclude as you head out for your walk to the bus-stop. 

it’d be unfair to put the task of helping you and listening to you and fixing you to someone else’s already long to-do list. 

and as you go to sleep that night, trying to stay up as late as you can to sleep in as much as you can, you think—and maybe hope a little bit too—that robby is right. maybe night shift is what you need.

𝜗ৎ

“she’s not doing that good,” robby admits, his eyes following you as you handle your triage sign-offs with parker. he turns back to jack. “she’s anxious. a little slow, but i’m not saying that-”

whatever robby is saying to him briefly fades into background noise. jack’s eyes go to where robby was looking—watching you for a moment.

he knows who you are. he knows your name, knows you’re an intern. he knows robby is mildly concerned about you, knows that he set you up in triage and chairs because you were having trouble with the trauma cases. 

jack knows that it’s not right—an intern needs to experience what it feels like to be in the thick of it. there’s no short-cuts when you become a second year and third year and beyond—you have to know how to conduct yourself. it’s a non-negotiable part of the residency program, it’s how their program creates competent residents and good doctors.

he follows you with his eyes again. you blink fast and play with your necklace while explaining the last of your cases. 

he knows you’re going through the pertinent history, the acute presentation, your assessment and treatment plans and what’s left to monitor for continuity of care.

it’s not what you’re saying. it’s how you say it. you look like your heart is racing, like someone’s about to cut your tether to the hospital if you say the wrong thing. like you’re waiting for someone to stop you and tell you that you’ve messed up.

even from the across the room he can tell something’s wrong. he feels something strange move around his brain and make its way into his chest. he dismisses it immediately—maybe it’s because he hadn’t noticed the issues you’ve been having himself. jack thinks he’s usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

when parker moves on to the next patient and cassie takes over, jack is still looking at you. your shoulders, which seem to be perpetually up by your ears, relax a little. you let go of your necklace and take a deep breath.

“jack?” robby’s voice says, and he doesn’t hear it until robby repeats himself.

“yeah?” jack answers, turning back to face robby. 

“so, what d’you think? does it sound like a good plan?”

“what plan?”

“have her come to night shift for a little while. show her the ropes. work her way back up. sounds good?”

honestly, jack can’t tell if it does sound good or not. on one hand, there’s less residents working on the night shift. there’s not as much cherry-picking, and everyone has to lend their hand equally. you would get to see everything you’ve been missing out on during the day shift. 

he’s sure that parker could guide you well. jack thinks for a moment that taking on another responsibility wouldn’t be a good idea, but watching your sullen expression as you finish sign outs, like you’re counting down the seconds until you can leave, he thinks it’d be better to get you help now, rather than delaying the inevitable.

jack almost snorts. he’s one to talk. 

he concludes that maybe this might be a good idea given that you’re only an intern and you still have so much to learn and you’re much too young to be stuck in this feeling forever. your sad expression lingers in his head even after you’ve walked back to the lockers.

maybe, just maybe, jack could help with that.

when he looks up at robby to respond, he’s half way across the room.

“thanks a lot, brother,” robby half-shouts, and this time, jack does groan. 

well after the day shift has left, he tries to think about the best plan of approach. he has to tell parker, obviously, since some of the responsibility will fall on her too. he’ll tell john the next time he sees him. 

he could start you slow. a step-up from chairs triage, starting with some urgent cases and working your way up. 

if too many people is the problem, you’ll be good as gold after a few shifts. he thinks about the rest of the plan, how he can get you started on incoming traumas and maybe if there’s something you can read to work on a step-by-step approach, if that’s where the issue lies—he doesn’t know since robby didn’t tell him anything else—but he gets distracted all at once.

your sad, pretty face hasn’t left his mind since robby pointed you out. jack can’t tell exactly why, but it feels unfair, almost. unfair to you that this is what you’re going through during your first year as a doctor. 

jack understands the nerves. he would expect you to be nervous, everyone is. it’s the fact that it’s not followed by excited. nervous and excited. 

nervous and excited and gaining confidence, all things you should be feeling. 

it’s the combination you have instead that worries him. nervous and anxious and sad and pensive. 

and well, if that’s what you’re going through, maybe he can help you after all.

𝜗ৎ

jack doesn’t know how much robby’s told you. he keeps it simple on your first shift of nights—tells you that you’ll be working on the remainder of the patients from the morning and then jumping on the most urgent of the chairs alongside parker until you feel (or he decides) that you’re ready to handle it solo. 

jack doesn’t know what he expects from you, if anything. 

it’s a colder night than usual, and you wear a cream-colored underscrub with the sleeves pulled over your hands. he notices a jacket on the chair behind you, baby pink. and just before he approached you, you set down a yellow water bottle.

but when he meets your eyes, the words go out the window. 

sad and pretty. you look at him with your full attention, like looking away would get you in trouble. you nod to everything he says, even though he knows you must be getting anxious at his words. you try to hide it well, but your hands—chewed nails, he notices—go to your necklace right away.

huh, jack thinks. so that’s your tell. 

and just before he leaves, heading out to finish up with robby’s patients from sign-outs, you speak to jack abbot for the first time.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry you have to do all this for me.” 

jack swallows. you’re incredibly beautiful, and almost devastatingly sad. how can he respond to that—he hasn’t done anything, not yet at least. he showed up for work like any other day. he gives you an assignment like he would any other resident. there’s nothing to be sorry about, but you still are, and he thinks that he really needs to understand why. 

jack dwells on it for half a heartbeat, trying to figure out what to say, but you smile—half heartedly—and turn around to go find your next patient.

oh no. 

𝜗ৎ

the night shift is, like robby had told you, a little better for you. it hasn’t even really slowed down yet, but there’s something about the environment that just feels a little more digestible to you.

maybe it’s those things that you were trying so hard to bury—how your feelings of incompetence increase even further when the 4th years on their rotations seem to move faster than you, seem to have the answer quicker than you. 

maybe it’s extra worse because when you were doing your audition here—you had been that student. ever-eager, trying to prove your worth to whichever resident you’d been assigned to that day. you went home and studied rosen’s emergency medicine textbook and listened to case-report podcasts on your commute to the hospital. you answered questions quickly and you didn’t let it show when you got tired and you did everything right, just to end up worse than when you started.

you can’t wrap your head around it. there’s something deeper going on with you—bubbling beneath the surface of your skin, trying hard to rip through and make its way out. you’ve been suppressing it ever since that night, watching how everyone around you made their way back to normal, wondering why you’re the only one that’s lagging behind. 

or maybe they’re not back to normal. but it’s obvious to you that everyone is better at hiding it than you are. 

case in point—you’re the only one that robby shipped off to the night shift. 

you guess you need to earn your stripes back. the first mission towards that goal is convincing jack abbot that you’re not a complete dud. 

maybe the thing that’s been setting you off so much lately is that you have no idea what’s going to come in from those two doors. you can distinctly remember a few short months ago where that feeling was exciting, almost exhilarating. you were seeing something new every single day, the pages of your textbooks coming alive in patients that you finally got to treat, instead of waiting and watching and observing. 

that’s why working out of chairs feels so much safer. the list is endless—sprains and allergic reactions and lots of sutures. it was, at the very least, predictable. 

you smile at your patient—a little girl who was playing with scissors instead of finishing a school project, despite, you’re sure, the many times her mom told her to not do that. mom is heavily pregnant and watches you suture her hand, near tears herself even though the little girl is taking it like a champ. 

“all done,” you hum, wondering if you can go find a lollipop somewhere for her. “you did great.” 

you look up at mom, offering her a tissue for her tears before explaining the rest of the steps. you’re about to find the written suture care instructions just incase, when parker pokes her head in.

“incoming, five minutes. we’re up. meet you out there.” she’s gone before you can even say anything. you spend two of those five minutes making sure the mom gets the instruction paper she needs, and then you walk towards the ambulance bay.

parker is already gowned and gloved up, and dr. abbot is pulling the yellow material on, and you can even faintly make out the outline of his arms under it. 

standing there, it hits you all at once. your feet feel frozen to the ground. the ambulance is maybe sixty seconds away, and you can hear the sirens, and in the craziness of the day shift, the noise didn’t stand out as much as it does now. 

it almost sounds multiplied. like there’s a dozen sirens going off. you can’t fathom that your brain is making it up, so there must be some sort of crazy trauma with tons of patients and absolutely no time for you to shut down. you can almost hear it—the noise will fill the space soon. screaming and crying and that sound that tires make when the person driving slams the brakes too fast.

you are not ready for that. you thought dr. abbot said something about working your way up, slowly, that you’d deal with the lower tier cases before jumping back into incoming traumas. maybe you’d misheard him—you’d felt so embarrassed that he even had to have this conversation with you to begin with, and he was looking at you so earnestly.

he was probably wondering what was wrong with you. you’re asking yourself that question every day.

dr. abbot takes a few steps towards you, and for some reason, you take a step backwards. as if the extra foot of space would protect you from what’s about to happen. 

the part of your brain that’s always reminding you about how you need to get it together has momentarily gone silent. where is it, when you really need it, like right now? the part that reminds you that you’ve done this before and that this used to be something that excited you and that the person coming in that ambulance is counting on you to help save their life? where did it go?

you don’t know how you must look to him. a mess, probably. appearing like way more work than he signed up for. you should apologize again, maybe, like that might help your situation. you are on his night-shift for the foreseeable future. 

“um, dr. abbot, i-” your heart is pounding in your chest.

“that’s okay,” he says, taking a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. the sound of the siren gets louder and louder—

but he’s not very far from you. looking up at him, you see hazel eyes that are focused on you. his hair is actually curly—you hadn’t noticed before.

“i-i thought that-”

“you’re fine, kid. you’re not jumping on any traumas until you’re ready. why don’t you go find bridget and get started on something to present to dr. ellis?” 

your relief must be visible to him—your shoulders sink down, your heart slows down a little, and you blink like you’ve just been rebooted. 

“okay,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-”

“stop apologizing,” jack says, walking towards parker, towards the trauma, snapping gloves over his hands. he stops for a moment. “take a deep breath. come find me if you need me.” 

“okay. i will.” 

it’s like your feet need a minute to thaw before you can move. you stand there, processing what dr. abbot just said and your own feelings and why you locked up at the very sound of an incoming trauma for a little longer, as if you won’t spend the rest of your shift and all night and all day tomorrow thinking about it.

and you don’t catch it—but jack looks back at you before he steps outside. stuck for a moment, your fingers going to your necklace, before you turn around. and he turns around too.

𝜗ৎ

your next patient is a man who just flew back from england earlier today. his calf aches and his chest hurts. he tells you how he’s been worried sick since he got back home, and he’s never usually like that.

must be nice, you think, scrambling to find parker once her and dr. abbot leave the trauma room. their patient is going up to surgery and you see dr. walsh in the room.

you feel better once parker’s in the room with you, and then you think about how messed up that is. you should feel perfectly confident with or without someone beside you. you shouldn’t require a babysitter, and maybe you need to make your next goal figuring out how to gain some of that confidence back, but—

“so, walk me through it. what’s next?” parker asks, her gaze going towards the monitor to evaluate his stats.

“dopper ultrasound of the lower extremity. uh, CTPA, order a d-dimer. monitor stats to see if we need supplemental oxygen.”

“good. and?” she asks, and you blank for a moment.

“and?” you repeat. you don’t know why your brain does this. hurry up, you think, he could die while you’re waiting to figure out what else he needs. “and, um-” 

through the glass, you see dr. abbot walking by. he glances in, locking eyes with you for a second, and then he walks away, like he’s not worried about what’s happening in the room. 

“and we start him on anticoagulants after the imaging.”

“good,” parker says, nodding. she explains the next steps to the patient, and one of the night-shift nurses whose name you don’t know yet gets the bedside ultrasound ready. “hm.. let’s see. how about virchow’s triad?”

you shake the ultrasound gel bottle and warn the patient that it’s a little cold. 

“venous stasis, hypercoagulability, and endothelial injury.” 

“good job,” she states, and you appreciate the comment, just because it’s been a while since you’ve heard it. while you work the probe up, she monitors the screen with you. “now, what are we looking for?”

“a darkened area, where the veins don’t compress. no flow on the doppler.”

“uh-huh. bingo. see that?” 

“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”

it’s a small thing, but handling the case with parker feels good. you’d already been taught times to never assume what the diagnosis is, even if everything is pointing in that direction. coming up with the answer—the correct answer—feels good. 

there’s nothing wrong with wrapping up ankles and stitching up lacs. but you feel a step closer to whatever goal it is that you’re trying to achieve.

the patient heads off to get a ct scan and you and parker go back out to find the next case. 

while you walk back to central, she brings it up. it’s inevitable, and you should have thought ahead.

“so…” she starts, and you swallow. “i didn’t know about the thing with the incoming traumas.”

“i, um,” you blink, heart rate increasing again. you feel your hand going to your pendant, moving it around your fingers. “i’m working on it.”

“that’s okay,” parker says, reassuringly. “well, you did great in there.”

“thank you,” you breathe. “i’m not sure what they told you-”

“don’t worry. abbot told me afterwards. no traumas until you’re ready, i got it.”

“he said that?” 

“you can ask him yourself,” parker says, her eyes going to somewhere behind you. you turn around to see dr. abbot walking towards the two of you. 

“how’s the patient?” he asks, though he’s looking at you. 

“good. um, he’s up in ct right now. we’ll start anticoagulants once we get the results. he was stable, though.” 

“good, good. who’s next?” 

“working on that right now,” parker replies. she turns to you next. “i’ll come find you.”

you nod, turning back to face dr. abbot. your eyes go to his badge for a moment, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top. jack. it’s hard to think of him like that when he’s only ever been dr. abbot to you, the shoulders you see from behind swaying as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, talking to robby at seven pm or the camo backpack walking out at seven am. 

you zone out for a moment, but dr. abbot snaps you back into it.

“you doin’ okay so far, kid?” 

you wish you weren’t the person that everyone had to ask that question to. the embarrassment alone is enough to make you want to work even harder to get back to day shift, to get back to the level you were at before.

“i’m okay,” you respond after a pause. your heart rate hasn’t slowed down. “i, i-i’m sorry about earlier. i don’t know why-”

“i told you to stop apologizing,” jack repeats, and it comes out a little sterner than he wanted. but it gets your attention. you look up at him, blinking quickly. 

“dr. abbot-”

“these things don't change overnight. you…you can’t expect yourself to get back to normal in a day.”

you go quiet, contemplating his words. without even meaning to, you feel your waterline brim with hot tears. 

“i feel like everyone else did,” you admit quietly. “i’m so behind. i feel like i’ll never catch up.”

you take a deep breath, and then you widen your eyes. these are things that you’ve never even admitted to yourself, never given your brain enough time to mull and mope on. and now they’re pouring out in front of your attending, a man you’ve had maybe three conversations with, most of which were today. 

“i’m so-”

“stop,” dr. abbot says firmly. “no apologies. you’re not behind in anything. thinking like that is only going to make you feel worse. you don’t have to say anything, just nod if you understand.” 

you feel your head nodding before you even realize you’re doing it.

“before you leave night shift, you’ll be caught up in whatever you feel like you’re behind in. okay?” you nod again. “good. i’m sure dr. ellis has a case for you, if you’re ready.” 

you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. your hands fall to your side. your heart slows down a little. you start walking towards parker but then you pause, turning back again.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.” 

you smile at him again—that quick half-smile, and you’re gone before he can even try to stare. 

𝜗ৎ

your first night shift is, overall, a success. you don’t jump on any crazy incoming traumas, though you help treat a man who took a spill down some stairs around midnight that came in via ambulance. you mostly attend to the rest of the people in chairs, switching off between the lacs and dislocations to the more urgent cases as they come in. 

it’s almost four before you know it—and during one of the lulls, you go to the empty break room and make yourself a cup of tea. you try to get as much of your charting done before you see the next person and before your tea gets cold—the longer it takes you, the longer dr. abbot has to wait before he can review them, and the longer he has to stay after the shift ends.

you started yawning because you don’t think your body has adjusted yet, or even will adjust for the next few weeks. mid-yawn, stretching your arms, you had looked around and saw that dr. abbot was already looking in your direction. 

you turned quickly and went back to the charts. god knows you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him enough today.

despite whatever you think and assume, it seems like he can almost read your mind. you start feeling anxious when you notice everyone coming in for the day shift, going to the lockers and preparing to come back out. 

it’s your first time doing sign-offs for night shift. it’s clear to you that everyone knows there’s something wrong with you, and that’s why you made the switch. even if they don’t know, they’re about to find out. 

but before you can think too much about it, dr. abbot comes up to you. it’s quick, just in passing before he goes to robby, no doubt to tell him how you did. 

you feel doubly embarrassed that you’re even a topic of conversation for your two attendings.

jack abbot tells you you did great, kid. see you tonight, and walks towards robby. and the hand that was coming to play with your necklace falls to your side. when you do sign-offs, you forget to be nervous. 

for once, you think you had a some-what decent shift. and you know what, or rather who, is responsible for that.

but this is just one shift. you have a lifetime of them ahead of you. you need to take it day by day, hope for progress with each passing one. 

(when you go home and shower and then crawl into bed, with your gray curtains completely shut, despite the fact that light pours through regardless, and a sleep mask that you bought during medical school, you think, for the first time in ages, that you’re not dreading going to work tomorrow. it’s not dread. it’s not excitement either. it’s something in between, something that makes you want to get up in the afternoon because you know what’s waiting for you in the evening. or rather—who is waiting for you in the evening. someone kind and patient and who understands you without needing to say anything at all. and then, you fall asleep.)

𝜗ৎ

you’re back under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital before you know it. you elected to leave your house early today—you couldn’t sleep past two and you had time to do everything you wanted and then some. 

you made yourself a big lunch. you tidied up your apartment, put in a load of laundry. you paid bills and scheduled a dentist appointment that you can actually go to now. even with all of that, you still had enough time to leave early and buy yourself an iced chai before your shift.

you take sips of it while working on your charts once you find a moment to sit down. it’s mostly melted ice and milk now, but still, you’ll take any caffeine you can get. 

you’re mid-yawn, covering your mouth when he walks over and stands behind the computer screen. 

“oh,” you say, putting your hand down. “sorry, dr. abbot.”

“what did i say about apologizing to me?” his voice is gruff, but he has a teasing lilt to it. 

you wonder if he talks to all his residents like this.

“sorry,” you say inadvertently, and then you freeze, realizing what you did. “you know what i mean.”

and then dr. abbot laughs.

you can’t help the smile that takes over your face. his laugh seems contagious to you, and you start laughing before you can help it.

staring at his smile, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had laughed in the hospital. it always felt like there just wasn’t any time during the day, with so many people to take care of, with so many conversations happening that you didn’t realize where you could even fit in.

it doesn’t really feel that way now.

“so,” dr. abbot starts, and you focus all your attention on him. 

you wonder if he’s going to want to talk about it—your freeze-ups and whatever blanks robby didn’t fill in for him. he must be curious, at least, why you needed the change so quickly, so out of nowhere. at least, that’s what you think, because surely, you’d be curious too if someone—

“-how’d you sleep last night?” 

you stare at him. the thoughts circling your brain shut up mid-sentence. 

“um, good?” you answer, tentative. as if you could possibly be giving him the wrong answer. “how about you?” you ask, brightening up a little, pleased that you can have a real conversation not only about a patient with someone at work.

“uh, fine,” he answers, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s a little confused. “i just meant, i know the first shift on nights is hard. hard to fall asleep during the day.”

“oh.” you want to smack your ipad against your forehead. “oh, yeah, definitely. i mean it was hard, but it was fine. i fell asleep eventually. and then i-i woke up and i couldn’t go back to sleep. so i left early to-” 

your eyes flick down towards your melty chai. the plastic cup’s left a ring of condensation on the station where you were typing up your notes. dana would have your ass if she saw water on the counter—

jeez. your mind is bouncing around at a mile a minute. what were you even talking about?

you look at dr. abbot blankly, and he looks like he’s suppressing a laugh, like your behavior is entirely amusing to him. 

“-i’m gonna… stop talking now.” stupid. stupid stupid stupid. you have one coworker who kind of gets you and he happens to be your new attending and you can’t stop looking like a fool in front of him and he’s staring at you with these hazel eyes—

“don’t stop on my account,” he laughs with a quiet laugh, and you feel your face burn. but you can tell he’s not laughing at you, something you’ve forced yourself be able to discern quickly. he’s laughing with you, or rather because of you. “i’ll, uh, let you finish your charts.”

“thank you,” you reply, a little too quickly. you just need a moment alone, maybe, like that could fix the things that are wrong with you. “sor-” you close your mouth before the word can come out. 

the look that dr. abbot gives you is a new one. you’ve seen a couple so far, notably the one by the ambulance bay and the one at sign-offs this morning.

this one is almost approving. like he’s pleased you’re listening to what he says. pleased that you’re doing what he tells you.

“try the black-out shades. those are really helpful.”

“oh, really? i-i will,” you lie between your teeth. the black-out curtains you ordered are sitting in a discombobulated mess by your window. you had tried putting them up for all of fifteen minutes before giving up and going to bed with your quilt pulled over your head. 

“yeah. i can’t sleep without ‘em.” 

“good. that’s good. i will,” you get out before he walks away. you release a breath and finish the rest of your chai before throwing it away.

𝜗ৎ

your shift is going just like the one from yesterday. maybe even slightly better—now that your apparent inabilities have already been broadcasted to the team, you don’t have to explain yourself or try to work up some twisted excuse as to why you can’t assist on traumas.

you take care of three fractures—two scaphoids and one pinky toe. you suture up a few different lacs and correctly diagnose a hot appy which gets sent up to surgery.

and right now you’re with a mrs. wilson, a sweet older woman who fell at her house. her daughter drove her in and you take her back almost immediately, getting her a ct and waiting for her bloodwork.

she’s got a small cut on her forehead from the spill that you’re using dermabond to repair when parker stops by.

“what’d we got here?” she asks you, and you rattle off the case information. “do you use a blood thinner, ma’am?”

“i never forget to take my eliquis,” she responds, and you smile brightly at her.

“that’s great, mrs. wilson.” you turn to parker. “her daughter just ran to get a coffee. uh, history checks out, head ct’s negative. labs are all normal. she’s on an anti-hypertensive. i think it was orthostatic.”

“agreed. what’s next?”

“-what’s next is that you need to get me that gentleman’s phone number,” mrs. wilson interjects. she’s staring past the open curtain towards central, and you move your eyes almost involuntarily to see what—or rather who—she’s looking at. 

you blink quickly. your mouth feels a little dry.

parker turns to look too, turning back with a laugh. 

“that’s our attending,” she says. “i’m sure he’ll be around to check on you shortly.”

“no, dear, i need his phone number-” she starts again, locking eyes with you. “unless, of course, he’s married-” 

you blink faster.

oh my god. mrs. wilson has just made you realize that you’re a complete idiot. 

you turn your head again to stare at him, waiting five seconds before he picks up an ipad with his left hand. dr. abbot has a black wedding ring that he’s been wearing this entire time. and here you are, staring at him and falling asleep thinking about him and looking forward to the night shift because he’s making your life somewhat easier, easier than it’s felt in months and months, and—

“i-i’m so sorry, mrs. wilson,” you stammer, a little too quickly. you can feel parker’s eyes move to you. “i think is he married.” 

the news seems like a hit to the both of you.

“aw,” she starts. “my daughter. she’s divorced. i’ve been trying to set her up for months, but, well, all the good ones are always taken, y’know, i told her—”

“actually,” parker says quietly. “he’s not. but, mrs. wilson, right now, we need to focus on your-”

your eyes go a little wide. it takes all your strength and willpower not to zone out again while parker discusses the next steps in patient care with mrs. wilson. 

her daughter comes back with that cup of coffee while you explain how to take care of the wound at home. and you hate yourself—hate—because you find yourself looking at her, groaning internally because she’s very pretty and very nice to you. 

and you file away the new information you’ve learned to a small, hidden part of your brain. dr. abbot is not married, but he wears a wedding band anyways. and then you go see your next patient.

𝜗ৎ

you think you’re beginning to find a rhythm. it’s hard, but with each passing day, it feels like it’s getting easier. 

(you bury thoughts of your attending deep inside your head and then you close the door and lock it up with chains, placing a mental do not open sign in front of it. it might be working.)

your focus should be on your medical education. you’re almost positive that’s the only thing dr. abbot is concerned with, anyways. 

at least, you think that’s the only thing he’s concerned with.

you groan as bridget hands you the ipad detailing the information of the next case. fifty-three year old man, chief complaint of priapism. 

“really?” you sigh, and she shoots you a sympathetic look. 

you think you’ve been doing better. you haven’t worked up to the level of severe incoming traumas just yet, and you know you’d be useless if there was a few back to back, but you’re trying your best for now. the night shift doesn’t have as many of those incidents as the day shift, so you’ve begun collecting back your confidence in bits and pieces.

this doesn’t phase you. you celebrate the small victory, that you can handle the urgent chairs cases alone, that you’re not stuck in that familiar pattern you had been only a short week ago. 

(you try not to dwell on the reason why you’ve escaped the pattern.)

your only concern for the patient you’re about to see is what he’s taken and how much he took. you know the procedure, having assisted once with cassie, what seems like forever ago. the order is nerve block, aspiration, irrigation, and then injection.

you’re thinking about where you saw john last. you’ll have to report to him and then both of you will have to do the procedure. you’re going to have to track him down—it’s getting to that part of the night where he’s on the hunt for a snack, once his coffee runs out.

you pull back the curtain and smile politely at your patient.

that might have been your first mistake. you introduce yourself, and while you confirm his name and date of birth, the only thing you can think is sleazy. this guy looks sleazy.

there’s a reason why he’s in the emergency room with priapism at two in the morning, and you don’t think you want to know why, though you’re about to find out.

and a little while later, across the room, jack is looking for you. it’s become his latest bad habit—he likes to have eyes on you, like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he’s not careful enough. 

(he does need to be careful, he thinks. it’s been a week of watching you get more and more comfortable around him. a week of watching you take on new, different cases and do your sign-offs without seeming frightened of the task. it’s been a good feeling. maybe, too much of a good feeling—)

“bridget?” he asks, approaching central. “have you seen my intern?”

his intern. the word comes out like a freudian slip. it’s supposed to be the intern. 

if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. though, jack thinks she’s looking at him a bit more oddly than usual. 

“priapism in bed ten,” bridget says. “i think she’s getting the history before—oh, speak of the devil.” 

he turns around and you’re approaching him.

whatever part of jack abbot understands you, whatever’s inside of him that always seem to know what’s going on with you and how to fix it, and whatever compels him to care so much about you even though you’ve only been here for a short while, gets triggered on high alert when he sees your expression.

he doesn’t even say thanks to bridget before walking up to you, meeting you half-way. 

you look uncomfortable. and jack has never seen you look like this before. it’s written all over your face and your body language. you don’t touch your necklace like when you’re anxious. no, you’re wringing your hands, rubbing your arms like you’re reminding yourself they’re still there.

“what’s the matter, kid?” he asks, and you look incredibly apologetic. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. it makes him want to take care of you forever. 

whatever precautions he was thinking about taking because maybe he’s getting a little too worried about you and a little too pleased with your progress goes out the window.

“um, i need help with my patient,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-i-”

jack is too much in his head about you. his hand hovers over your back, leading you to an empty corner against a wall. it doesn’t look all that professional, though there’s barely any eyes that are paying attention to the two of you. 

he’s got a patient up in ct he’s waiting on for results. two people to discharge. and john is out there manning the front lines by himself for a few minutes.

but nothing else seems to matter when you need his help. 

“what’s wrong?” he repeats, and something in his chest starts to churn uncomfortably. like a hand squeezing his heart at the speed that yours must be going right now, undoubtedly. 

he wishes he could pick up your hand and feel your pulse, but he can’t. he knows he can’t. his fingers still twitch at the thought, though.

“um, my priapism patient is being really creepy. i-i don’t feel uncomfortable going back unless you come with me, maybe? or-or john. i know you’re busy, i-”

“what did he say?”

“um, dr. abbot-”

“what did he say?” 

your eyes go a little big. 

“he said something about… he’ll stay awake for the procedure if it’s me doing it, and…”

“and?” jack is beginning to see red.

“-and he won’t need the procedure if i would just help him out-”  

jack has always been pretty decent at handling his temper, especially in the hospital. people are scared, people are frightened, people are worried about their life and limb and say things they don’t always mean. he keeps it under check because he knows better.

most of the time. 

his hand turns into a fist while he’s talking to you. your eyes flick towards it before you go back to meeting his gaze. 

“dr. abbot?” you say quietly, blinking fast. 

“why don’t you go find bridget and find a new case to work on?” jack sounds surprisingly calm. 

you should have expected it—of course, he’s calm. he’s your attending, after all, all-knowing and knows how to keep his cool in a situation like this much better than you do.

you couldn’t even handle it yourself. you ran to get help as soon as you felt uncomfortable. a different intern might have been able to handle it. you’re not sure how exactly, but you know someone else could have figured it out, someone smarter than you. a different intern might not have needed help—

“are you sure, i-”

“i’m sure, kid. go ahead.” dr. abbot pauses for a moment, like he’s assessing you too. you want to shirk under his gaze. “if you need a break you can go sit down for a little-”

“no,” you interrupt, fiddling with your necklace, “i don’t need a break.”

you do need a break. that guy was so, so creepy. you need to go sit down and watch videos of cats playing with yarn and eat something before you can go see someone else. but that’s not how this job works, you don’t just get a break because—

“why don’t you go find a protein bar and i’ll come get you?”

“no, dr. abbot, i-”

“find something to eat. break room,” he says, and you want to protest, feel the words almost coming out, but before you can, “-now.” 

he walks away, leaving you in the corner, blinking stupidly at his back as you watch him go. you don’t know what it is—it seems like he can just read your mind, like your thoughts are out on display for him all the time. 

you don’t think you like it. 

you decide to be a good intern and listen to your attending. 

you head to the break room and nibble on a granola bar that’s been in your jacket pocket for god knows how long. you pick up your yellow mug with the intention of making a cup of coffee, but you can’t stop pacing.

you just need to work on getting faster. thinking quicker on your feet. if you could figure out what to say, instead of freezing up and running away, you could probably solve half of your problems yourself, without needing help.

and you can’t stop thinking about what dr. abbot said.

not even exactly what he said, but more of how he said it. like he wants you to listen to him, like he’s not going to let up until you do. like you deserve snack breaks and time to sit down and recollect your thoughts after a bad encounter. 

you don’t deserve that. a better intern wouldn’t need those things. a better intern would be out running head first into traumas, coming up with miraculous saves and not being too scared to answer questions and not feel their heart rate spiking every time they’re too close to the ambulance bay.

because on the night of the pittfest shooting, that had been where you—

“hey,” bridget says, and you look up quickly, snapped out of your thoughts. “i got a midnight fall two minutes away, and i can’t find anyone. are you—?” 

“yes,” you reply, setting your empty mug down onto the table a little too hard. “i’ll be right there.”

you leave it as it is, shoving the granola bar back into your pocket. you forget for a moment that dr. abbot told you to stay put, but you certainly can’t ignore the patient to follow his instructions.

(something inside of you feels uncomfortable at the idea of not complying, though.)

you walk by the closed curtain where the creepy patient was currently residing. you can make out two pairs of shoes, one being dr. abbot and the other being john, you assume, and the sounds coming from behind the curtain almost make you stop in your tracks. 

your mind wants to dwell on it for a little longer, but luckily, this time you don’t have a choice but to focus on your new patient, who is also fifty-three and tripped on a dog toy, courtesy of his new puppy, while trying to open the door to let her out. 

you’re pleased with yourself at being able to run through the entire thing with a few watchful eyes. bridget leaves to find parker while you order your head ct and x-rays, though you don’t think there’s anything serious going on. 

the thoughts are momentarily subsided—like each achievement can temporarily ease the burden they leave on your brain. the constant voice echoing that reminds you of how you should be doing better stays quiet while the patient smiles at you and thanks you for your help. 

and you even end up eating the other half of your granola bar a little later, sitting at your station and working on notes until you’re needed next. you drink water to distract yourself from your tiredness, being thrown off your usual routine today. 

john ends up finding you first. 

“well,” he says, leaning on the other side of the counter. he buries his head in his hands for a moment and then stretches. “that was fun.”

“i heard,” you reply, pausing and taking a breath. “i, um, i’m sorry that i didn’t-”

“no biggie,” he interrupts, before you can finish the entire apology. “that guy was a weirdo. better me than you.”

you swallow uncomfortably. 

“thank you.”

“i only have abbot to thank. he said we’re going to conveniently lower his pain meds and i said i was extremely in-”

you laugh, and then feel bad for doing so. while you try to come to terms with what john just told you, your head feels like it’s ringing a little bit. he didn’t have to do that, you think, feeling guilty about the patient’s pain. and then you remember the slimy way he’d spoken to you and suddenly you want to find jack abbot and give him a—

“so, you hold down the fort for us?” john asks, rustling through one of the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for—a packet of poptarts. 

“uh, i tried,” you say with a small smile. “incoming who tripped over his dog’s toy. i think it’s a broken tailbone. dr. ellis is waiting on the ct, and then i thought i’d catch up on my charts, so..”

“yeah, good idea. don’t wanna leave those until seven. abbot will-”

“i will, what?” you turn your head to look at where his voice came from, but you falter as  soon as you see it.

your yellow mug. in your attending’s hands.

if john’s confused, he doesn’t say anything. they keep talking and you hear laughter, see dr. abbot’s smile as he jokes around with john. your head feels like it’s ringing even louder, if possible. 

well, it’s not like you’d announced it was your mug, or anything. people in the hospital share stuff like that all the time. there’s other communal mugs too, you’ve seen them. you just usually keep it tucked away, but you left it on that table, and maybe he thought—

dr. abbot turns towards you and he puts the mug down next to your keyboard. you stare at his freckled forearm for a moment too long.

“i thought i told you to take a break,” he says, and your mind goes empty.

your gaze flicks between the cup of coffee, that somehow looks exactly like the cup you make every night, and your attending, who is staring at you.

“i…i did take a break,” you finally get out, quietly. you finally tear your eyes away from your mug to look at him.

dr. abbot has incredibly pretty hazel eyes.

“it’s okay if you need a moment. that would have been a lot for anyone.”

“i… yeah, i guess so.” 

he shakes his head, blinking at you. 

“not a guess. i know it was. did you eat something, at least?”

“yes,” you answer, suddenly breathless. “but there was just a patient, so i-”

“yeah,” john pipes up, and the two of you break the seemingly endless, prolonged eye contact. oh my god, you think. john’s been there the whole time, watching as you gape like an idiot. “parker’s with the slip and fall now. and young padawan here handled it all by herself.”

you feel like your chest is going to explode from the emotions swarming around inside. dr. abbot smiles at you, meeting your eyes again—

“good job, kid. drink your coffee.” 

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

he walks away, towards the trauma room where parker is. you have to force yourself to remember that he’s your attending, not just some guy who’s been sweet to you for the hell of it. his whole job is making you better at this. your chest still feels warm and fuzzy and you have to ground yourself, worried you’d float away with your thoughts if you don’t.

his job is to check on you, all of you. you’re not special just because—

“huh,” john says, peering over the counter and at the yellow mug resting by your hands. “he’s never made me coffee before.”

the coffee becomes a regular occurrence. each shift, around a quarter past one, your mug is delivered to you by your attending, no matter where you might be at the moment.

he leaves it at the desk where you type your notes. he hands it to you when you’re coming out from behind a curtain, telling you to sit down and drink it before it gets cold.

and before you can reply, almost as soon as thank you leaves your mouth, he’s off, walking in the other direction and going to help someone else.

parker and john have noticed. they’d be idiots not to. (one thing you know for certain is that you are the only idiot on the night shift.)

you try to brush it off mentally, almost like if you admitted it, if you said it out loud or even thought about it for too long, the walls would come crashing in around you. 

you have so much on your plate as it is. you’ve just started getting better at this, having a better grip on your emotions, not spiraling every time you don’t know the answer to a question or getting nervous when someone looks at you for instructions.

you push it aside and decide it’s because you feel comfortable with your coworkers. not that you hadn’t before—but the fear of failure was so much more jarring with the day shift. the night shift seems decidedly more calm. there’s less people, so less opportunities to embarrass yourself. everyone’s been nothing but kind so far. 

you feel supported and encouraged. and when dr. abbot tells you that you’ve done a good job you feel every nerve in your body tingle with joy. and when you drink the coffee he made you, it tastes better than any cup you’ve ever made yourself. 

you used to have a countdown until your next day off, mentally ticking off the shifts, waiting for minutes and seconds to pass until you had a day of freedom, but now—

whatever jack abbot has done to you, it makes you want to work every day of the week. 

and much to your displeasure, that’s not how the schedule works.

𝜗ৎ

when jack comes in at six forty-five, he thinks it’s a little weird. something feels off. parker shows up at six-fifty. shen at seven on the dot with his iced coffee.

and you are usually here at six-forty, five minutes before him. you’ve usually put your jacket on that chair you always sit at and have your ridiculously bright water bottle perched under the counter, waiting to be pulled out when you start your midnight charting session. 

his eyes linger on your empty seat during sign-offs. he thinks he’s not being very obvious, until—

“even interns have days off, you know,” parker says, and john nods in agreement. jack hears the familiar noise of ice moving as john shakes his drink.

“actually, two. tonight and tomorrow night. golden weekend for the intern,” he replies, shaking his head. “where was mine when-”

parker and john continue chatting, but it fades into background noise. he doesn’t even realize they’re poking fun at him, that it must be obvious that he’s searching for you, even on your day off.

he’s your attending. he should really know about things like that. but you hadn’t brought it up last night, not even when he’d brought you your usual cup at two in the morning, right when he goes to get another cup of coffee—a little behind schedule this time. 

you had smiled at him. sleepy. tired. thanked him sweetly like you always do.

you’d made sure all your notes were submitted and reviewed before seven, regardless of how much you yawn while finishing them. 

and you are currently out celebrating your first few days off since you’ve started the night shift. you must be happy, he thinks, with two nights off in a row, and that too on a weekend. you must be celebrating all the small victories you’ve achieved, all the patients you’ve saved. he’d make you celebrate double for every patient you helped that came in on an ambulance, because even though the two of you haven’t talked about, it’s clear as day to him that—

you’re celebrating right now. and he feels oddly unhappy about it, because he’s not there with you. 

and a few hours later, his head perks up at bridget, telling him to get ready for an incoming. female, twenties, alcohol poisoning. not very far from here, that bar just a few blocks away.

and by the time jack walks up with parker, the ambulance is already there, unloading the patient. he’s just pulling on his gloves, about to ask what do we got? when he hears it—

your voice.

his stomach drops. his feet move even faster, and then he braces himself, getting ready to see you on the gurney.

“you can’t escape this place, can you?” parker shouts, over the blare of the sirens. you take the paramedic’s hand to help you get off the rig. 

“i guess not. gcs nine, i think. sorry, i had a couple drinks too,” you say apologetically, like you should be chastised for drinking on your day off, as if you should have been aware this would happen. 

for a moment, you look back at the ambulance, blinking fast, chewing on your cheek, rubbing your arms. jack almost misses your expression—but he’s relieved you didn’t catch him staring at you again. all your attention focuses onto your friend once you walk into the hospital.

the girl on the gurney looks delirious and tired. her head is rolled to the side and jack’s almost positive her eyes are closed. 

“so this is where you work?” another voice pipes up from behind you. another girl, someone your age, he assumes, walks behind you, staring around. when her eyes go towards the fluorescent lights, she winces and looks down. “jeez. that’s bright.”

jack’s first question in these cases is always how much did she have? and he looks up at you to get the answer—you’re still saying something to parker, filling her in on whatever happened on the rig—and then he locks eyes with you.

parker’s placing orders and setting up fluids when jack realizes he shouldn’t have done that. it’s the first time he’s ever seen you out of scrubs, and he can’t stop staring.

your hair is done up all pretty, a little mussed up from all the commotion. your eyelids are glittery and your lips are shiny. you’re wearing a short skirt and he realizes he’s never seen the skin of your thighs before—

his eyes go up, following your exposed thighs to the skirt that’s going to plague him, all the way up past your shirt, to your fingers that are playing with your necklace. and then you two lock eyes again. 

“i don’t know how much she took,” you say, chewing your cheek, like you want to say i’m sorry, but you know better. “we turned around for five minutes and she was downing shots-”

“that’s okay, kid-”

“well, i didn’t think she’d take all of the shots,” your other friend interjects, covering the light with her hand to protect her eyes. “we were supposed to be celebrating you, not her-”

“it’s okay-”

“it is so not okay,” your friend argues, and he feels an overwhelming amount of gratitude for her. 

because it’s not okay. 

it’s one of your two days off during the chaos of your intern year. you work the night shift now, which means you can’t just go out for drinks with friends anymore, because your schedule doesn’t work like that. 

and from everything he knows about you, he knows you don’t do things like this very much anyways, even when you were on days. he shouldn’t be annoyed, but he is, annoyed that your golden weekend was ruined. annoyed that you somehow ended up back in the hospital. annoyed that—

well, he’s not annoyed about that part. the fact that he gets to see you after he spent most of the last four hours grumbling internally about how you weren’t there certainly doesn’t hurt. 

the outfit you’re wearing—he can’t dream of being annoyed by that. the way you squeeze your friend’s hand and keep checking her vitals even though she ruined your night out. the way your other hand doesn’t leave your necklace.

all things he can’t be annoyed about.

bridget pokes her head in. 

“thought that was you,” she says, and you look towards her, turning your worried expression into a smile quickly. 

“what can i say? can’t go a night without my favorite charge nurse.” you stay smiling but shift on your feet, on what he assumes are uncomfortable, pretty shoes. 

“oh, i’m gonna tell dana you said that.” bridget’s eyes glances towards your friend, and then towards jack. he’s still staring. “you want me to bring you some scrubs?” she asks, facing you again.

“oh, no, that’s okay. we’ll just wait in here until she wakes up. thank you, though.” you turn towards your friend again.

and jack doesn’t need anyone to tell him that you’re nervous. that you feel bad. that you’re embarrassed that you’re here, that you couldn’t take care of your friend. 

“sure,” bridget replies, and then she looks at jack again. there’s something in her expression he can’t quite understand. “got another one pulling up in three minutes. let me know if you need anything.”

“sure. i’m coming,” jack says, though he wishes, momentarily, that he didn’t have to leave the room. he walks around the bed, next to where you are, and your eyes stay on him. “she’ll be fine, kid. you did everything right. and i’m not sure how much closer you can get to handling an incoming trauma than that, so-”

you interrupt him with a laugh and a smile. a winning combination in his eyes.

“thank you,” you say quietly. 

“we’ll be back after to check on her. you should get some rest if you can.”

“yeah,” you reply. “i’ll try.”

your eyes turn back to your friend, and he slides the door to step out, and just as he’s about to close it, he hears it—

“so,” your friend starts quietly, still shielding her eyes. “which one is jack?”

“oh my god, shh-”

he smiles the entire way to the ambulance bay.

by the time he makes his way back to the curtain where they’ve moved your friend for monitoring, he’s seen three and a half extra patients, not including the incoming he originally got called away for. 

it’s well past two, and jack feels a certain… displeasure bubbling inside of him. it started the moment he’d realized you would be stuck here all night on your day off, and hasn’t subsided since john had made a joke about giving you some scrubs and giving you a few of the overflowing patients.

the displeasure rears its ugly head, and turns into something worse, something he can’t describe, when he pulls back the curtain.

(yes, he’s supposed to be checking in on your friend—the patient—but it was really an excuse to see you. he tries to deny it, tries to reason with his subconscious that he spends every other shift making sure you’re okay, so tonight doesn’t feel any different. he’s not sure if he’s winning that argument.)

your other friend is asleep in the chair. the patient is still knocked out, snoring now, with stable vitals.

and you’re standing, looking between the monitor and your friend while you yawn and rub your eyes. 

you turn at the noise and smile instinctively, fingers going to your necklace right away.

“hey kid,” he says quietly. he gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him, and you do, quietly closing the curtain behind you.

“how’s it goin’ in there?”

“oh, uh, good. they both fell asleep, but, i guess it is late for them.”

“but not for us. congrats, you’re a real night shifter now.”

you smile and laugh. you are tired, he knows, because he can tell. you’re supposed to be asleep now too, back in your own bed, without any alarms to wake you tomorrow morning.

you should be doing whatever it is people your age do on their days off. he wouldn’t have any idea about any of that. you’ve mentioned some stuff and he’s overheard others in passing—something about the public library and a coffee shop and those heated workout classes that sound like a nightmare—

“dr. abbot?” you question, saying his name quietly like you feel bad for interrupting his train of thought.

“yeah. sorry, uh, just wanted to come check on you-” you smile again, a little wider, before he realizes what he just said. “uh, you and the patient. but it seems all good, for now.” 

“yes. yeah, it’s fine. i can monitor, too. i’m basically sober now.” your eyes travel—darting from him to your shoes quickly.

“don’t let shen hear you. an hour ago he wanted you on the floor.”

you laugh—which jack has come to realize is his new favorite sound.

“no, he just hates suturing. i’ll be back before he knows it.” 

“sorry this happened on your day off,” jack says, and without meaning to, he moves his head, trying to catch your eyes. you look up slowly, locking gazes.

“that’s okay,” you say, sounding much too close to a default, rehearsed answer. 

he’s positive that you won’t give your friend a hard time about this tomorrow. that you’ll neglect to mention how you paced for two hours and didn’t sleep or sit down until you were sure she’s okay.

displeasure turns into anger at the very idea that someone might take advantage of all of your sweetness, all of your caring and your anxious nature that doesn’t let you admit that it’s not okay.

it’s not okay, certainly not when he’s seen you freeze up when you take one step too close to the ambulance bay. how you try to hide how you really feel when you hear the sirens pulling up. why, even a few weeks in, he’s still easing you in to the noise and the chaos as much as he can.

“it’s not okay,” he says firmly, eyes latched onto yours. 

you blink fast, tears suddenly welling up at his words. that’s silly, you think, crying over your attending’s words. he’s just trying to make you feel better, like he always does. in that moment, standing in front of jack abbot, you realize that he doesn’t really have to try. 

he does make you feel better.

“it’s just that sound,” you admit quietly. you feel embarrassed but you can’t find the energy to care, not in your tired, barely-tipsy state. “the sirens. every time i get too close i feel like it’s that night all over again. it’s stupid, i know-”

“it’s not stupid.”

“no one else that works here feels like that. no one else lets it interfere with their work. it’s just me that-”

“it’s not just you. i promise it’s not. and there’s nothing wrong with needing to talk to somebody about it.” 

something in his chest burns and shifts, like lava seeping through his veins. you’re so young to be feeling this way—like you’re all alone in the world, with no one who can understand what you’re going through.

how can he show you that he knows? that he understands, probably better than anyone else in this hospital? that you should talk to him, not here, not even today, not in scrubs under bright lights too close to the source of your worry. 

somewhere else, somewhere quiet, where he could explain to you all the reasons why it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. talk to you about how great you’ve been doing. show you that you won’t feel like this forever—and that he knows because he didn’t either. 

it’s an entirely unprofessional thought that lingers for much too long. in a few months, you’ll be back on the day shift and this will all be a distant, faded memory. a few months after that you’ll be a second year resident and maybe he’ll see you on nights again.

but right now you’re an intern that he has no business thinking so much about. yet, still—

“how do you always know?” you ask, blinking at him. your wet eyes gnaw at him. he knows he’ll be thinking about them long after you’ve finally gone home.

“know what?”

“what i’m thinking. how i feel. before i say anything.”

“i know a little something about how you’re feeling, kid.”

“really?” you breathe.

“yeah. that, and you have a tell.”

“i do?”

“your necklace. it’s a wonder that thing hasn’t fallen off yet.”  

you smile and he smiles too, and he’s thinking about what he could say next, when your friend says your name from behind the curtain. 

“go ahead,” jack says, before you can think about apologizing for cutting the conversation short. you step towards the curtain and he turns to walk away, when he hears you.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.”

“you’re welcome.”

𝜗ৎ

just like you said, you’re back at work before you know it. monday evening at seven pm, you’re greeted by parker and john, who ask you how your friend is doing and joke about your brief interlude at the hospital this weekend.

and you tell them the truth—that she’s doing fine now, and has mostly learned her lesson about back to back shots past a certain age. 

what you don’t fess up to is how thoughts of your last conversation with jack have kept you completely preoccupied through the rest of the weekend. they don’t need the details of that, though you feel like you’re suddenly hiding something. 

you don’t like that feeling, either. hiding something usually means you’re doing something wrong, which can have brutal consequences if you’re not careful. and you don’t know if what you’re doing is wrong or not, though your moral guide is usually much sharper than this. 

the truth is that jack abbot makes your head spin. 

you feel suddenly breathless when he turns towards you to quietly ask you a question—usually revealing that he already knows something about you that you’ve been trying so hard to keep hidden. you’re close to lightheaded when he brings you your daily coffee. you get dizzy when you think about someone seeing, someone noticing what’s going on between you and the attending.

because that is wrong. you can’t justify that. attending-intern relationships are strictly frowned upon—you know this because they made you sit through a seminar at orientation with all the other first-years.

you also know this because you’re not that much of an idiot. you’ve watched the steamy doctor tv-shows. you’ve even lived it these last few months, when you overhear nurses gossiping about some resident upstairs who fell for the married attending.

john and ellis are still talking about something you can’t pay attention to when your heart starts racing. you think of how it might feel to be the intern that everyone’s talking about, for everyone to know that you have feelings for jack—

shit, you think. his name is dr. abbot. dr. abbot, your attending, not jack, the guy who seems to know you better than you know yourself. 

dr. abbot, dr. abbot, dr. abbot—

you conclude that you’d have to find a new job. you remember how overwhelming and scary the process had been to find this job, but you think there could be nothing worse than leaving right now.

you’d just began making progress again—the good kind, that makes you excited over small victories, and has you less and less nervous with each shift that you complete. co-residents that you feel comfortable with, that you can approach with questions easily. nurses that you can make silly jokes with. 

you feel like more and more of yourself is coming back with each night shift.

(you have to ignore why exactly that is, just to stomach the thought.)

you can’t possibly mess it up now, you decide, taking the ipad from parker and visiting your first patient of the evening for an evaluation of a burn. 

you repeat it to yourself while you debride the wound—you can’t mess this up when you finally have something to lose. you remind yourself of it when you finish up with the patient, trying to find john instead of dr. abbot to report back to. 

you almost zone out to your thoughts while bridget asks you about your friend from this weekend when she comes to help you with the discharge papers.

and you keep it going for as long as you can, doubling down even more when you hear gossipy chatter coming from somewhere behind you as you try to type up your charts during a brief lull.

you can barely deal with everyone knowing that you couldn’t handle the day shift anymore, much less the fact that you’re falling in love with your—

“hey, kid,” he says, and you look up so quickly that you feel your head rush. “you okay?”

the strength that was holding what little resolve you had melts down like ice cream in the sun. jack abbot, six hours into a busy shift, checking in on you during what’s likely his first opportunity all night to sit down.

“i’m okay,” you reply quietly, trying to move your eyes back to your computer. “just working on these notes. do you have a patient for me?” 

you try to change the topic, hoping he’ll do that thing he always does, read your mind before you’ve even fully spelled out the thought yourself. 

we can’t be something that people gossip about at two am, we can’t, we can’t, i can’t—

“not yet.” 

jack leans against the counter, forearms set up right near the edge of your monitor. your eyes move between the screen and his arms quickly. if you look for too long you’ll start staring at his freckles, and you definitely don’t want that.

“i just wanted to ask, uh, how-”

“oh,” you breathe, interrupting him, even though you know you shouldn’t. you know what he’s about to ask. “she’s fine now. feeling a lot better. i talked to her this morning, so…” you drift off and blink at him, trying to regain your focus.

it’s just so hard when he’s around you.

“oh. that’s good,” jack says, with a small smile that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. “but i was going to ask how you’re doing?” 

you think that you must look like a confused fish right now—your mouth parts, your eyes widen, and you keep staring at him until you snap out of it. jack smiles like something’s funny about this, like it’s amusing that he turns your brain into a puddle of nothing with a few simple words.

you keep blinking, while a million thoughts run through your head. you’re so hardwired to worry about other people that you didn’t, for a moment, assume that jack was going to ask about you. 

and you’re so afraid of your own anxiety and the thought that you might be doing something to make your own life harder, that you spent a whole half-shift away from the one person that seems to have a knack for finding your off-switch.

“uh… kid?” jack questions, tilting his head in a mix of confusion and concern. 

“yeah?” you reply, the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. it’s getting louder with each passing second.

“how are you doing?” 

you breathe out and the sounds of the emergency department return all at once. monitors and the ceaseless chatter and even your foot tapping against the floor.

“i’m okay,” you answer, and for once, you’re being truthful. “really.”

“good,” jack replies, and for a moment, you stare up at him, wondering if he’ll say anything else.

the truth is that jack doesn’t need so many words to understand you. he stays like that for a moment, watching your shy smile and deciding that this time, he does believe you.

why you thought he’d be asking about your friend is beyond him. jack knows you took care of her even after you’d left the hospital that night. he has no doubts about that, not with the way you care and worry so deeply.

for a moment he lets his mind drift off and wonder how it might feel to be on the receiving side of it. 

“uh… dr. abbot?” you question hesitantly.

“yes?”

“i just wanted to say-”

“hey, abbot, just got a call about a multi-car pile up on the bridge. three incomings, five minutes out-” the shout comes from half way across the room. both of your heads turn immediately towards the nurse. you watch as john and parker move quickly on their feet towards the ambulance bay, and you even steady your hand on the counter, rising on your feet instinctively. 

jack says something back and turns to look at you. he takes a step closer.

“you don’t have to help if you’re not ready,” he says, locking eyes with yours again. 

the truth is you don’t know if you’ll ever be completely ready.

but you feel compelled to follow him, to help him for once, help the others, instead of being the one relying on help and strategic timing and praying for one less ambulance. 

“i-i’m ready,” you say, and once your feet start moving, they don’t stop. you follow jack to the ambulance bay, pulling out a yellow gown and blue gloves for yourself. 

if parker and john are surprised, they don’t say anything. they head outside first and while you quickly tug on the gown, you feel him standing behind you. jack ties the strings behind your neck and waist. warmth radiates from his touch and would make you a little feverish if you weren’t so anxiously awaiting the incoming.

you half expect him to say something about it being okay if you need to leave or tap out, because you know, even now, what he must think of you. you’re still figuring out your trauma skills and this is the equivalent of being thrown into the deep end, and still—

every time you think you know what jack abbot is going to say to you, you end up surprised.

“if you need something, just let me know, okay?” jack says quietly, and you find yourself nodding. 

he doesn’t seem like he’s doubting your abilities. he doesn’t seem like he’s worried that you’ll run out in the middle of the trauma or freeze up to the point that you’re politely asked to leave, like you had during the day shift.

it seems like, to the best of your discernment, that jack believes in you. he thinks you can do this and you don’t want to prove him wrong. 

you and jack follow parker and john outside, and as the sound of the ambulance sirens gets nearer, your hand creeps towards your neck. but when jack meets your eyes again, you feel it fall somewhere by your side. 

it must be silly, the way it feels around him. the noise of the sirens is dimmed. the voice in your head quiets down enough for you to hear and process your own thoughts. 

that’s exactly what happens. you end up on opposite sides of the patient, a woman who looks only a few years older than you. so far she’s got broken ribs from the airbag and a fractured leg. your job is on the e-fast, and you go through the views, glancing up at jack and parker for confirmation while you state your findings. 

you shift over to the other lung when you see it on the monitor, a black area that makes you stop in your tracks.

“there’s a huge hemothorax on the left-” you start, adjusting your probe to get a clearer view. 

“she can thank the airbag for that,” john comments. someone had read the vitals out just a few minutes ago, and you find yourself wondering how she’s still stable with this much fluid in her chest. a nurse pokes her head into the room, telling them that parker needs help, and john leaves, telling jack he’s got it. 

the thought comes up and around your head quickly—you don’t know everything. another one, more quietly—leave it to the real adults, you’re just an intern. 

but today is not the day to listen. 

because you’re not afraid of being wrong around him. because there’s no punishment for you if you say the wrong thing. there’s no one coming to drag you away. just the soft hazel of jack’s reassuring gaze on you.

“i think we need to intubate, because-” you’re interrupted by the blare of the monitor. another nurse reads off the vitals, her oxygen tanking quickly, and you watch as they bring the ambu bag to her face.

“good call,” jack says to you. “c’mon, kid. you up for it?”

you nod. 

you’ve intubated before—a few trauma patients and the dummy in the skills lab pop into your mind immediately—but this seems a little different. you position the scope into the patient’s mouth while the nurse pulls the et tube from a drawer for you.

and it’s almost like muscle memory. the patient’s head is tilted back, you move the tongue, and just as you’re holding the tube in your hand, scope heavy in your other one, getting ready to insert it, you freeze.

it seems like an eternity. the tube in your hand is moving in slow-motion, but your mind locks up. there’s a million thoughts in a second—starting and ending with the last time you intubated someone. 

it was a young girl from pittfest and though you’d thought she was stable, she wasn’t. you’d also thought you could do it, but just like then, you’d frozen up for a moment. that day, luckily, mel had been walking by and helped you. luckily, they got her up to surgery in time.

but it wasn’t because of you. you had almost failed her.

and you’d thought that some other day you’d be alone, without anyone to help, and you’d have to figure it out by yourself, and you’d fail. 

you’d fail yourself. fail your patient. let that poor girl die or get irreparable brain damage from hypoxia because you weren’t fast enough. 

they tell you that in emergency medicine, the difference between life and death is a matter of seconds. 

and this does take a second—one, maybe two—to think and process. to debate—flight or fight? which one will you step up to today?

and then one glance at jack standing next to you, looking at you intently, but not with concern, not with fear or worry, but rather something closer to trust. waiting for you to keep going. the safety net that he provides feels like a catch-all that could protect you through anything and everything.

you extend the neck further until you’ve got a straight shot down to the vocal cords. the tube glides in and by the time you secure the bag and check the end-tidal, the surgery team in rolling in to pick up where you and jack left off. 

another head pokes in—bridget, telling jack that john and parker need him, and he looks back at you quickly.

he says good job, kid, and leaves, and you stay there, a little stunned at yourself, filling in the gaps for the surgeons, answering questions and watching as they work quickly, seeing where you can help.

in that moment, there’s no time to overanalyze everything. you work as quickly as you can to do the best you can for your patient. you don’t stop to think that you’re doing the wrong thing, that judgemental eyes will cast down on you if you take an extra second to think about your answer.

it comes back like a soreness, the good kind, like a muscle you’ve been neglecting to train. 

by the time she’s been wheeled up to surgery, you take a breath and slump your shoulders. one of the nurses is on the phone, calling the patient’s emergency contact number, but you ask if you can do it instead. 

you call her parents, leaning against the wall while you tell them that she was in an accident and was brought to ptmc, and that she has a few broken bones, one of which punctured her lung. you tell them that the team was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery, and the relief in their voice, and the feeling that you helped contribute to saving her, gives you a rush unequal to anything you’ve ever felt.

it’s almost strange, feeling adrenaline rush through you and causing this sort of reaction. usually it’s coated in anxiety, sticking to every thought inside of you, resulting in thoughts that you try to shove down and away.

today it’s a high. one that will likely only last a little while longer—there’s head lacs and chest pains waiting to be seen, and they don’t care that you were saving that girl’s life, just that you took so long to see them, and you’ll have to calm your beating heart when you start stitching people up, but for now—

for now, you want to find jack and thank him for believing in you. 

there were three gurneys that came from the accident on the bridge. your patient is wheeled upstairs, another gurney is parked by the nearest curtain, with the night shift nurse practitioner whose name you still don’t know suturing their wound. 

and the last gurney is in the other trauma room, parallel to the one you’d been in. you peak in, but whatever excitement had been in your body dissipates as quickly as it had seeped in. 

jack is doing compressions, covered in a sheen of sweat you can see from the window. but from the way john and parker look at each other, there was no reason to keep going. 

you step away from the glass, wanting to give them privacy. it’s entirely unfair—you get to feel good about your save, only for the universe to take that feeling away from jack and john and parker. 

it’s almost an hour later that you see him. parker had come by and you’d given her the update on your next two patients.

“so, how was it? back on traumas?” she asks, and you smile, but wish you hadn’t.

“reminded me why i’m doing this,” you answer sincerely. “i’m sorry about your patient, though. can i do anything?”

“no, but thanks. his family should be here soon.”

“do you want me to-”

“nah, don’t worry. we’ll work on these discharges. abbot will want to speak to them himself.” 

you swallow uncomfortably.

“yeah, of course.” you pause, tiptoeing the line between professional and self-serving. “do you know where he is?”

“if i had to guess, the roof.”

“w-why would he be on the roof?”

“uh,” parker starts, trailing off. you look at her with a quizzical expression, but before she can meet your eye, she’s looking somewhere in the distance behind you. her face changes too—into an expression of surprise. “to get some air. but forget i said that. he’s over there. and i think he’s looking for you.” 

“me? uh-” parker doesn’t wait for your answer, taking off towards the curtains.

when you turn around, jack is walking towards you with your yellow mug in his hand.

“oh. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say, as he sets down the cup. 

jack is mostly a mystery to you. you know him through bits and pieces, you think, through how he treats you and how he is with the others. he makes silly, stupid jokes and always reminds the residents to eat when they can. he’ll take over any trauma if it’s getting to be too much for one of you. 

and he never fails to make you the perfect cup of coffee. sweet and much too delicious for regular hospital brew, though he has managed to perfect it. it can’t even compare to the cups you used to make hurriedly in between one and two during the day shift. 

you’re sure that this cup will prove to be no different. you take a sip, feeling the warmth rush all over you, and when you meet jack’s eyes, you know it’ll turn from warm to hot, like always. his stare is as intense as they come, right now during the lull between patients and in the trauma rooms like you were earlier. 

intense. in a way that you have gotten way too familiar with.

but when you look up to meet his eyes, they don’t seem that way. 

jack looks, maybe for the first time, the closest you’ve ever seen to sad. 

and it’s heartbreaking. for someone that you know through bits and pieces, it pulls at your heartstrings immediately. there’s no smirking smile, no reminder for you to sit and drink your coffee and work on your notes or take a break. 

you don’t actually remember when or where you’d heard it. something about your attendings—robby and abbot—and the roof and getting some air after a bad patient. you hadn’t understood it at the time, mostly confused, thinking if they needed air, they should go out to the ambulance bay. there’s a tiny bench by the side of the wall, hidden from plain sight, and when you used to go and sit there and cover your ears, you should have understood what they meant about the roof.

but he didn’t go to the roof today. he went to make you a cup of coffee instead.

something hot and smoldering burns inside your chest at the thought. you want to say something, say the perfect thing, the thing that makes him feel better and makes him laugh and makes the horrible, aching feeling of losing a patient go away, even if it’s just for a few heartbeats.

but you’ve never been good at that sort of thing. that’s jack’s job.

“you’re not okay, are you?” 

the words come out softly. too soft to be spoken to your battle-hardened attending. there’s just the two of you by the desks at central, everyone else running around or looking for a caffeine fix. but suddenly, it feels like the entire hospital is empty.

“don’t worry about me, kid,” jack replies quietly, and you feel your heart sink. “i’ll be fine.” 

he won’t be fine. this is the sort of pain that gnaws at you for a while, keeps working until it’s through the skin and down to the bone. jack will move on and treat fifteen other patients before sunrise but when he goes home, he’ll think about the one he couldn’t save.

that’s always how it is. you know it firsthand. 

and maybe for the first time, you think there’s not that many differences between you and jack abbot.

and he—well, he always takes care of you. always. in the room with the trauma. with the patient who harassed you. with your own emotions that are always battling against you. 

maybe it’s your turn to prove to him, show him that you can take care of him too—

jack turns to leave, about to pick up his hand from where it rests near your cup, but you move faster than he does, putting your hand over his. he turns back around slowly.

“kid, i-”

“i know,” you say quickly, not wanting him to finish his sentence. “i know. but i can’t just let you be sad all by yourself. you never let me be sad by myself.”

“i’m not sad,” jack starts, taking a step back towards you. your hand burns where you touch his rough, warm skin. “i’m… i don’t have a word for what i am.”

how silly, you think to yourself, that a few hours ago you were worried about you and jack abbot becoming hospital gossip. it seems so small and inconsequential now, when you look into his pensive, pretty hazel eyes. 

you’re holding your attending’s hands while you talk about the patient he lost. this isn’t just hospital gossip, it’d be front page news if one of the blabbermouths saw the two of you. but it’s so hard to care.

so hard to even think about that when you know what he’s feeling. hard to process that your all-knowing, all-seeing attending, who can discern your feelings from across the room, might be going through something just like you right now. 

that you might be the only person here today that could help him through this. that you might be the reason he didn’t go to the roof.

“it’s okay,” you say, supplying words that he’s told you before. “you don’t have to know what it is. i don’t either, sometimes. but, you’re not alone. whatever you’re feeling. i feel it too.” 

“you don’t have to,” he says, with a sad, quiet laugh. “you did great tonight. you saved your patient.”

“but i want to.” the words slip out before you can stop them. 

“kid, i-” you interrupt him before he can finish.

“it’s not about being happy or sad. you’ve helped me every single time i needed it. why can’t i help you when you need it?”

jack pauses, his intense gaze boring into your eyes. then he looks down at your yellow mug, and looks back at where your hands are touching each other.

“you already did.” 

“because you didn’t go to the roof?” you ask, biting your cheek. 

it might be too bold, but you feel like you have to know, feel like there’s an answer that’ll make your head spin. 

and jack thinks it too, keeping the thought in his grip tightly. 

something about how when jack feels like this, he doesn’t want to go to the roof for air. 

he goes and does the one thing that gives him an excuse to see you. 

you, with the uncanny ability to make him think twice about his feelings. you, that he’s looked at for weeks, and wondered why you doubt yourself, why you feel like this, like he used to, when he’s there to help you through it. and so caught up in those emotions, he forgot that at the core of all of this, is the way you think about everyone and everything in this hospital.

think about what others are feeling, what others are thinking. what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. the overthinking intern that he wanted to coax into trusting your gut and calming your fears, while almost forgetting that it’s also your biggest strength.

you can see through jack in an instant. you see the worry and the pain underneath—the urge to take care of everyone stemming from a need to fix what he can, to make sure that the things he does have control over are taken care of. how uncertain it can feel when the things you thought you had control over fail you. when a patient doesn’t come back even though you did everything you could.

“because i didn’t go to the roof,” jack replies. 

“if it’s worth anything,” you start quietly, eyes fixed on your overlapping hands, “i’m glad you didn’t. i… i don’t know what i’d do if you went to the roof.” 

“you’d figure it out, kid.”

“maybe,” you reply, reflecting his sad smile back at him. your hand feels like it’s holding his a little tighter. “but i sure don’t want to find out.”

you use your other hand to take another drink, setting the cup closer to him. jack picks it up and takes a sip.

and he turns and leaves, going towards the viewing room and waiting for the family—a wife and two young kids. you stay there and finish your notes. 

and until seven am, the two of you don’t stop thinking about each other.

𝜗ৎ

robby finds jack at six-fifty am on a wednesday morning. the shift was no different than any other, though he has a harder time remembering the patients and the traumas now than he ever has before.

jack skims through his memories and picks up a few easily—the cup of coffee he made you at midnight. the way you took a sip and then offered him one. he drank it, even though it’s insanely sweet compared to the way he takes his—just plain black. he remembers bringing you a protein bar at three, your sweet smile followed by a yawn, and the faded purple of your underscrub today.

“jack?” robby asks, and he blinks. 

“uh, yeah? sorry. lost my train of thought.”

“no problem,” robby says, more confused than suspicious. “was your shift okay?”

it’s a harmless question which also carries the weight of a freight train. okay is relative these days, jack thinks, because there’s a bias forcing him to think he’s okay, even when he’s not.

or rather—making him think he will be okay, even if he’s not right now. you sit next to him for thirty seconds and talk to him in a soft, gentle voice like no one else should be allowed to hear what the two of you are saying.

and then you smile at him with reassurance, something you’ve had to work on since he got you here. it’ll be okay. we’ll be okay. 

“it was okay,” jack answers. “what’s up?” he stretches his neck, trying to see where you’ve gone off to. you had helped him with the last incoming car accident at six, who is currently stable and waiting in trauma two for surgery. you had done the e-fast, intubated, found a pouch of free fluid and two broken ribs.

and he found himself smiling on the way out, telling you good job, teasing you without meaning to. you feel warm and don’t say anything but you don’t stop smiling either.

you’re smiling now, talking to king and kwon about your sign-offs. 

it wasn’t even that long ago, he thinks, maybe yesterday or the day before. joy had come up to him around seven, groaning as she handed him the tablet he was searching for.

“get me out of here,” joy had said, and jack had looked at her with his usual, confused expression. her gaze is focused somewhere across the room, and when he looks to see what she’s looking at, jack finds himself smiling.

you. you’re talking to the new nurse—emma, he thinks—smiling and laughing with her. the two of you were wearing the same flower-patterned underscrub.

“what?” jack asks, and joy tears her eyes away from the two of you (mostly emma, he surmises), before groaning again.

“dr. bambi and nurse thumper. i didn’t realize i was working at the woodland animal clinic.” 

he turns back to look at you, finding himself agreeing with that assessment. dr. bambi can’t be the worst nickname he’s thought secretly in his head before. the others aren’t nearly work-appropriate.

“be nice,” jack says, though he knows joy doesn’t mean it like that. he beats around the bush—the two of them are two idiots in a pod, staring at that coworker they’re not supposed to be staring at.

“now those two could have saved bambi’s mother, i’m sure.”

jack snorts. even looking at you now, the memory feels fresh. dr. bambi—

robby clears his throat.

“uh, well, i’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to bring her back to days. what’d you say?”

jack whips his head back.

“what? she just got here-”

“it’s been almost a month. and it seems like she’s doing great. i mean, i’m noticing a big change. haven’t you?”

fuck. 

something in jack stirs, a sad, ugly thing that rears its head. he wants to lie, instantly, for purely selfish reasons. to keep you by his side a little longer, to protect the little bubble the two of you work inside of. a bubble made of late night coffee and early morning smiles and taking care of each other without really trying that hard. 

it’s always been easy for him, he thinks, to try and take care of you. he’s only just begun to realize that it might be easy for you too, to take care of him. 

and he’s selfish, he wants to keep you there forever. if not just for him—

he wants you where he can see you, can reassure you, can make sure you don’t go back to that place he just snuck you out of—full of doubt and fear and anxiety. 

but it is for him, at the same time. you push away thoughts that he once felt he could never escape from. teaching you a new procedure or complimenting your work gives him a rush unequal to anything else—your grateful smile is just one part of it.

he has been beating around the bush with it, taking his time, trying to protect you, protect this, whatever this is, not rushing things and regretting anything.

but now—

he can’t lie. 

lying would mean… saying that you’re not ready to leave. that you haven’t improved, that there hasn’t been any changes. that you’re not incredibly smart and competent, that you just needed a little push and a little encouragement and the safe space that jack abbot’s night shift team seems to provide you.

lying would hurt you. impact your education. if you found out that he said those things, things that he didn’t even believe, well, he might not be able to forgive himself.

he stares at robby, head swirling between the two ideas, wondering how, if at all, he can get out of this conversation. he briefly considers telling robby he’ll tell him later but right now he’s going upstairs, but robby’ll just follow him.

and you—well, you’ll follow him too.

“yeah. big change,” jack says, the words feeling painful to get out. 

get it together. she’s your intern. this is a good thing. 

right? 

“al-right, then. maybe starting up at the end of the week? friday morning? i can go talk to her before-”

“no, uh, i’ll talk to her. i got it,” jack says, and robby’s expression is more suspicion than confusion now, but he doesn’t notice.

and you feel it before you hear it—the noise of thunder outside, the strike of lightning. you’ve already had one car accident today because of the wet, slippery roads and heavy rain, and you’re sure it’ll only be worse as the day goes on.

you’re grateful again for the night shift, because now you get to go home and fall asleep to the rain.

(fall asleep and dream, because all you’ve been doing recently is dreaming. about your attending, about his kind words and actions and big hands that make your yellow mug look so incredibly small.)

you say goodbye to parker and john, watching as they disappear with their umbrellas to the parking garage. you usually walk to the bus stop, but you stand by the door, waiting for him.

for jack. it’s something of an unspoken routine—you wait for the other. he walks towards his car, and you walk towards the street, and you don’t say anything besides get some rest, dr. abbot, and he replies with, you too, kid. 

and that’s it—but it’s after every single night. and you’ve always been a creature of habit, so you wait, thinking he’s running a bit late. 

you stare at the rain—too heavy to brave it without any backup. you look through your bag for your umbrella, but it’s nowhere to be found. it would be obvious—it’s yellow, like your mug.

you must have left it at home. 

you unlock your phone, trying to find the rideshare app, scrolling when—

“hey, kid.”

“oh,” you breathe, your heart thudding in your chest, turning to face him. “hi.”

“i need to talk to you about something. it’s-” jack’s eyes flick towards your screen for a moment. “what’s that?”

“i, uh… forgot my umbrella,” you admit sheepishly. “and i didn’t want to get soaked walking to the bus stop, so-”

“you forgot your umbrella?” he questions, raising an eyebrow. 

you think a few weeks ago your face would burn at the line of questioning. silly mistake from a silly intern. now you know that everything jack says to you has an automatic layer of concern on top of it. 

it still makes your face burn a little bit, though.

“well, i-i didn’t realize it would be raining when we left.”

we. you shouldn’t have said that—it’s not even really the truth. you and jack leaving together every shift is not a promised thing. 

it’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. 

you hope he doesn’t notice, and you start chewing on your cheek at the idea that may he does—of course he does—your hand coming to toy with your necklace when he responds.

“i can bring you home, kid,” he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to. 

he looks almost… wistful. 

you try to dismiss the thought—why would jack be wistful about driving you home? you’d be a filthy liar if you hadn’t imagined what it might be like to sit in the passenger seat of his truck, to listen to the music he likes, to watch his arms and hands while he—

“that’s okay, dr. abbot,” you respond before you completely give yourself away. “i can just call the-”

jack sighs, smiling a little, like he’s trying to hide it from you. but it’s not what his smile is usually like—sweet and amused like he’s watching a fawn walk on legs for the first time and resisting the urge to swoop in and help. 

it’s something you can’t quite place.

“c’mon. truck’s over here,” he says, and you drop the challenge immediately. you follow him out, through the door that you never go through, the one that you watch him disappear past every day when you leave for the bus stop. 

and stupid as it is, when you walk towards the passenger side of his truck, you notice that he’s following you instead of going to the driver’s side.

“oh. um, do you-?” you get out, a little confused. 

jack steps in front of you, opening the door. 

“oh. thank you.”

“you’re welcome, kid,” he says. you take a seat and he shuts the door, pausing for a moment outside the window while you put your seatbelt on. you meet his eyes through the glass for half of a heartbeat before he walks away.

when he takes his seat and puts on his seatbelt, you realize you’re terrible at this.

“are you okay?” you ask, staring at him.

it’s gloomy outside and the sky is painted in gray and white, the heavy rain making everything a little damp and slow. including your brain. 

but you can’t help it. something seems off about jack today and you need to know what before it drives you crazy. 

normally, you imagine you’d be beside yourself at the idea of sitting in his truck and soaking in the feeling of knowing that he’d drive you home even when it’s out of his way, but you can’t think of that when there’s something he’s not telling you.

“i’m fine, kid,” he says, and you don’t believe him for one second.

you decide to be bold.

you take your hand and put it over his, and he turns to look at you. you think this is what it feels like to melt. jack’s eyes reveal whatever he doesn’t want to tell you, and you feel your heart start to beat faster.

“what is it? it’s okay. you can tell me,” you say, starting to get nervous. 

his skin feels warm where you’re touching it, realizing this is twice in a week that you’ve held jack abbot’s hands in your own. 

the thought is… grounding. like there’s nothing that could be so bad as long as you have him with you to help you get through it. you think stupidly that you could do anything if you had him with you. 

you had already done everything with him beside you. 

“kid, i…” jack trails off, and your fingers twitch, rising for a moment, as though perhaps you’ve done the wrong thing.

oh god. had you completely misread this—was this something else entirely? 

you thought being in his car meant you were a step closer to whatever it is that you want to be, whatever it is that the two of you won’t put into words or even coherent thoughts. it’s just the semblance of hope that hangs in the air, that maybe, somehow, someday, this might be more than just an attending and his intern. 

had you misjudged him this badly? the thought lingers for a second, and you pick up your hand, bringing it back to your lap like a child who just got scolded for doing something wrong.

“i’m so sorry, i-”

“no, no, it’s not that,” jack starts, staring at you with those eyes again. he looks away, running a hand through his messy curls, and you watch, your heart dropping into your stomach. the light catches on his wedding ring.

“it’s okay. i-i can just walk home. we, um, we shouldn’t, if you don’t want to-”

“no, kid, it’s not that.” jack keeps his eyes focused on the dashboard, his hand tightening around the wheel. you watch the veins of his arms tense up. “robby, uh… robby wants you back on the day shift. i was trying to figure out how to tell you inside.”

oh. 

you swallow uncomfortably, not sure if this is better or worse. your mind starts to spin, creating two alternating scenarios that start to fight with each other. robby wants you back on the day shift. you’ve finally done what you set out to do in the first place, earned your way back, gotten better at this job the way you’ve always wanted to—

but it’s only because of jack. his gentle guiding. the way he doesn’t stop believing in you even when you’re having a severe deficiency in that area. the way he makes you coffee that tastes perfect every time. the way he knows when you’re feeling anxious before you can even process—

“hey,” he says, and you blink, looking up at him. “what’re you thinking?”

“i… do you think i should go back?”

“i-,” he pauses, taking a breath. “i think you’re ready to. you’ve been doing great these last couple of shifts. it’s not about what i think though. it’s about how you feel.”

and the way jack says it, with so much sincerity that it’s practically dripping from him, makes your heart thud around in your chest. the blood rushes to your ears at the thought—no more night shift.

no more sleeping in until the afternoon. scheduling appointments during the day and not missing them when the day shift runs over. actually having time to finish your charting instead of staying behind until eight pm to catch up.

no more jack abbot.

the realization hits you squarely in the chest, getting hard to breathe like walls are closing in around you. it’s not that serious but it is that serious. you even try to justify it internally while jack looks at you with what can only be described as pure concern in his eyes.

you’re just scared—no more jack means having to face your shifts alone. the safety net would be gone, and it’s just as well—it’s not like you could have relied on him forever. robby’s a different type of mentor. he’s not going to walk you through your freeze-ups or notice when you’re playing with your necklace that it means you need a break. 

no, robby couldn’t do any of that. nor, you think, is it his responsibility. his job is to run the emergency department and make sure that everyone inside is running too.

everything that has happened in the last month has been something special—something born of jack’s desire to take care of you, for whatever reason he had decided on. 

you hadn’t asked and he hadn’t pushed, it had just come together the way it did. and it was nothing short of perfect.

and now, it’s over.

“yeah, of course,” you reply, hoping your face doesn’t completely give you away. 

you take a deep breath and then release it, holding your hands firmly to your side. you don’t want to make it any easier for him to see through your lie.

“kid, you can take some time to think about it. it’s not an easy decision,” he says, and you turn your head to look at him, tearing your gaze away from your lap.

he’s got his elbow angled, leaning against the steering wheel. the tight, dark shirt he wears looks like it’s a size too small in the dim light of his car. or maybe you just feel that way because his arms look ready to tear right out of the fabric. his curls are mussed up where he ran his fingers through them, but the silver still reflects brightly.

and worst of all—his stupid eyes and his stupid smile. looking at you like they always do—filled with concern, like there’s nothing more important than making sure you’re okay. 

you’ve denied it long enough, but now, with the very real possibility that this—whatever this is—is coming to an end, the thought doesn’t seem to leave you as easily as it has on other days. 

“well i had to go back eventually, right?” you finally say, locking eyes with him again. 

“yeah, kid. i guess so.” jack looks like he’s about to say something else, but you suppose he decides not to. he puts on his seatbelt instead, his hand moving to the gear stick. “c’mon kid. let’s get you home.”

𝜗ৎ

you tell jack your address, and just like you expected, he already knows where it is. you have to remind yourself that he’s been living in pittsburgh for most of your life, that the street signs and neighborhood names aren’t just words you throw around. 

he’s probably got a memory in every street corner. a memory, you think sadly and a little selfishly, with his wife who isn’t here anymore. 

you’re not the person who’s supposed to be seated in this passenger seat. you’re just the intern he’s a little too nice to at work.

and soon, you’ll be known as that girl who went back to the day shift.

you watch the black of his ring on his hand as he grips the steering wheel. he puts his arm around the headrest of your seat while he backs up, and he’s on the road after. you stare out the window, listening to the harsh, loud raindrops as they hit the roof of his truck. 

his car is just what you expected. clean, though not in the way that would scare you off if he was a stranger. it feels weird to think, but his truck is almost… homey. there’s pieces of mail laying the console between the two of you. receipts tucked into the sun visor. dog tags, maybe intertwined with a necklace, hang from his rearview mirror.

and it smells like him. 

you close your eyes for a moment, trying to soak it in. it’s your first and last time being in this car, being with him, if you’re really going to start the day shift again. 

his truck has a cd player, something you might have commented on if it wasn’t for your current state of mind. 

you’re too sad to think of something funny to say, so instead you lean against the headrest, listen to his beatles album, and watch the city waking up for the day. 

it’s four, maybe five songs before jack says something.

“we’re almost there, kid. are you-” he stops himself, trailing off. “are you okay?”

“i’m okay,” you lie. “just thinking about it, i guess. it’ll be a big change. i was just getting used to the night shift, i think.”

it goes unsaid—i was just getting used to you.

“you’ve already seen it during the day. a lot longer than you did nights. it won’t take that long.”

“yeah. you’re right.”

“i think, uh…” your head perks up at his words, wondering if he’ll say what you think he’s about to say. “i think you’ll be just fine.”

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

when the car slows down, the rain sounds louder. jack pulls into the lot of your apartment complex, putting his truck into park. 

you’re about to turn towards him, thinking of what you can say to make this feel different. to make it easier, but nothing comes to mind.

you’ll settle for whatever half-assed goodbye leaves your lips, when the heavy rain turns into a torrential downpour. 

“oh god,” you say, without even realizing it. the rain is hitting his windshield so quickly that you can’t even see the brick of your building in front of you. “can you drive home in this?” 

you turn towards jack, expecting him to be concerned about the shift in the weather. an annoying drizzle into the pittsburgh version of a monsoon. but when you look, he’s not looking outside. his eyes are on you.

“i’ll be fine.”

“maybe-” you start, a sudden surge of boldness overcoming your anxiety, for once, “you should wait it out. t-to be safe.”

“uh, kid, i-”

“you live across town, don’t you? i don’t think that’s safe. last thing you wanna do is end up back in the pitt at eight am.” 

he chuckles at that, and you feel satisfaction bloom inside of you.

“um, i can make us tea, if you want?”

“oh,” jack says. “i was just going to wait it out in here.”

“oh,” you echo, feeling your entire face burn with heat. “sorry, sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize,” he interrupts. “i could… go for tea.”

“really?” you question, not sure if he’s trying to play into it to protect your embarrassed feelings from entering into utter humiliation. 

“yeah, kid. i… love tea.”

(jack abbot does not love tea. he doesn’t even drink tea. the only thing he knows about tea is from when he makes you a cup of hot water on days where you’re too wired to have a cup of coffee. you keep little packets of the stuff with you and it’s always a new, odd color when he glances into your yellow mug.)

you end up on either side of your kitchen counter with jack abbot, tea lover. you’re both soaked, despite running to the door of your complex. his curls drip water onto the granite of the countertop, his shirt clinging to him as though it’s a second skin.

you feel cold. you’re in your damp underscrub, your scrub top thrown into your hamper. you bring him a towel for his hair and try to dry yours, before giving up entirely. 

the only thing that might make you feel better is a long, hot shower once jack abbot leaves your apartment. 

whenever that might be. in fifteen minutes, the rain hasn’t let up even once. you can hear it hitting the windows, the gusts of wind that sound scary, even from a few floors up.

you rub your arms as the kettle begins to whistle quietly. mugs, you tell yourself, opening your cupboard. you glance back to see jack drying his hair, his arms flexed as he stretches, and you look back to your significantly less interesting dishware with a dry mouth.

you put two mugs on the countertop, opening the drawer of your tea packet options.

“um, do you know what kind you want? i have a bunch,” you say, and he looks at you blankly.

fuck. maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the tea. he’s about to get caught red-handed, when you interject again.

“i have chamomile. it’s caffeine free, if that’s okay?” you ask politely, and he swallows hard, nodding.

“sounds good.” 

you put the packets into the mug and pour hot water over them. jack glances around your apartment. the entire place is a testimony to you. it’s organized but comfortable, filled with clean clutter and warm colors. there’s a candle you’ve almost completely burned through on the countertop next to him, and enough books to fill a library on different shelves in your living room.

you hand him the mug and he can’t help but smile—

it’s yellow, a carbon copy of the one at the hospital. in your hands is a third duplicate, as you swish around the tea bag. he copies your motions.

“so,” he starts, a little stupidly, because he’s unsure of where the sentence is leading. “chamomile.”

“yeah,” you breathe. “they say chamomile is good for anxiety, so…”

there’s something else, a suppressed thought that you won’t let out hiding beneath the surface. jack’s determined to get it out before he leaves. 

when you take a small sip, he does too. the drink isn’t half bad—he prefers the taste of black coffee, even if it’s decaf, but jack supposes he could get used to this too.

the second thought fills him quickly—there is no getting used to this. 

this is about to end. this is the final act, the goodbye.

“kid, i-”

“no,” you interrupt, a little out of character. “don’t. i, um… this is hard enough for me as it is. i don’t do good with change. in fact, the only reason i even did good with this change is because of-”

you don’t finish your sentence.

“i just wanted to tell you that-” jack starts, but you don’t let him.

“i don’t think i wanna leave night shift,” you blurt out.

oh. 

“that’s okay,” jack says, his voice trying to stay calm and steady. something burns inside of him though, smolders at your confession. it echoes his—i don’t want you to leave night shift. 

“is it?” you ask, picking up your mug to take another drink. “because i’m pretty sure i’m not allowed to make calls like that. i mean, if robby wants me back, i have to go back, right?” your voice sounds pained, something he really, really doesn’t like. 

jack takes his cup into his hand and moves a little closer to your side of the island. your mug looks comically small in his hands here too.

“if you’re not ready, then i’ll talk to robby. he’ll understand,” jack says. the liquid is still too hot to drink, but he does anyways, just to give him something to focus on besides your pretty, sad expression and wistful eyes.

“that’s the thing,” you finally confess, tears building up before you can stop them. “i am ready to go back. i just don’t want to.”

“kid,” jack breathes. “don’t cry. please, don’t cry-”

“i-i was trying to not think about it. about you. but it’s so hard,” you say, those tears that are much too familiar to him streaming down your cheeks. it’s no fair—you’re even pretty when you cry. “i’ve never felt like this before. it-it can’t be that wrong, can it?”

“it’s not wrong,” he says, taking a step to bridge the distance between the two of you. he puts his hand over yours, and your skin feels like it’s burning where the two of you touch.

jack swallows when your big, teary eyes turn to look at him again. 

“i… i haven’t felt like this in a long, long time,” he admits, and you watch him with careful anticipation. “i just… it’s wrong but it’s not. when he asked me if you’re ready to come back, i almost lied. just so i could keep you with me a little longer-”

you don’t wait for jack to finish this time. you lean up to find his lips before your fear can stop you. 

jack’s lips are soft, and his grown out scruff is scratchy against your soft skin. it’s hard to care, though, when he’s kissing you.

jack abbot is kissing you. 

“oh my god,” you breathe against jack’s mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, his hands coming to cup the side of your face gently.

“what’s wrong?” he asks in that light, calm tone that drives you crazy. it’s barely above a whisper, his hazel eyes shining down on you. you’re so close that you can even make out the specks of brown—

you answer with another kiss, pressing your lips together again. your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands leave your face, wandering down to hold you firmly by your waist. his fingers sneak underneath the wet fabric of your shirt until he grips the bare skin of your hips. 

you moan into the kiss. the feeling of jack’s hands on you is close to unreal. it’s everything you thought it would be and more, feeling how hot his mouth is, how deeply he kisses you. you don’t think you’re breathing but it’s hard to care, exactly.

you yelp into his mouth when you feel his hands on the globes of your ass. he hoists you up, placing you onto the countertop, your legs wrapping around his while he keeps kissing you. 

your hands pull eagerly wherever you can—namely, his stupidly tight shirt. the two of you detach for a second, just to get the stupid thing off, which takes a moment since it’s melded onto his chest.

but once it’s off, you feel your body go a little weak and limp. jack’s shoulders seem even broader like this, his chest somehow wider, his arms somehow bigger. you can make out the veins that you’re always admiring in the shitty hospital fluorescents, where they start all the way to where they end. 

it takes all of your power to not start tracing them.

you’re snapped out of the thought when you hear jack’s low, rumbling laugh and the way his chest vibrates with it.

“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, a little dumbly. 

“you’re cute like this,” he says, leaning in close again, his shirt discarded on the ground. you bring the palm of your hand flat against his bare chest, soaking in how his skin feels against yours.

“cute like what?” you ask, but you don’t get an answer. jack leans in for another burning kiss, and your mind goes empty.

you grip his shoulder, finally feeling the muscles under your hand. they tense and flex as he keeps kissing you, and as he moves his mouth down to your neck, your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his frecked skin.

that’s the other thing—he has so many freckles. they’re all over, hundreds more than you had expected. he must have spent all of his life shirtless in the sun, or something, you think, before it dissipates. 

jack works his way to your collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, over the metal of your necklace, and then another right on top of the pendant. 

you sigh, your fingers tangling themselves in his wet hair. you don’t pull, rather enjoying the sensation of the strands while you follow his head wherever it leads. 

he doesn’t go any further. you hold back a whine, letting go to lift your shirt off, when jack stops your hands from moving.

“what is it?” you ask impatiently. your lips are swollen and your eyes are blinking quickly at him. jack brings his fingers to your jaw, holding you in place gently.

“are you sure about this, kid?” you nod eagerly. “we can stop whenever you want. we don’t have to rush this-”

“stop talking,” you breathe, crashing your lips against his again. you’ve waited so long to do this—to kiss your attending, to be left breathless and flushed by him, that stopping it to talk seems so stupid.

jack’s hands go back to your hips as he keeps kissing you, swallowing your soft moans and whimpers as he explores your skin. finally he holds you in his grip, lifting you off the countertop while your legs tighten around his waist.

he carries you, leading into the open door of your bedroom, a yellow-walled room with gray curtains. he sets you gently on the bed, hovering over you, still not pulling away.

jack’s mouth is hot on yours, and you sigh into him, your hands resting on his chest again.

“jack,” you whimper, as you feel his hands tease around the hem of your shirt. 

“easy, sweetheart. lift up for me,” he instructs quietly, and you comply. he peels off your underscrub and then your bra, working down until your scrub bottoms are the next thing to go. 

you’re bare in front of him, just in your panties that you had no idea he would be seeing. you would have made a wiser choice, maybe, if you knew this was even your last shift with him, just in case, but—

“jesus christ, kid,” jack breathes, and you feel your stomach flip into a jumping jack over and over again. “you’re perfect.”

“stop talking,” you repeat, leaning up to catch jack’s mouth again. this time, his hands wander everywhere, exploring the miles of smooth skin he’s revealed, feeling as your body trembles under his touch. 

you’re sensitive everywhere, he can tell, and he wonders how to explain to you that he needs to take his time with you. you don’t seem particularly patient right now.

he pulls away again.

“jack,” you whine, but he doesn’t pay attention this time. he starts kissing down the soft skin of your chest, working down until he’s at your stomach. he wants to take his time—tease your perfect, peaked nipples until you’re crying, kiss you all over until he’s memorized the taste of your damp skin. 

you won’t let him right now, he knows, but the thought still lingers. he’ll have to choose his battles with you, and this is not one he wants to fight right now.

instead, he moves your hands into place for you, just like he knew you’d like. he arranges you until you’re squeezing your tits, fingers playing with your nipples while he stares at you.

open mouthed, gasping from pleasure, while he watches. and then, once he’s finally ready to look away, he rubs his nose against your clothed clit.

“jack—!” you cry out, thrashing up against him. he keeps one hand on your stomach to hold you down, his eyes glancing up to tell you not to stop, to keep going, like he told you. 

you comply, going back to teasing your sensitive nipples while he thinks about what he’s going to do to you. 

he places an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, lapping at the wet spot that’s already formed there. you’ll cringe with heated shame, he knows, but he inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of your wetness. 

there’s a thin piece of cotton separating him from what he really wants. he should really just slide it off, but it seems like too much work now, right when he’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

you look down to see jack ripping your panties, tearing the fabric into two pieces, letting it fall somewhere on the floor of your bedroom.

“you’re doing so good, sweetheart.” 

your head thuds against your pillow while you moan into the air.

“jack,” you beg, your legs beginning to shake. “please, jack, i-”

he doesn’t let you finish. jack dives in to lap against your leaking cunt, licking his way up and down until your moans fill the room. 

your entire body spasms when you feel his mouth tighten around your clit. 

“oh my god,” you cry out, fingers leaving your nipples to weave into jack’s hair. you keep them there, pulling his hair while you buck up against his tongue, feeling his nose nudge against your most sensitive parts—

until he stops.

“jack?” you breathe, your throat dry and scratchy. “what-”

he moves up slightly, just to take your hands out of his hair, and put them back on your chest, covering your tits again.

“oh,” you whisper. “i’m sorry, jack, i-”

“keep teasing your nipples for me,” he says, and your entire body feels like you’ve been lit on fire. 

your attending is saying those words to you, an hour after the night shift got out.

it’s something out of your wildest dreams, jack’s head between your legs, licking at your cunt like a starved man, his thick fingers—the very ones that you’ve watched insert chest tubes and plug bullet holes and save lives—are prodding at your cunt.

it’s hard to think about when he plunges two wide fingers into your leaking hole. you moan so loud that you’re sure your neighbor can hear you, before your exhausted, horny brain supplies you with the fact that no one’s home right now.

everyone’s at work. another perk of the night shift.

you listen to jack, teasing your nipples until sparks of electricity are coursing through your entire body. jack thrusts his fingers in and out, timing it with the way he laps the flat of his tongue over your clit, teasing you and giving you everything you want at the same time. that familiar hot, burning coil tightens in your belly, feeling even stronger when you feel jack’s brute strength keeping your legs pried open.

no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to overcome him and the thought is enough to make you cum instantly, though you resist.

it’s not until you feel it—feel him talking to you, or rather to your cunt, that you begin to truly lose control.

his lips vibrate around your clit, the words coming out low and soft. the obscene squelch of his fingers fucking you fills the room, and you think this is the wettest you’ve ever been—and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

“c’mon, kid. be a good girl for me. like you always are,” jack says, repeating the words until you feel the ground beneath to slip out from under you.

“oh god, jack, please, please can i come, please-”

“come on, sweetheart. come for me, come on,” jack encourages you, and everything goes white. 

that tense feeling in your stomach tightens, and then gives out completely, snapping until the white-hot sensation rushes through your whole body. 

and all you can think the entire time is that it’s jack abbot making you feel like this. the thought makes you sink into your bed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going lax against his hair.

you feel boneless and tired when jack greets you with another soft kiss.

“hi,” you whisper.

“hi, kid,” he breathes. you smile before you can help it.

your eyes dip lower, looking at the waist of his scrubs. you can see the tent where he’s hard underneath, and your hands start to wander there, but jack stops you. he catches your wrist.

“what happened?” you ask, staring back at his pretty eyes.

“it’s okay. we don’t have to do anything-”

“but i want to,” you whine, looking determined. “don’t tell me after all of that you’re going to leave me hanging-”

he shuts you up this time, pressing a searing kiss to your swollen mouth. whatever you were saying turns into a sweet moan, one that he gladly swallows.

he listens intently, keen on remembering these noises forever. your hands stay pressed against his chest, your fingertips digging in around his pec.

when he pulls away to let you breathe, you sigh with contentment. 

jack sits up, smiling at your wide, eager eyes as you stare at his every movement. he sets his feet against the rug of your bedroom floor, his hands moving down to pull on the hard shell of his prosthesis, tugging until it’s fully removed.

you slide closer to him, leaning against his back, your arms resting against his as you watch intensely.

“can i help?” you ask, your eyes moving to meet his, and jack releases a rush of air—a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“no, kid, i got it,” he says, turning back once he takes off the liner. his pants are next, his hands fiddling with the belt and the zipper.

you smile eagerly, excitedly, but he notices it again—your fingers playing with that necklace again.

now he knows what that necklace feels like against his lips.

“are you sure about this?” he asks again.

in another world, maybe you’d think it’s because jack’s having doubts. but in this one, you know he doesn’t. he’s trying to make sure that you don’t. 

“are you sure?” you repeat, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and biting. jack hovers carefully over you, and you slink down into your sheets, until the two of you are lined up, bodies melting into each other.

“i haven’t done this in a while, kid,” he says, and you bite your cheek to hold back a laugh.

“that’s okay,” you whisper. “i’ll be gentle.”

you and jack both laugh, the quiet sound filling the space of your apartment. it feels unreal—jack hovering over you, his skin against yours, feeling the soft breath of his laugh against your neck.

you lean up, pressing a kiss to his nose. 

“you don’t know how long i’ve thought about this,” you admit in the form of a whisper. the confession feels bold, especially for you, but it seems like there’s no better time for him to know.

maybe, you think selfishly, if you tell him he’ll move. do something, anything, than tease you like this, without even trying to.

the thought is striking. jack abbot is too good at taking care of you.

“yeah, kid?” jack says gruffly, and you feel your body shudder under him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking gently, and then roughly, and it’s all you can do not to moan out loud—

“yeah,” you breathe, continuing on. “i couldn’t decide how it would be. gentle or-”

“always gentle,” he interjects. the words are in the form of a moan. that feeling returns to your stomach, hot and tight and winding up again. “always gentle with you—”

jack prods the thick head of his dick to the entrance of your cunt, moving it slightly up and down to collect your wetness. your eyes snap shut, mouth falling open at the sensation—unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

of course it is, you think dumbly. how could anything, any stupid toy or your own fingers compare to this? 

you suck in a breath and it turns into a cry, one that comes out as jack’s name, as he pushes in just barely. even the tip stretches you open, a delicious, gentle burn that washes over your entire body. you feel it all over, your toes curling—

“jack, please, please-” you moan, not realizing that you had started begging. 

he thrusts the full length of his dick into you, and your moan turns into a scream. you hold onto his arms like they’re a lifeline, your eyes snapping shut.

your ears are still ringing from when he made you cum all over his tongue. this doesn’t help matters. jack is speaking to you, saying quiet things that you’re sure would make you lose your mind, but you can’t hear it right now.

all you can think about is the stretch of him. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and stupidly, you wonder how you were ever satisfied by his thick fingers. 

he thrusts in and out, his hips brushing against yours with every turn. it’s all too much—the fullness and the way you feel him in your stomach and your chest and all over, your skin burning as his pace increases. 

jack leans down to give you another kiss, hot and wet, and you finally hear whatever he’s been saying—

“you’re perfect,” he says, the words a stuttered, pleasured grunt. “you’re perfect for me-”

your eyes shut tightly, soaking in the words. you didn’t even have to tell him, you think dumbly, he just knew. 

isn’t that what he’s always like? somehow, he always knows. whether in the hospital or your apartment or inside your very mind, at the core of your being—jack abbot knows.

you meet his mouth halfway, lips colliding as hot tears stream down your face. it’s all too much—the emotions that are lingering behind every word, how jack stretches you out, how he’s ruined you for anyone or anything else.

you don’t let him pull away from the kiss, demanding more while the pace of his hips gets faster and faster. the noise is just as obscene as you imagined—filling your room, the sound of your wetness and the scent of you and him combined in the air. 

you pulse around him when he pulls away—murmuring more words of praise for you, making your stomach tighten and your cunt clench around him. 

jack moves a little and you whine—he’s suddenly too far away for a kiss. but you can only linger on the thought for half a second, before you feel his rough fingers tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit again.

your legs jerk up, trying to kick against him, thrashing as much as you can from the position. jack’s body weight still holds you down, while he fucks in and out of you, his eyes singularly focused on where the two of you are combined.

“oh, jack—!” you cry out, the sensation of his fingers and his thickness suddenly too much. 

“come on, sweetheart. be good for me,” jack says, and that’s all it seems to take.

he doesn’t stop even for a moment, working you through it while your entire body tries to jolt up.

it explodes through you, a match lighting a flame that leads to a brilliant, hot blaze that burns through you. it’s almost painful, how sensitive your entire body feels, your cries and moans reduced to a throaty breath, panting while you try to regain your senses.

the senses remind you that jack’s still fucking you, your sensitive cunt spasming around him, clamping down in a way that you didn’t know was possible. 

“jack,” you repeat, the noise coming out as hiccup and a moan in one. he leans over you, bringing your lips together again. “jack, please-”

you beg, though you don’t know what you’re begging for. but just like always, you don’t have to say it for jack to know what you’re thinking.

your nails dig into flesh of his back and you feel it—jack’s hips start to stutter, and he buries his face in your neck. he says your name and over and over again, until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, and then—

“please, jack,” you beg. “i want to feel it-”

jack moans into your ear, his hips finally snapping almost painfully against yours, until you feel his body tremble. he finishes, hot spurts of cum filling you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation. 

you can’t help but giggle when you feel jack’s body weight sink on top of you. it’s only a moment before he moves, but you think you could have stayed like that forever. 

he shifts the both of you until you’re nestled comfortably next to him, his thick arm wrapped around you, your eyes shutting again as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever.

“i think it stopped raining,” jack says, and you sigh against him.

“can you stay?” you look up to meet his eyes. he doesn’t give you an answer just yet, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips instead. you smile at him and he smiles back.

you lean your head against his chest.

“of course i can.”

“jack?” you ask quietly a few moments later, from your place in his arms. 

“yeah, kid?”

“do i still have to go back to the day shift?”

“no, kid. don’t worry about it right now.”

“okay,” you agree quietly. “jack?”

“yeah, sweetheart?”

“can you help me put up the black-out curtains?”

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”