Park hadn’t ever taken time out of his elaborate schedule of reparations to the musculoskeletal system on the poor souls of Pittsburgh, to frolic between pop-up gazebos that had local grown produce and craft beer coming out of its ears. 

His downtime was, to be quite frank, still work. Park would allocate his free time to observing online lectures, assessments, case studies and then doing it all in reverse. If he wasn’t elbow-deep in work related things, he was taking a shot of dry protein powder and spending the rest of the sunlight hours lifting heavy weights in the gym—anything to prevent his brain from switching off. 

When he had read the note you inputted in his calendar app for the closest Saturday either of you had away from the doors of the PTMC, he turned his extensive research skills toward studying the ins and outs of a regular Farmers Market. 

The Bloomfield Saturday Market on Liberty Street. To be exact. 

Now, Park was well aware that he wasn’t just emptying out some short-term knowledge on bones and ligaments to replace it for Farmers Market wisdom; for his own personal interest. No, that was far from the category of Brendon Park’s interests. It was solely because you had expressed a keen interest in keeping the local community alive. 

It almost meant that Park was quick to catch on that he was satisfied with the idea of doing, well, anything for someone like you. (This including the Pilates class that had him limping around the Orthopaedics floor for a few days.) 

You met him at the entrance to the lot that the market was being held in on Liberty Street, in an outfit that conjured up a subtle expression out of Park in the form of a harsh gulp that made his adam’s apple bob. 

Park slow blinks at you, like some docile cat. “I could have picked you up,” he says as you approach him with a windswept look from the walk, “If I had your number. Which, I still don’t.” 

“Hello to you too, Shark.” you retort sarcastically, “Plus, what would lesson be learnt if I just handed my digits over?” 

“You spend ten hours on your feet at work, and you still prefer to walk to Liberty Street?” Park asks lowly, glazing over your jab, and walks at your leisurely pace. 

You chuckle lightly, “I don’t need you to take me for a ride, Sharky.” you spare him a glance, “I’m rather independent in that aspect of my life.” 

(He didn’t doubt that. Innuendo insinuated or not.) 

The two of you walk into the lot of the Farmers Market that had already begun a handful of hours earlier, where you give a handful of facts about the Bloomfield Market in its entirety, and Park listens intently—the softness he spares for you never extending past you to the smiley attendees on the friendlier side of the spectrum. 

Even with the stark contrast, between the PTMC, where Park felt the weight of being a renowned Ortho surgeon fall upon the expanse of his broad shoulders and the Farmers Market that replaced the high-paced clinical environment for a slow-tempo, sensory enriched stroll; it was you at the core of it all, that had Park’s whole, undivided attention. 

You spoke for the both of you, which Park liked, even if he was willing to dust off the conversational skills to engage with you. Hands waving with little regard to spacial awareness, you brought a newfound radiance to the already good-weathered day as you peered at each stall in passing. 

“Did you want something in particular?” Park asks when you pause at a stall that advertised their heirloom vegetables. 

“Actually, yes.” you smile politely at the owner of the stall, “I want to get some honey.” 

“Honey?” Park repeats as he scans the visible stalls for any sign of golden coloured mason jars. 

You straighten up with a glint in your eye, “It’s a little soon to be handing out terms of endearment, Sharky.” you painfully tease, “You don’t even know my favourite colour.” 

“It’s pink.” (The pink water bottle and pink crocs at work made that obvious.) 

“Cheat.” you respond.

Park lets a short breath of a laugh escape past his—usually—tight-lipped expression. That was also part of you that Brendon Park had grown fond of over the initial months of giving you the time of day, was the fact that you were so easy to disarm that exterior made up of concrete and bad moods.

You flash a bright smile at the sound of his low chuckle, your insides fluttering. Without much thought, you smooth the palm of your hand around his veiny forearm and curl your fingers around until you’ve latched onto him. 

Park doesn’t even flinch. His head still on a swivel to locate a honey stall, he gives a small tug to bring you closer to his side as you weave through the oncoming foot traffic. 

(So, physical touch was not off the menu!) 

Eventually, you find the stall of beekeepers selling honey that you had in mind set on—you even let Park take the victory of locating it, just to stroke his attentive ego. The stall is half empty due to popular demand of the variety of unprocessed comb honey, soft set or even honey mustard. 

As you greet the vendors, Park smooths a hand across the small of your back and bends to mumble in your ear that he will be back momentarily; his sights set far off in the distance. Which is great, you think, with Brendon Park’s reputation of being a razor-sharp toothed workaholic, taking an interest in a stall within a social event that was far from where anyone within the PTMC would plant him…it made your heart swell that something captures his interest. 

He returns a couple of minutes later as you’re wrapping up the process of buying some honey from the beekeeper passionate about his trade. Park stops your purse from leaving your tote bag, “I’ve got it.” 

“Don’t be silly.” you wave him off, which earns you a deadpan glare. “Alright, fine. Pay for my honey.” 

Park does exactly that, because that was part of intentions even coming on this recreational event with you. Amidst the fun of the fully booked calendar app, and the Cat and Mouse game you were enforcing in order for Park to syringe out your phone number; he was still in the mindset to impress you at any given moment. 

Brendon Park wanted you. Bad. 

A couple of inexpensive—to him, anyway—pots of honey was no skin off his nose, and he could see from his peripheral that you were smiling.

That was what it was all about. That fucking smile. 

“Thank you for that,” you turn to Park after taking the bag of honey from the vendor. “Did you find something to buy?” 

Park nods, “Yeah. Here—” he moves the arm that had been concealing a bouquet of vibrant flowers wrapped in brown paper. He gets a little nervous, which is a rarity. “—The lady helped me pick them. She said they’re zinnias, snapdragons and celosias, if you like any of them. All of them are in season right now. Colourful.” he adds at the end to tie up his flower fact-induced word vomit.

(Oh, boy. He was seriously exceeding all expectations.)  

You blink at the pink and orange bouquet, “You picked them?” your voice wavers with endearment. 

“Of course.” Park says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Part of you almost kisses his face silly in the middle of the Bloomfield Market. You go for the latter of pressing a kiss to his cheek—which you’re almost convinced Park moved a couple of inches so it captured the corner of his lips instead. Taking the bouquet from Park, you admire the flowers up close as he guides you towards more stalls with his hand planted against your back again.

For safety purposes, incase you lose each other. Not for the personal benefit of just…being able to touch you. Obviously. 

You let out a gasp, “Oh shit!” 

“What?” Park’s head snaps down to look at you. 

“There’s a honeybee in my flowers!” you point to it excitedly with your finger, as it collects pollen. “You know they’re a sign of good fortune?”

The first, with a blue sticky note taped to the corner of the frame with Clark’s chicken scratch writing that read: CALL MA, was a photo taken of Clark and his parents on the Kent Farm. A recent one that he had picked from the bunch Ma Kent had sent in an envelope with a heartfelt letter attached to the city of Metropolis, that her son now resided in.

The second one? A photo of you—with Clark, of course—that Jonathan Kent had taken on the porch of his home. A handful of years younger, faces slathered in mischief, the photo captured the essence of your friendship. Bunny ears behind heads, tongues stuck out with the stretch of Kansas land in the background. The same night that you laid in the tall grass on a gingham picnic blanket, stomachs full of Kolaches and Lost Trail Root Beer and the array of stars in the sky that beared witness to Clark Kent falling in love for the first time.

(The picture was initially kept in his wallet. Until it went dog-eared and faded.)

It felt irreversible, that tender fondness for you. Tucked between his ribs, it stuck to him like adhesive. An itch he was unable to scratch, because it would take a leap of courage—and the downfall of a friendship—for Clark to profess the harboured secret he kept in the depths of his heart.

Through the journey of self-revelation and denial, Clark had pinned his little crush down to the fact that you came with his history in the Midwest. He loved Smallville, Kansas and by proxy, it meant that he had to love you because you came with the property that provided a sweet warmth of nostalgia.

He was merely homesick! Not in love!

And, then, you visited Clark in the bustling streets of Metropolis, far beyond your comprehension of reality, and it began to slowly dawn on him that he didn’t long for his home on the Kent Farm; he longed for…you.

So, by the next afternoon after some prolonged admiration over a picture and under the guise of feeling ‘homesick’, Clark had made it in record timing to Smallville, Kansas. More specifically, the Kent Farm, in which he presented himself in his tailored suit—courtesy of Ma Kent’s nimble sewing work—and an apologetic smile when Martha Kent had to be scraped off the ceiling at the sight of her son sauntering through the front door, clutching a briefcase, as if he hadn’t been gallivanting the skyscrapers of Metropolis for five months.

One high-pitched voice down the phone, Martha cancelled all plans with her lifelong friend to visit the Farmer’s Market and stay at home to fuss over her son. (Some people were just born for the role of a mother.)

A plate of chilli and cinnamon rolls that Clark had eaten out of politeness rather than hunger, the family sat on both sofas in the living room with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon.

Distracted by the chess game at hand—with Martha as the referee whilst she crocheted—Clark had missed the sound of an old farm pickup truck coughing down the dirt path on the farm. It was only when the front door opened with force, that all heads turned on a swivel to see you in the doorway; eyes wide at the sight of your childhood friend.

As pretty as the day he had left five months ago, your skin had the sheen of slick sweat from the Kansas humidity, fingers curled around the punnet of fat strawberries from the Farmer’s Market, in which—coincidentally—had been the place you had heard through the grapevine that a particular Kent resident had shown face unexpectedly.

With a successful eavesdrop, it was just you and your punnet of strawberries against the world. Or, less dramatically, against the long line of customers waiting to be served that put a wedge between you and the discovery if the rumour mill had been spinning some honest truths on an average Tuesday afternoon.

Clark had once referenced the notion as: ‘Boots on the ground journalism.’ Metropolis lingo for being nosey.

You took a breath, “Well, I’ll be damned.” You stepped across the threshold casually, “Look at what the cat dragged in!”

Your blue-eyed target perked up and his father, Jonathan Kent let out a snort of a chuckle, a gentle shake of his head at your cool facade. He had always been fond of you, despite the bad influence you had on their rather tame son during your formative years.

Three steps round the sofa that Martha Kent was perched on, you handed her the punnet of strawberries; eyes pinning Clark to the spot.

“These are for you, Mrs. Kent. Hand-picked by yours truly. Although, I ate a few before the cashier weighed them.” Your tone nonchalant as you tore your attention away from Clark to press a kiss to the older lady’s cheek. When she foiled your white-lie with the question if the strawberries were truly for her, you answered with a shrug. “No. But, you know I don’t come empty handed. Ma raised me better than that.”

(If it had been socially acceptable, Clark would’ve dipped and kissed you right there.)

And then, the attention was back on him. Like an LED spotlight for interrogation. Because, he hadn’t told anyone he was dropping by, and you were usually the first to hear about his annual visitations prior to his arrival on the rural grounds of the Kent Farm.

Oh boy.

“You look like Metropolis threw up on you.” You said with a little venom attached to your words. Nothing objectively hurtful, more so an immature prod. A deflection.

Clark stood, tugging at his suit pants to cover his embarrassingly funky socks. “I’m a real deal journalist now. I have to dress the part.” With the long span of his arm, Clark tugged you in for a bone-crushing hug that translated all the missed you’s in one swift squeeze. He pulled back with a lopsided smile, “Don’t you like it?”

You stepped out of his warmth and gave him the once over. How could you possibly express your thoughts that the grey suit and pink tie did wonders for the level of attractiveness that Clark Kent sat upon. It would be a dishonour to your roots to feed the Metropolis ego. (You missed the plaid shirts and blue Levis.)

So, you settled for a hint of attraction with a devious smile and a flick of his tie that sent the pink fabric over his shoulder.

“I’ll tolerate it, Metropolis.”

Jonathan and Martha Kent shared a look.

Then the fire pit had been lit by Jonathan Kent before he retired for the night with his wife in tow. Who also happened to leave a packet of marshmallows and sturdy sticks amongst the bundle of patchwork blankets for you two to gorge upon, because Pa Kent was sometimes plagued of his own nostalgia the night he told Martha Kent he couldn’t picture a future without her being the centre of it.

With a singed first-try of a marshmallow at the end of your stick, the sunlight minimal in the distance and the sound of chirping cicadas—which you had learned to tune out—and other ambient noises, you and Clark sat together as if personal space was an unfamiliar concept.

(Very telling. In hindsight.)

Curls tighter from the humidity, Clark had forgone the Metropolis streetwear, and swapped for a white t-shirt that clung to his bodily assets in a way that had you occasionally peering from your peripheral.

You were a red-blooded woman after all.

He spun the stick between his fingertips, his thoughts deep in the amber fire.

“Good to be back?” You asked after some comfortable silence. You watched as Clark affirmed with one curt nod and nudged him with your elbow, “What made you come back so suddenly?”

You. Clark bit the short answer that lay on the tip of his tongue, nostrils flared as he found self-restraint in the stars dangling above your heads.

Without the stretch of distance that kept Clark away from you, the apprehension to be honest nipped at his Achilles heel, and it had ultimately succeeded in relinquishing his true intentions by biting at his weak spot. His head dropped back from viewing the expanse of the night sky, marshmallow now char which earned a soft giggle from the back of your throat.

Despite the symphony from your mouth; Clark chose to put his confession to the back of his mind.

Not on the first night. If things went sour, he’d have liked to have a couple of untainted days with you.

“Homesick.” Clark answered in a deep tone. And, then once again to convince himself. “Just homesick.”

You dropped your head to the broadness of his shoulder, “Glad you’re back, Clark.”

The next morning, whilst the morning dew was still fresh across the grass, you found yourself in the Kent household before the sun had fully woken itself.

You stood at the end of Clark’s childhood bed. A single mattress on a metal frame, one—evidently—four sizes too small for a man of Clark Kent’s stature. He was all shoulders and muscular limbs.

He was dead asleep. Face down, arm dangled over the edge of the bed with his fingertips brushing the wooden floorboards, mouth hung open catching flies with the additional attraction of drool on his chin. You had climbed through his window that he always forgot to shut, allowing him a couple more minutes of slumber.

It came as a surprise that he hadn’t heard you coming. Or the profanities that left your mouth when your clothing snagged on a nail protruding from the windowsill.

OK. You decided that the longer you stood and watched your friend sleep, the more absurd you looked.

Your boot came to the plush mattress, and you gave one swift kick that had Clark jolt upright. You grinned cutely, “Wakey wakey, Metropolis!”

Clark dropped his head back onto the flat pillow, a groan elicited from the back of his throat, “I thought we pinky-promised to not do the darn old school alarm clock?”

“Yeah—Well. That was then and this is now.” You retorted. “Anyway, you need to be up and ready in 20 minutes.”

“Why?” Clark peered at his phone on the bedside table. 7AM. Luck was on your side that love clouded Clark’s visceral reaction at the time.

You dangled your car keys on your forefinger. “Road trip to Colonial Gardens, Blue Springs. It’s an hour drive, and I need to get back for the lunchtime graze with my heavily pregnant and vicious mare.”

The light that came from the window made Clark scrunch his face up as he manoeuvred his body to look at you as you spoke. Dust particles floated around you, moving out of the way due to your gesticulate hand movements whilst you went on a tangent about the horse you cared for that was expecting her first foal any day; and how her bite was a lot worse than her metaphorical bark.

Golly. You were so pretty at all hours of the day. Clark would silently thank your parents throughout his visit to Smallville.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Clark blinked the bleary sleep from his eyes, “Yes.” (He had completely missed what you said.) “Pregnant horse.”

“You shouldn’t call Ms. Tracey that.” You teased mercilessly. “I said, Ms. Tracey—the one that runs Betty K’s—is getting those second trimester cravings and desperately wants enough jars of the wildflower honey to get her through this pregnancy and postpartum. So, I volunteered. Which in turn, means you—“ You nudged his side with your foot, “—are making yourself useful and tagging along.”

“How many jars are we talking?” Clark’s voice was thick with sleep. It was attractive enough to send a jolt of electricity through your veins. He lazily stood from the bed, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

You did the mental math. “Enough for you to put those biceps to use.” You paused, “This conversation is eating into your time to get ready. Go take a shower and meet me out front in…” You looked to the clock on Clark’s wall, where time stood still and waved it off, “Whatever. In fifteen minutes.”

Clark was ready in twelve. Curls damp from the haste preening, a plaid button down haphazardly thrown over a white tee and jeans, you had beamed from the driver’s side of your beloved green pickup that had enough rust to be classified as the colour orange instead.

As Clark shifted the passenger seat back to allow himself the privilege to extend his long legs, he caught sight of you outwardly staring at him. Admiring. Ogling. And, suddenly, he was rendered pink-eared and bashful beneath the syrupy tension.

White-knuckled and pushing down the lewd thoughts of a backseat escapade with your friend, you turned the key in the ignition and held out a prayer that the engine hadn’t made the decision to call it quits on the Kent Farm.

It wheezed awake and you patted the dashboard.

Clark chuckled. “This belongs in a junkyard.”

“Some of us aren’t in the Metropolis tax bracket for a new car, Clark.” Your tone laced with saccharine, “You treat my baby with respect or you can walk to Blue Springs in those shoddy red shoes.”

The red boots referred to as—quote, unquote—shoddy, were the same ones that he wore to save the city of Metropolis from miraculously falling apart.

In simpler terms: Clark forgot to pack others. And his office shoes looked silly with his outfit.

He threw you a petulant look, dimples deceptive when he tried to feign annoyance as opposed to your rather valiant one, as if there had been an underlying competition of insults to win; bouncing around the inside of your truck.

You both fell into a comfortable silence. The windows rolled down to embrace the breeze, your attention trained to the road—because you couldn’t chat your way out of another ticket—Clark would find himself observing you more than the scenic landscape surrounding you. The bright sun hit the dashboard and your features illuminated, emphasising a rare beauty you withheld in the entirety of Kansas and far beyond. You were humming along to a song that crackled from the radio of your car, fingertips tapped against the steering wheel that had gotten hot under the relentless sun above.

Suddenly—with his heart tank full on you—the plan to stick to a couple of days of radio silence on the admission of love to spare him the breakdown of a cherished friendship…Clark was finding it most difficult to keep his lips sealed.

He could feel the itch become more apparent. From the neck up. If he could just muster the courage—

The thought was cut short. “Alright, City boy. Welcome to Colonial Gardens. Home of the pregnant lady’s cravings.” Clark straightened up in the seat, the warm leather creaked beneath him. You tilted your head at his dazed expression and leant between the two front seats, your shirt riding up to expose a slither of skin Clark had once envisioned kissing downward on, and pulled an empty mason jar from the backseat. You showcased it, “You can pick some flowers for your Ma after the shock you gave her yesterday.”

So, Clark abided by your orders. Carefully curating a colourful bouquet of Zinnias, pink Dahlias amongst other flowers, for Ma Kent’s empty vase on the kitchen windowsill to brighten the room up with fluorescence and a gentle apology for leaving her unprepared for surprise visit; whilst you bought jars by the dozen of wildflower honey to ail Ms. Tracey’s acute cravings.

He carried the load of the jars in two wooden crates to your truck whilst you indulged in your own sweet-tooth cravings with two ice cream cones happily clutched in both hands.

“You want these in the back?” Clark grunted. (He had to keep up appearances of an average civilian at times.)

With your attention torn from your own ice cream, you witnessed the sleeves of the plaid shirt Clark wore, taut against his biceps that flexed beneath the weight of the crates. A singular curl fell out of its immaculate placement and drooped over his forehead, his pink lips parted ever so slightly to allow himself the relief of a small, raspy whimper. You were being led to believe that the gods had spared no mercy on your poor soul.

Kansas looked good on Clark Kent.

Distracted, the scoop of vanilla ice cream in your grasp melted enough, the uneaten blob making a splat against the asphalt beneath your feet, the sudden cold spits of cream hitting your bare legs; shaking you back into the reality before you.

It felt like a hard pill to swallow.

“Oh.” You stammered, “Uh—Yeah. Backseat. Please.”

Clark spared you a look of mild concern and nodded. “Could you…unlock the car?”

“Yes!” You swapped the cone into your other hand and dug into your pockets for the car keys. Relief washing over your face when Clark turned his broad back to you to slot the crates in the narrow seats in the back of your car.

“You want me to buy you another ice cream?” Clark called behind him as he fought with the wooden crates momentarily. He stood at full height again, the knowing smirk prominent on his stupidly handsome face.

You grumbled, “No. It’s the consequences of the Kansas heat.”

”We’re at the state-line of Missouri.”

“You are splitting hairs here, Clark Kent.” You waggled your free hand at him, “It’s hot. Ice cream melts when left neglected under direct sunlight. Don’t delve deeper into something here.”

Clark’s shoulders bounced whilst he laughed, his hands held up in surrender. “Alright, alright.” He sniffed, “Here.”

His forefinger and thumb plucked a pink Dahlia from the cool watered mason jar, the green stem wrapped in the fabric of his white tee to dry it off before he slotted it behind your ear with ease. His blue eyes drank you up, the pink flesh of his cheek bitten between his back molars to try prevent a wide grin spreading across his face.

You performed—as you always had—and posed. “How do I look?”

Like you belong in a photo for my wallet to kiss when I’m lonely in Metropolis.

“Floral.” Clark settled on.

You shoved his ice cream into his hand with a laugh, “OK, charmer. Let’s go home.”

The bouquet from Colonial Gardens had a positive reception. Sat pretty in full bloom, in a clear vase on the windowsill of Martha and Jonathan Kent’s kitchen, the pink and orange petals brought additional warmth to the family home on the farm.

Martha Kent had been nestled in the kitchen all afternoon. With it being Clark’s penultimate day prior to his return back to his second home, Metropolis, his Ma had insisted upon a hearty meal at the barely used dinner table.

She was also one to play matchmaker, and invited you along under the ruse of a ‘best friend must attend a goodbye dinner!’

You turned up somewhere around the time that the table was being set, in your best Sunday garb that had Clark crack one of Ma’s plates that she only brought out for special occasions. (He got a clip round the ear). The aromatic scent of barbecue brisket that wafted from the kitchen made your stomach grumble as you toed your boots off.

To further Clark’s inward turmoil from the mere sight of you beneath the glow of the warm lighting, you gifted his Ma with a handmade doily, made by the talented hands of your Nan as a gift to pass on to Martha; because your statement always rang true.

You never arrived empty-handed.

And, according to the acceleration of his heart…Clark found your generosity, wildly attractive.

Then, he was succumbed to two hours of torture. Situated across from you—albeit a privilege—Clark had to spend half the night stuffing his mouth full of brisket to prevent an overspill of a confession at the dinner table with his parents as witnesses. You weren’t helping matters, chin rested against the palm of your hand, lashes fluttering with a gorgeous smile as you listened intently to his Ma’s in depth discussion on the brisket she had been sweating over for the whole afternoon.

Knuckles rapped against the oak of the table, his left leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the table as he felt the familiar itch become rather bothersome whilst his blue eyes flitted back to you intermittently.

Clark was having trouble believing you were real. Sure, he had grown up with you, spent the past week joint to your hip, but perhaps it was the domesticity of it all. That any version of his future he had pictured, he had envisioned you sitting at the table in the warm glow, eyes glittery whilst his Ma doted on you like a daughter she never had.

Although, the one thing missing at present was a ring on your left hand.

Baby steps. Baby steps.

“Who wants a couple of rounds of Bullshit?” Pa Kent asked once the dinner had concluded with you assisting Ma on transferring the empty plates to the sink for a clean up later.

You called halfway out of the kitchen, “I do!” You reappeared with a smile on your face and Clark dragged the chair out from next to him for you to sit on. You added sarcastically, “Can you handle another loss, Clark?”

“If you don’t cheat.” Clark mumbled as Pa Kent passed him the deck of cards to shuffle.

Once Ma had sat back down at the table, there were three rounds of Bullshit in Jonathan Kent had won by the skin of his nose. The fourth round was where the revelation that perhaps you knew Clark Kent better than the back of your own hand.

Even amongst prolonged intervals where you were—figuratively—worlds apart, you still managed to maintain the knowledge of every corner of his being. The obvious ones, where he would flush a sweet shade of pink from his neck to the tip of his ears when rendered embarrassed, or how his eye-contact dropped to minimal when he was irritated by something said. These weren’t groundbreaking, but good to know in a game of barefaced lying.

Then came the more acute tells. Like how, on the rarest occasion, that Clark Kent was lying—never over something marginally important—he would sniff once and his forefinger would tap against a surface, be that his own thigh or a table.

“Two Kings.” Clark sniffed. And then he tapped the table just once.

“Bullshit.” You called out, cards close to your chest. When Clark looked toward you in surprise, you narrowed your eyes, “You heard me, Clark Joseph Kent. Bull—shit.”

Clark blew out hot air, a hand rubbed at his jaw out of mild frustration that he had been caught out. When he reluctantly picked up the deck of cards, you openly rejoiced with your arms shooting above your head in celebration.

Ma and Pa laughed at the scene, Martha Kent clapping in response to her son’s satisfying loss at the game.

“You know him so well, honey.” Martha commented warmly. Amused. There was an underlying hint of mischief in her choice of words, but neither of you could prove it.

You bashfully tilted your chin to your shoulder, lashes batting in Clark’s direction which earned spluttered cough in order to coverup an uncontrolled whimper from the depths of his chest.

You patted his shoulder. “I suppose I do, Mrs. Kent.”

Nobody missed the way Clark looked upon you as if you had hung the darn moon. (Pa Kent quick to fire up the fire pit once more. This time, with even less blankets to share.)

And then, the night prior to Clark’s departure from Smallville came and it was a prime example of an initial failure to launch in words, but physical actions resulting in a more gratifying outcome. No, he hadn’t outwardly professed his undying—and potential unrequited—love for you. But the sentiment was there, all the same.

You were three beers and a little woozy whilst sat at the pond edge with Clark next to you, swatting at the pesky mosquitoes. Sitting atop of the same gingham picnic blanket from your teenage years, the two of you had been enjoying each other’s company for the last time for the foreseeable.

Or, until one of you caved and visited the other.

It all felt a little bittersweet.

Whenever Clark departed from Smallville, it felt as if you were walking around with one shoe and only half a blue sky above you. Tethered by a lifelong history together, it was hard to get the independence of your life moving with a crater in your chest from the absence of your friend; and vice versa.

There had been a hitch in his decision to leave. Because, if Metroplis didn’t have you, then what desire was there to return to the bustling streets? Sure. To keep the civilians of the city safe, that is what he was raised to do. It was at his very core to put lives before his very own.

But, you seemed to have a gravitational pull that Clark was starting to struggle to fight against.

“You wanna go for a swim?” Your bare feet kicked the surface of the water as you raised the question after some silence. You supposed, if you fluttered your lashes and tucked your chin to your shoulder; Clark would relinquish any rejection.

Clark frowned. “We—I don’t have any swimming trunks.”

“Me neither, Metropolis.” You stood abruptly, Clark’s gaze following up your body. You grinned, “We’ll do it old school. Come on. Last one in is a rotten egg.”

With little time for Clark’s objections toward it all, you tugged at the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head which left you bare chested, nipples already pebbled from the dip in temperature. Then came your shorts and underwear, your foot kicking them to the side with little regard to the idea that you were stood stark naked before your childhood best friend.

Clark shifted on the blanket. He wanted to avoid any accusatory finger pointing in his direction for mild perversions over human anatomy, so—despite his jaw slackened and fingernails drawing blood from his palms—Clark Kent found solace in the fluffy clouds above.

(The pink that crept from his neck to the tip of his ears was a dead giveaway.)

A laugh bubbled from your—very naked—chest before you broke into a sprint down the wooden dock and into the murky water beneath. When you resurfaced, you let out a sharp gasp, spluttering the water that you had inhaled from the shockwaves sent through your body from how bitterly cold the pond was.

Clark could hear your heartbeat and in an instant, he was stood with his eyes finding you flailing a little bit in the middle of the pond. There was no doubt if you could swim, Clark had seen you swim, and pretty well at that. But his judgement was clouded by the spike in your heart and his actions were immediate as he pulled the shirt from his body; jeans pooled at his feet before he dove in after you.

He got to you within seconds. Complete disregard to your level of nudity—again, Clark was all sense of the word mature—as he grappled the skin at your hips and raised you above water level and kept you there. Pressed to his own bare chest.

You pinched your nose to rid of the water before your hands came to his shoulders. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I just got a shock, that’s all.”

Clark huffed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Yes, sir.” You mocked, feeling the shock wear off, so you pushed off of Clark to create the smallest of gaps between your bodies.

The wet tendrils of Clark’s hair stuck to his forehead, droplets of water resting on his unfairly long lashes. It made you laugh softly, your hand coming up to brush the mop of hair out of his eyes; not without escaping the burning hot stare he had pinned to you.

His eyes dropped, and yours followed to note that your breasts were just above the waterline. (Not intentional, but if it were to help the train chug along, so be it.)

Your arms folded across your chest with a bashful giggle and that blissful noise that Clark had adored for, oh so many years, happened to be the gateway to his next movements.

Fingers wrapped around your wrists, you looked a little alarmed as Clark tugged at your arms, your body wading through the water to meet his body for a second time. He guided your arms around his neck, and free hands came to the meat of your thighs, silently hauling you up to his hips where you instinctively wrapped them around his frame.

Your bodies impossibly close, Clark nudged your nose with his own, hot breath fanning your lips before he allowed himself the painstakingly slow pleasure of kissing you. From the minute you made contact, it was feverish, teeth knocked, noses smushed to attempt to get closer to one and other. Clark let out a whimper, his tongue met yours in the middle and it sent his head reeling.

Skin bruised from how tightly he was clutching your thighs, you had forgone your pain threshold to keep the momentum of the kiss going.

(And, shit. He could kiss.)

It seemed with the last brick thrown at a wall that had been built over the span of your lifetime so far, the overspill of unspoken years of emotions had become an enormous wave. And, neither of you were willing to give the relief up so soon.

“Clark.” You whispered against his mouth, stomach in knots when his large palms grasped at the flesh of your backside. One hand came to rest against his cheek, your skin ablaze when he pulled back briefly to smirk.

He hummed against you, “Tell me.”

“I need—” You breathed, head tilted back as Clark kissed down the column of your throat. “—Holy shit. What do I need?”

This had Clark chuckle against your skin, “Take your time.”

It was dizzying. The way he spoke. The way he kissed. You might’ve allowed him full access to your body, if it hadn’t been in the murky water of the pond next to his parent’s house; in which, if looked out of the window correctly, they would see your heated interaction from afar.

Right. Of course. Parents.

You had to—regrettably—reel it in.

“Have you heard of those parasites?” You mumbled, eyes to the sky whilst Clark pressed featherlight kisses against your collarbone. “The ones that swim up your urethra?”

Clark halted. “No.” He blinked a water droplet away, “But now I have.”

“Yeah.” You shrugged.

“Do you want me to stop?”

No. Was the honest answer, but for the sake of public decency, you lied.

“I like this pond. I don’t want to have impulsive sex in it.” You curled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “But—I’d gladly continue in a hot shower?”

Clark beamed.

And with one additional kiss, and some wrangling of clothes back onto wet skin, you then found yourself stood in the middle of Clark’s bathroom in his parent’s home with steam billowing around your frame. You had made it in record timing, fingers entangled with Clark’s; hearts soaring as you fumbled your way through the home with a few hushed giggles.

It was all so adolescent. But, you had put that down to the fact that both of you had been patiently waiting for this moment since your own adolescence.

The room felt larger than you had remembered. With Clark’s broad back faced toward you as he adjusted the water temperature to—in his terms—scolding hot, because that’s just how you like it; the space between you felt sizeable enough that you suddenly missed the closeness in the waters of the pond.

You shifted from one foot to the other as you waited, suddenly aware of how the fabric of your clothes clung to your skin. How a person you had spent growing up beside could reduce you to a puddle of nerves, you weren’t so sure.

You’d put up a mighty good fight to conceal it, though.

“Alright.” Clark mumbled and turned back to you, “I think it’s hot enough.”

“Seventh circle of Hell, hot enough?” You teased, the joke feeling a little sour on your tongue considering how jittery you were.

Clark stepped into your space, his hands coming to either side of your face, “Seventh circle of Hell.” He repeated and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, his hand tapped the closed toilet seat lid, “Sit.”

You obliged and sat, knees knocked together.

Clark followed suit, his own knees cracking as he crouched to meet your eye-level, the sudden confidence that shone from within had you like putty left out in the sun. His hands smoothed down the expanse of your leg, straightening it out in order to remove your boots one by one.

He placed them neatly to the side, and then decided to cause a stutter in your heart.

Lips met your inner ankle and followed the trail of bare skin up to your knee, where his blue eyes shot up to meet yours. Clark looked—in simpler terms—submissive to the privilege of being allowed to freely kiss your body parts. When his kisses travelled further, your hand pressed into his drying curls and he grinned against your thighs; long fingers hooked around the fabric of your shorts to tug them downward for you.

You lifted your backside off of the toilet seat lid to assist Clark in the removal of your shorts. (You were sure you were seeing spots in your vision at this point.)

There was less of a care about your shorts than your boots as he haphazardly tossed them into the corner closest to the door, before diverting his attention back toward you. He made quick work to tug at the damp fabric of your shirt, you lifted your arms above your head and he pulled it off swiftly; leaving you bare in front of him once more.

It felt unequal.

“You’re still fully dressed.” You whispered, your own fingers fidgeting with Clark’s white t-shirt.

Clark hummed, “And, you’re beautiful.” He kissed you properly but left little time to melt into it. “Would it be so terrible if I were to admit that I have been in love with you for quite some time?”

“Hypothetically…” You tapped your forefinger against your chin, “No. But, save it for after the shower. I don’t want the grandkids hearing that you professed your love fully clothed and me completely naked.”

Clark kissed you again. And then again for his own gluttony. (He had waited this long. What was a few more stolen kisses?)

You gave a pathetic tug at the collar of his tee as he spoke, “Grandkids?”

“Behave.” You stood, fingers threaded in Clark’s hair whilst you laughed at his refusal to move. He pressed a kiss to your navel and you had to side-step to prevent any defilement in the middle of the Kent bathroom. “Come on, Metropolis. You’re wasting water on being a giant sop.”

Clark stood, pulling his own shirt over his head, pants kicked off for the second time that night. “Yes ma’am.”

His hands found your naked hips as you walked together into the shower that was far too small for both of your bodies to fit comfortably.

Amongst the muffled giggling and delicate kisses placed against searing hot skin; there was a confession in a breathy gasp from the euphoria met.

“Jack—” his name catches in the back of your throat with a gasp, “—Holy shit.” 

The bedroom walls capture the soft creak of the bed frame, the elicited grunts from the male beneath you; condensation trailing the length of the window from the time spent cooped up in the smaller room of the apartment. Anytime you inhaled, your senses captured the longevity of the intimacy that had your thighs slick with sweat, peeling off of Jack’s which each rock against him.

Hands on the broad line of Jack’s shoulders, you let yourself frown from the ache of him buried to the hilt. A good ache, you had to remind him as he watched you. 

Jack’s lips part, his bare back flush against your headboard that knocked the exposed brick behind it. Teeth dragging at his bottom lip, he groaned as you tilted your pelvis upward, fingers digging into the plush of your hips to ground himself—preventing him from thrusting upward as promised. 

He looks up at you, “Tell me.” 

“I can’t—” 

“No.” Jack coos, “Come on.” 

Chest now flush against his, you whine into the kiss you initiate just to shut him up. His teeth clang against yours, he then grins in that sort of smugness that irritates you. You mumble against him, “Shut up. Just get me there.” 

This puts Jack into an obedient daze. Fingers at your hips coaxing quicker movements out of you, Jack gets tunnel vision when he looks down to where you’re connected. This is the third time you had taken the older male for a spin that night—not because you had asked him, but because he practically begged you. His thighs burn from overexerting himself after a long-ass shift at the PTMC, only to have you folded in different positions to satisfy both of your never-ending greed for multiple orgasms. 

The bed rocks a little harder from desperation, silica dust sprinkling from the contact of the wooden frame against the brickwork. You draw yourself closer to Jack, fingernails dent little crescents into the skin of his shoulder blades whilst Jack sinks his teeth into yours; quick to soothe the temporary sting with his lips pressed against the angry mark. 

When you go silent against him, Jack takes one hand from your hip and tugs gently at the damp hair at your scalp. 

(You look beautifully pathetic.) 

“Ooh. There she is.” Jack croons when you squeeze around him. 

You were right there, on the precipice of a fourth orgasm, limbs tense from the steep incline it took to drag another one out of you. 

The sound of keys jingling in the front door knock it sideways, your eyes shoot wide open to see Jack staring back at you with the same flushed intensity. When the door clicks open, this is when you lean to the side, arm extended to reach for your phone that was placed face-up on your bedside cabinet—Jack steadying you with warm hands on your sides. 

The phone lights at a single tap. 

“Did you fucking snooze the alarm?” you seethe quietly. 

Jack looks as guilty as sin when he responds, “Do you know how insane it is to have an alarm set to stop having sex?” he pulls you back to him, “Nobody stops sex that they’re enjoying.” 

“I do!” you pull yourself off him, the emptiness making you both let out an unsatisfied noise, “I have roommates—who work with us, by the way. I don’t want the gossip mill catching up with—” you wave your hands at Jack, he quirks a brow, “—With this!” 

Jack watches as you tiptoe around your own bedroom, fingers curl around the fabric of the items of clothing that you had assisted him with pulling off. He’s a little vexed from the whiplash of you close to reaching a fourth climax, only to lose the gratification in an exchange for a quiet chastising for blindly reaching for the snooze button on the alarm you had set. Seriously, who set alarms for that type of shit? 

It happens every time you two get together. 

Stumbling against each other in an attempt to get to the bedroom, you break the searing kiss in a frivolous attempt to slap a time limit on your sexual endeavours—a time limit that was often ignored or snoozed. It made for quite the adrenaline-inducing experience, harbouring a secret that took the form of the decorated war veteran and Senior Attending at your current shared residency; from your roommates Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker.

(It was just by luck that Whitaker spent most of his time on the widower’s farm, so you weren’t so uptight around his lack of suspicions.) 

As for Trinity, well, her incredible sense of drive and inquisitiveness meant that Jack Abbot had at least two hours before she trudged into the apartment with a plastic bag full of poorly nutritional valued food for dinner and some chitchat to share. 

Her footsteps echoed from the hallway, and you hasten your actions, because you knew it was only a matter of time after Trinity’s routinely pre-bed shower; before she waltzed into your room without so much as a knock on the door. 

“Your leg, your leg!” You whisper at Jack, the swell of panic rises in your chest as you pass him his prosthesis. 

He chuckles lowly, “So, no massage?” he takes his prosthesis from you with a tilt of his chin. When you don’t reciprocate the same energy, he pulls his lips into a deep frown, “Alright. No massage. Just so you know, it’s for medical purposes. It needs proper blood flow. Amputee 101.” 

You bend to press a kiss to his lips, you pull back and domestically pat his face and say, “Once that goes down, you’ll have all the blood flow you need, old guy.” 

Jack grumbles, angling himself better to fit his prosthesis back on, his leg damp from a film of sweat and other substances that clung to him. The leg fits with a little resistance and it leaves him with a pocket of time to fight his black shirt back over his head, and watch you nakedly dash from one end of the room to the other.

There was this sort of, impending doom that hung neatly in the humid air when the time shared was drawing to a close. Jack had branded it as a sixth sense, one that had followed him from the frontlines and bled into certain situations that didn’t require a pit in his stomach.

The agreement had been oversimplified on many occasions. What this was, was two co-workers who shared the common denominator of desire from intimacy, with no strings attached—Jack being a widower, and you with an aversion to commitment made it a wonderful idea. You’d show up, get your fix and never stay the night; never kiss on the lips; a rule that became redundant almost instantaneously. 

A box, so to speak, to contain yourselves within. 

Jack Abbot found that box a little…cramped. He stretched his legs once, breaking the seal and the entrails of keeping his feelings strictly surface level; were unable to be shoved back in.

Jack liked you, more than he would care to admit. 

So, he invested his energy into fucking you within an inch of your life, mourn the ‘what ifs’ in his car and kept you drip-fed from your climaxes enough that he could trust that you’d come back for more—because he couldn’t risk the entanglement of feelings and lose you in the process. 

In conclusion: Jack hated the leaving part. 

You pull at your sweatpants and hobble to the door in order to press your ear against it, trying to get the green light to exit with a hiss of water from the shower head in the bathroom down the hall—Santos always lets it run with the door open to retrieve a towel and lotion. A now, fully dressed Jack follows suit, standing beside you with his arms folded and chin tilted upward as he looks down at the concentration in your face. 

“What’s your plans for tomorrow?” he whispers.

You raise your eyes to look at him, “Uh, shifting it at the Pitt. You?” 

“SWAT.” Jack shrugs, “Then nightshift.” he scans your frame from the top of your head, down to your bare feet and back up to your wide-eyes; a place he often gets stuck on. He murmurs, “Any special guests for the Fourth of July?” 

(He was so painfully obvious.) 

“Jack,” you warn, “We’ve spoken about this. Multiple times. We are free to see whoever we want to see. This—” you whisper with a finger pointing back and forth, “—Is fun. No strings attached, remember?” 

Jack holds his hands up, “Purely transactional.” 

“Don’t put it like that.” you rub a palm against his chest—something that would be considered a little too affectionate—before a wicked smile graces your face, “You know you’re my favourite.” 

“Make a guy feel special.” 

You retort, “Can you shut up for a sec?” 

The room falls silent again, aside from the faint hums from Trinity down the hallway. Jack can feel it as he waits, the weight against his chest that pushes the confession right up to the tip of his tongue; and this time, he can’t hold it back.

“I haven’t slept with anyone else.” Jack admits. You lift your head from listening out for the shower, you wear surprise on your features well and Jack is rendered to the shackles of regret. He attempts to smother it and fails. 

You tread carefully, “Jack…I—” panic burns your throat, “—You know what this is supposed to be.” (Even if you wanted it just as bad) 

“I know,” Jack swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “Sometimes I just think we’re better than all of this.” 

The shower hisses on. 

“I’ll—I’ll see you at shift change.” you mumble with your eyes unfocused. Your hand comes to the doorknob when you hear the bathroom door softly click shut, “Maybe, go find someone to add to your roster.” 

That makes Jack eye twitch, he masks the sting with his lips pulled into a thin line, chest puffed when he steps around you since the green light to escape your room had been signalled. He usually had about thirty minutes—give or take—before Santos  left the sauna she creates in the bathroom with zero air circulation. Jack usually stretches his loitering time to twenty-five minutes; but in this instance; he cuts it down dramatically. 

Another person to his roster. Jack wonders what length yours is at, if you suggest the same for him. Gorgeous, a tad smart-mouthed. He couldn’t be mad if it reached the floor, per se, but there were some mixed feelings about it all. 

He turns his head as you walk him to the front door, keys swinging around his finger, “If you want me to do that, I’ll do it.” 

“Yes.” you chirp, “I do. We need to drift apart a little.” (No, you didn’t.) 

Jack frowns and nods slowly. He doesn’t kiss you goodbye, because that’s the rules—even if he had broken them several times before—and you don’t lean against the doorframe to wave him goodbye, up until the moment he disappears into the elevator. It was all a bit melancholy, as if you had just finalised a goodbye. 

This feeling stayed with you, looming over your shoulder in the shower and as Trinity slides a cup of soup and sourdough bread over the kitchen countertop, sharing her two-cents about Whitaker and Amy. You chase the worry away beneath strained smiles and intermittent responses that has Santos look you up and down with that infamous curiosity that couldn’t be shaken off.  

“What’s up with you tonight?” She asks when she catches you staring at the front door. 

You blink and straighten, “Nothing. I’ve just got a lot of stuff on my mind.” Trinity tilts her head and a smile quirks on your face, “Babe, I’m fine. Just…going to have an early night. Carpool tomorrow?” 

“Sure…” Santos agrees and you slide off the stool and pad towards your bedroom, looking once of your shoulder to see her thoughtfully chewing on a piece of soup sodden bread. She narrows her eyes, “I’m watching you, R-2.” 

“Uh-huh, D-2.” you muse and bid her a goodnight. 

You flop your weight onto the bed, face down in the tousled sheets from the previous rendezvous with Jack. A groan of frustration is smothered amongst it, your hand reaches out to blindly locate your phone that had been left on the bedside table. 

The light from it makes your eyes blur before you focus on the notification from fifteen minutes ago. 

The pad of your thumb slides to open it. 

Jack (9:32pm): We doing this? 

No. You think. 

You (9:47pm): yup. get the roster going, abbot

You go to fling your phone, not expecting a response so soon. The phone vibrates in your hand.

Jack (9:49pm): Got it. 

If it wasn’t the text exchange last night that had your mood soured at the sound of your morning alarm—a different tune played to your sex time limit one—it was the text you receive from Jack whilst the sun was still rising over the city of Pittsburgh. 

It was about a female co-worker dressed in camouflage during the start of his SWAT shift. A hobby, he had told you. Jack let you in on the brief exchange he had with her, a sense of pride that he came across as interesting enough for her to hand over the digits to her phone number.

Roster, roster, roster. You had repeated to yourself as the pit in your stomach flourished at the thought; annoyed that the scent of him hadn’t even disappeared off of your sheets before he was off on a woman-to-have-sex-with escapade. 

Then the day went from bad, to downright worse. The water went cold halfway through your morning shower, you spilt coffee down the front of your scrubs—Whitaker offering you his abundance of spare pairs he had purchased since his first year of residency—and then, as the three of you carpooled in your beat up sedan; symbols began to light up and flash all over the dashboard. 

(You ignored it all the way to the PTMC car park.) 

All of this should’ve pointed to a bad omen. A premonition that your day was not going to get better, and the headache you were sporting was only going to get worse. 

This Independence Day sucked. 

Two additional residents, Joy and Ogilvie, were split between shadowing Whitaker, Santos and you. Joy was great. A bit macabre, but you two hit it off amongst the immediate shit-show that you had been flung into. Ogilvie? Tested your patience, knowledge and friendliness by stepping on your toes in front of patients and spewing out scripted knowledge at the worst of times. 

He was strike one. 

Then, as the day continued, the PTMC lost Louie Cloverfield to a pulmonary haemorrhage from the liver failure that had finally caught up to him. You stood by his bed in the Viewing Room, hand on the rails whilst Dr. Robby opened up about the secret family of Louie’s that he kept sacred to his heart. 

That had been strike two. You adored Louie, the type of patient that made the end goal more palatable. 

Strike three came in the form of camouflage and a bullet graze to the shoulder.

Dr. Jack Abbot entered the ED from the Ambulance Bay in a flurry of earthy tones and sweat. His attention on the patient he wheeled in—who also adorned the SWAT uniform—that had a high-velocity gunshot wound to the neck from a ropey shoot-out during a warehouse robbery; and was heading for respiratory failure fast. 

“That looks bad.” you mumble, more to yourself than to anyone as the SWAT officer wheels by you. Then in one swift move, you’re being guided into the fire by your Chief Attending, who was also—seemingly—having the worst day of his life so far. 

Robby cradles your elbow, “It is. You can watch.”

“Oh, goody.” you grouse, earning a chuckle from Dr. Robby. He guides you to stand across from Abbot and behind Dr. Al-Hashimi—a natural beauty with twinkling eyes and a good hair day. 

And then, Robby decides to throw a bit of gasoline to the fire as he suits up to assist.

“Scrubs are a little big on you?” he gestures to you with a nod, forehead wrinkles deep with judgement. You look down at your top and you were sorely reminded that you were sporting Whitaker’s scrubs that were doused in perfume to mask his scent. Robby tilts his head, gloves snapping at his wrists, “Not yours?” 

(What the fuck.) 

You shuffle as you say, “Uh…no. These—These are Whitaker’s.” 

This earns a fleeting glance from Jack across the patient bleeding out from his throat on the gurney. The room swells with unspoken tension, something you can’t address aside from widened-eyes and a prayer that Jack suddenly gained the power to read your mind. It’s not what Dr. Robby is trying to insinuate, you promise in your head; Jack only frowns and returns his attention to the emergency beneath his fingers. 

Robby passes you with amusement.

Shit-stirring bastard. His three-month sabbatical cannot come soon enough, you think.

They fly through in tandem with preventative measures to save—you soon learn, Officer Hiro’s—life with an intubation, treating the transcended trachea with promptness prior to a visit to the OR. Dr. Al-Hashimi subjects you to a few quick fire questions and you succeed with flying colours and a sarcastic round of applause from Robby; all in fatherly-adjacent jest, of course. 

You loiter, as you so often did when Jack was around. Fingers pinching the latex stuck to your hands, you find yourself peeling the gloves at a painfully slow pace with all the ambition to catch Jack for a conversation about…well, his immediate succession in his roster. 

Yes, you remind yourself as he matches his pace alongside Baran’s, you were the one to enforce it. It was the principle! Your bed wasn’t even cold yet, and he was bounding around Pittsburgh in camo, finding other means for a good time.

Baran speaks first, “SWAT? Really?” 

“I suck at golf.” Jack retorts in a plain tone. 

Baran goes onto briefly describe her humanitarian work in a severe conflict zone in Kabul. The whole time they talk, you think, what are the chances that the PTMC shook the state of Pennsylvania and a woman who had a similar history, and was visually astounding; fell right into Jack Abbot’s lap? Apparently not that slim. 

You catch Jack’s eye over Dr. Al-Hashimi’s shoulder, which prompts him to state, “We should grab a beer sometime, share war stories.” he tears his gaze from you to toss his own latex gloves into the biohazard bin—along with your pride, you suppose.

Baran affirms his beer-related question, a pretty smirk that radiates against her olive skin before taking her leave from the trauma room. 

It’s all very romantic. 

Your attention miles away from maintaining spacial awareness, you bump shoulders with Dr. Robby who had been drawing up the procedure notes for Officer Hiro’s case. It’s enough to halt his typing, an apology quick to form in your mouth from distrusting his flow. 

He peers over the rim of his glasses at you, “You seem distracted today.” Robby gives you the once over, “Everything alright?” 

“Yes,” you say with a little shame behind it, “Just a little more observant of things going on today.” 

This earns an earnest chuckle from the back of Robby’s throat, his head shakes, utterly impressed by your wit. He is fond of you, not in the same way that Jack has shown you fondness with his head ensnared between your thighs; but there’s that familiar streak of softness when it comes to you. He begins to type the notes again and you risk the opportunity to peer over your shoulder to see Jack with his hands in his pockets, staring right back at you.

Robby cuts through to you, “Can we take our enhanced observance to another patient, perhaps?” 

“Yes, boss.” you chirp with a two-finger salute and make a beeline for the door—relief washes over you from escaping the room—and Jack reaches to push the door open for you with one hand. You’re feeling petty, and shoulder the door whilst you coolly say, “Got it, Dr. Abbot.” 

He retreats like a dog with his tail between his legs, the door swinging shut behind you, leaving you to miss the ‘Ooh, brother.’ taunt from Dr. Robby whilst you make way to the board of patients prepped and ready for treatment. You decide quickly that your head isn’t ready for any of the list of ailments—despite it being the sole reason that you were doing your residency at the PTMC—and choose the easier route of some charting before Robby or Dana chase you off.

The ED is hot and bursting at the seams with patients assigned from Westbridge, Jack has already designated two of his roster slots, and you were more thrown over it than you’d care to admit. You think of it all as you sit across from Santos at a workstation. She gives you a gesture of a gun to her temple and pulls the trigger; at least you could count on your roommate to be sorely relatable. 

It takes all of three minutes for Santos to be pulled away from her own charting, in tow behind Dr. Al-Hashimi who takes on another patient through the sliding doors of the Ambulance Bay.

(You’re ashamed enough to admit that you did duck your head below the monitor, in order to not be yanked from your seat.) 

“You probably shouldn’t do that.” Abbot’s voice carries from close behind and you shoot upright. He idles up next to you, “Your gleaming recommendation just flew out those sliding doors.” 

You start typing alphabet soup up on a blank note, “I wasn’t going to ask you to do it, anyway.” 

“Ouch.” Jack sears in the juvenile burn, yet decides to stay put—he kind of enjoys having you as a thorn in his side. 

And you? You can’t help but care. Your mind goes back to Jack expressing that he had a bullet graze his shoulder from being shot at amidst the warehouse robbery. So, you ask quietly, “Are you going to get your shoulder seen to?” 

There’s a pregnant pause. 

“Actually, I was going to ask—” 

“Dr. Al-Hashimi? She’s busy with a seizing patient in Trauma Two. Sorry to break your heart.” your voice drips with false saccharine and you turn in your chair to continue your charting that had fallen behind. (Not enough to raise red flags for Al-Hashimi, but you were border-lining on it.) 

It puts a good wedge between you and Jack, you think anyway. He steps away without a sarcastic retort, leaving you to watch as he rounds the workstation; all that fiery awfulness returns to your stomach, because you sounded outwardly ridiculous; like a jealous teenager. 

Those days were supposed to be long gone. 

The rest of the time spent at the workstation— whilst intermittently ducking when someone like Baran or Ogivlie pass—is as productive as expected. Charting becomes a blur, and not even a good gossip session with Princess and Perlah mend the bitterness moulding around your heart. The Fourth of July shift was truly shaping up to be top three of your worst shifts. The top being the PittFest shooting, of course.

Dr. Robby is the one that finds you, his finger gestures upward as he instructs, “Up.”

You oblige, not willing to fight the ticking time-bomb, and follow him through the ED as he explains a case that he wants you to take a hold of. It feels as if your attention span has settled back into place, until you pass the—what once was—room of Mr. Diaz; Dr. Samira Mohan’s patient. With the door open, you take in the scene of Jack shirtless and Samira tending to the bullet graze on his shoulder. 

It throws you for a loop, even when it was clear to be an innocent assist on a hard-to-reach surface area of the body. Your steps stutter, the only saving grace of the immediate distraction was that Dr. Robby, too, bends a little to inspect the interaction happening between Mohan and Abbot. 

The cherry on top was Samira gently promising ‘our little secret.’ 

That’s where you cement the idea that taunting Jack Abbot to fall into bed with other women had, not only tremendously backfired, but unearthed the confirmation you had been seeking all along. 

No strings attached. 

It has you sulk for the next hour with Dr. Robby piling onto your patient load with every intention to push you to thrive under highly-pressured circumstances. In spite of your internalised turmoil over the Senior Attending, it doesn’t reflect in your bedside manner, even after your cheek is sprayed with the collateral damage of a decompaction that was led by James Ogilvie with Whitaker on standby. 

Santos is having her own version of a bad day, and you catch it in passing, the both of you linking pinkies with a squeeze before you go your separate ways; you to another patient with Joy, and Santos to the workstation to catch up on her charting and have a ‘roommate’ talk with Dr. Robby.

It proves effective as an imminent distraction from Jack to have your patient load increased, as well as having Joy as the say-it-how-you-see-it companion by your side.

You manage to fly through patients with concrete plans in place before you tip-toe back to the workstation to input your notes. It’s then that the CEO, Trent Norris,  emerges within the Pitt as a vision in offensively orange shorts and a crisp white shirt and the staff are gathered to be informed about the cyberattack identified at Westbridge.

Amongst his explanation and the occasional oohs and aahs from everyone—rather apt for the holiday—Jack saunters up to stand across from you, and you are left to presume he’s doing it to distract you.  

(He ultimately succeeds.) 

His black t-shirt that replaced the uniform is taut against his chest and biceps, proves as an eye-catcher for someone like you. It presents his bodily assets well, and you have a hard time not fully dwelling on the sturdiness that lays beneath the cotton fabric. The CEO’s speech is merely background noise whilst you admire Jack like a piece of meat; something he catches onto quickly. 

Jack lifts his chin and you swear he tenses the muscles in his arms on purpose. 

You scoff and roll your eyes. 

The non-verbal exchange is buried when Trent Norris advises that the computer systems are being preemptively shut down to prevent a cyberattack. The room descends into chaos and you’re sure that going analog may be the straw that breaks Michael Robinavitch’s back…just in time for his three-month sabbatical. 

Bodies move, blurry pictures are taken and Joy Kwon is labelled the saviour of the Pitt with her photographic memory. 

You help where you can and maintain the cold-shouldered approach whenever Jack lingers around you long enough to provoke a reaction. 

It’s Santos that sheds light on it as your shredding files—as if it were a two-man job.

“So…Abbot, right?” Trinity tosses the ball in your court. 

You smother the visceral reaction you have for something causal, “What about him?” 

“Oh, come on, R-2. You really think I’m deaf as well as blind? You two have been hooking up for, what, like three months now?” she remarks in a hushed tone, a quirk of her lip happens when you look exasperated, “It’s alright. Your secret is safe with me.” 

“What gave it away?” 

“The sex-stopper alarms.” Santos responds. 

You groan, “Those were mine. I calculated the times when you were at Garcia’s, or at the store and put a time limit to give us enough time to have him leave before you got home. It never really worked though. He called it weird.” 

Santos agrees. 

You continue shredding for a minute until Santos strikes the topic of conversation again. (Curiosity never killed this cat.) 

“Is he good?” 

You smack her with the papers in your hand, “Trinity Santos!” you seethe, heat prickling the back of your neck and ears in mortification. You mull it over, “…He’s exceeded all expectations, actually.” 

“I knew he would.” Trinity mutters, “The older ones usually have more experience with that stuff. If they care.” 

“Yeah, well, I think it has reached its final stages of life.” you admit sourly, your shoulders drop in a concoction of relief—in being able to openly talk about it with Trinity—and defeat, because Jack Abbot was slipping through your fingers from your own doing. “It’s a no strings attached thing, and he told me last night he hadn’t slept with anyone else. I—Ugh, I panicked and told him he needs to add a few more women to his roster.” 

Santos nods, “Which…isn’t what you wanted.” 

“Not really.” you vocalise for the first time, “I mean—He has every right to. In fact, he’s had no issue wracking them up and I didn’t think it would bother me as much as it has, you know?” 

“Probably because you have feelings for him, dumbass.” Santos cuts the fat out of the conversation. She looks to you, “What? Are you seriously telling me you don’t have feelings for him? Have you slept with anyone else during this?” 

The answer was no. The crux of the matter was that you also had not slept with a single person other than Jack Abbot after the first night you had sex together in the back of his car. You liked Jack, a lot more than you had been letting on, and when he mirrored your own actions with an admission that he hadn’t touched another person intimately; well, that was grounds for commitment—something that terrified you. 

Jack was good. He took care of himself by going to therapy, whilst taking care of others in his workplace and on the side with you. He’d kiss you with a purpose, and touch you in ways that felt like you mattered. In the grand scheme of things, Jack Abbot was a segment in your life that brought all that goodness from a relationship without it being a real, tangible commitment. 

The lines became blurry to you when his absence was met with hollowness; and you longed for that goodness to stay around for a while. (Maybe even overnight.) 

The thought made your stomach churn. 

You place the papers onto the desk beside you, and excuse yourself under the guise of fresh air in the Ambulance Bay. Only, you make a beeline for your favourite hiding spot within the PTMC: the supply cupboard for the cleaners. 

It’s cool, it’s dark. It doesn’t have that invasive overhead light like the other rooms in the ED do. 

Ten minutes go by before the door to the cupboard opens and you jump at the chance to make it seem as if you had been in search of a particular item on the shelves. 

On your tiptoes, your fingers siphon through the stock; only hesitating when the door shuts behind you with a soft click. 

You turn. Jack is stood with you. 

“Tag,” he prods you with a finger, “You’re it.” 

A sigh escapes your lips, “What do you need, Jack? I’m sort of in the middle of something…” 

“A stocktake of the supply cupboard?” he muses, “What’s going on with you today?” 

“Just..having an off day.” 

Jack sniffs, “A bad day, huh. In Whitaker’s scrubs.”

You turn on your heel, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Is that some sort of claim? Is he—Are you two…” Jack’s voice drifts off awkwardly as he finds his footing in his words, “Is Whitaker part of your roster?” 

You gawk, “Whitaker? He’s my roommate.” you fold your arms across your chest in defence, “Plus, you have no room to talk about claims here. Mohan?”

“Mohan?” Jack recalls as his eyes search your face, “What about her?” 

“I saw you two!” you declare with a hot strike of jealousy that does not get swept under the radar. You continue, “You don’t think I’m capable of helping with a bullet graze—or, or have a shared beer?” 

It goes quiet. 

Jack’s chest rumbles with amusement and you turn in frustration to glare at him. 

“Shit.” he drawls, “Is that why you’ve been chewing my ass all day?” 

“No.” Was the easier route for your deeply rooted stubbornness, you turn your head to the side and mumble, “I’m just giving examples of my capability.” 

“Capability.” Jack repeats. He raises a valid question in the next breath, “Not using either as an example, but isn’t this part of what you asked of me? Do some drifting, add a couple of people to the so-called roster?” 

You cringe, “Yes. But, I didn’t expect you to be so vigilant with it.” 

The smug grin from the night prior returns to his face as he tilts his head, “If we’re speaking statistics, I only have one from SWAT. How many do you have, sweetheart? Other than me?” 

His taunting—as well as the humidity of the room—draws the confession out of you like a clean tooth extraction.  

“No one,” Jack’s smile ebbs with immediate realisation. “I haven’t slept with anyone either. I just panicked when you also said it, because that makes us—” you gesture between the two of you, “—On track to something more than regular hookups. Something real and tangible.” 

Jack scratches the skin behind his ear nervously, “It doesn’t have to be, if you don’t want that.” 

“That’s it, Jack. I do want it. I want the consistent good thing whilst staying the night or, you know, without alarms.” you blurt it out like word-vomit, all over the front of Jack who takes the confession chunder on the chin—despite the emotional whiplash from the past 24 hours. 

Jack inhales sharply, “What…is with your generation and not being upfront?” 

“My generation?” you gawk and toss your hand out in front of you, “What about yours? I thought you guys were all for tossing your jackets over puddles for us. You haven’t exactly been upfront either, Jack.” 

“You want me to toss my jacket over the puddle you’ve made crying over me in this damn supply cupboard?” Jack decides to tease, which makes you narrow your eyes at him. He takes a step into your space, his voice low as he speaks, “We both agree we’re better than the hookups—not that they haven’t been great—but we can do the in the middle stuff. I’ll take you for a beer, you can patch me up after a day at my hobby. I’ll even stay the night.” 

He looks to you for confirmation. 

You pick at imaginary lint on his t-shirt, “Okay…” 

“Yeah?” Jack dips his head to meet your eyes, warming instantaneously when you catch his gaze, “Sounds like fun.” 

“No more roster.” you can’t think straight, dizzy from the supply cupboard confessional. 

Jack smooths the crease between your brow, “Are you kidding me? You’re like lightening in a bottle. Didn’t need that roster shit. Which, by the way, would’ve been easy for a guy like me to muster up.” he then adds as you revolt, “If I cared. But I didn’t.”

(All bad feelings and the three strikes throughout the day relinquish in that moment.) 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his cotton t-shirt, his own warm hands coming to hold them in place for a moment. You could lean up and kiss him, it’d be reckless but exhilarating; much like the secret keeping from your two roommates and the entire PTMC, if they cared to look in your direction. 

Jack nudges your nose with his own and smiles before pulling away, “Alright. No kissing on company time. I want to show you how this fax machine works.” 

You exit the supply cupboard five minutes apart, and you spend the entirety of Jack’s explanation of how the fax machine works with your chin in your palm; radiant from the sudden breakthrough between the pair of you. 

It’s only when Santos passes you, does it really seep into your bones. 

She dips her head and jokes, “I’ll make myself scarce tonight. Heard the two of you are in the holiday spirit.”

Well, that sucked. 

By the time Pope gets back, the rush has leeched out, leaving only that deep-kernel ache that seats itself behind his eyes and chews on the hinges of his knees.

Two straight hours of Craig’s bullshit. Handling one of his messes: steal a box truck, ditch it by the frontage weeds, ferry a duffel that sloshes like loose change in hell.

And that kid — peach-fuzz jaw, barely old enough to drive, hands rattling on the wheel — kept chirping, They get the plate? You think the cops got the plate? Until Pope finally told him to Shut the fuck up. 

It should’ve been simple. And it was. But now his shoulders have ratcheted up to his ears, boots scraped with dried roadside clay, and something electric still zings along the wire of his veins, buzzing rest right out of reach even while his muscles sag for it. 

He ought to drive to his own apartment. Strip, shower, face-plant into bed. Instead, he hooks the wheel into Smurf’s driveway, jaw hooking and unhooking as the tires snap and grind.

His place has felt wrong lately. Like stepping into a church long after the candles are snuffed, all the heat siphoned off, air too neat, too unlived-in.

He skips the confession that he knew you’d be here tonight.

You’d told him earlier you were going over to Smurf’s after dinner, helping finish month-end paperwork for one of the Cody businesses because half the receipts were missing, the books didn’t match, and Smurf liked having someone patient enough to untangle the mess without asking too many questions. 

Pope kills the engine and sits there for a second, both fists locked on the wheel, eyes tracking the jaundiced porch light as if it might blink out. 

The notion of finding you perched on the counter, hair pulled back, tongue caught between your teeth while you tame Smurf’s math brings him a molecule of relief. 

Maybe if he can stand close enough, let that warmth bleed off you and into him, that static in his body will finally ebb.

But when he steps inside the kitchen he doesn’t find you there.

Instead the room is empty except for a lamp left on and a stack of folders spread across the island. 

He’s halfway to calling your name when your voice drifts down the hallway.

“No, I don’t know if this one fits right.” A heartbeat of silence, Smurf’s gravelly reply lost in drywall, then you again, soft and rueful: “It’s weird in the shoulders.”

His boots are already angling down the hall before the thought finishes forming. A prickle climbs the back of his neck. Pre-impact warning, he thinks.

He rounds the doorway and when he sees you, the whole room seems to swim in distorted colors.

Every sane impulse collapses into a pinhole centered on you. Balance? Shot. Vision? Down to one shaky frame. All he can do is absorb the hit and pray his face doesn’t show it.

You’re standing barefoot in the glow of Smurf’s vanity lights, one arm over your chest, gigglinh a little while Smurf fusses with the back clasp of a dove-gray lingerie set that leaves most of your spine exposed.

Lace webs your hips, throwing sparks of silver thread catching every twitch of light, sketching a glittered arrow that drags Pope’s gaze downward before he can marshal a single thought. 

His palms twitch, desperate to chart every raw continent of skin in front of him. He’s never seen this much of you outside a bathing suit.

His zipper strains as his cock twitches in his jeans.

And still he’s motionless, swallowing hard, worship curdling into something closer to panic because if you turn and see what’s in his eyes, you’ll know things he’s barely admitted to himself.

You twist, a startled little oh hitching out as gravity helps sink the lace a fraction to frame your breasts in shadowed leafwork.

Pope’s eyes bite down, brutal and starving, then wrenches upward to your face, forcing itself past you to Smurf.

She waits with that fox-like smile, the one that says she laid the snare hours ago and knew exactly which wolf would step into it. 

“What the fuck is this?” he barks.

“Langauge.” Smurf reminds, tapping your hip like you’re a showroom dummy.

“You got her parading around like that in the middle of the house?”

“She’s not parading,” Smurf corrects. “We were having fun.”

You hunch your shoulders like a breeze just cut through, never mind that the motion only lofts your chest higher in the fabric, and offer him a sheepish half-smile. 

“Smurf was just helping me pick out some… stuff,” you say, as if the word covers feathers and dynamite alike.

Stuff. Harmless, cute, nothing to see. At least that’s the story you seem to be trying to sell. 

What use do you have for lingerie? Especially the kind that looks like sin stitched up?

A boyfriend? Somebody you’re texting while he’s too busy mopping up Craig’s mistakes to notice? Far as he knows you’re not seeing anyone, but the idea of that sweetness wrapped up for anyone else pours molten lead straight into his head. 

“You don’t need —” he falters, fingers flexing like they might crumple the air — “stuff like that.”

He knows it’s a selfish claim. The idea that lingerie is pointless unless he is the one unhooking it, unless his mouth is the one to learn every inch of you that the fabric covers. Anything that decadent belongs behind a door he locks, the key warm in his fist, an invitation meant for him alone. 

Smurf lifts a single painted brow. “Need’s got nothin’ to do with it, baby. A girl gets to feel pretty just because.”

Pope scoffs. 

“She’s already plenty pretty —” His eyes flick to you. “ — you’re already… you’re fine without all this.” He swings his glare back to Smurf. “Whatever game this is, it’s not what you hired her for. Cut it out.” 

You wet your lips, nervously looking between the two Codys. “Pope, it’s okay.”

His name, or the semblance of it (he’s not sure you even know his real name at this point), from your lips while you’re dressed like this feels like blasphemy.

In an instant he’s seeing the bodysuit rolled down slow, edges snagging on goose-bumped thighs while you try to stay modest, him kissing away the apologies that rise in your throat, laying you back across the vanity bench so he can have his way with you. 

Sweat beads at his hairline. He pinches his nose, swallows broken glass. “Go put somethin’ else on.”

“Don’t bark orders at her,” Smurf chides, the words lazy.

He pretends he didn’t hear her; only when his eyes meet yours do they soften, apology threaded through the glare. “Go on, please.”

You nod at that and hurry back down the hall. Pope’s body tilts to follow the sway of your hips before he yanks it still until the bathroom lock snicks closed. 

When he turns, Smurf is already studying him the way a jeweler studies a flawed diamond, looking for cracks, head tipped, eyes sharp.

He offers nothing, no twitch of the mouth or flinch, just the blank slate he’s spent years perfecting. 

She finally concedes and pushes off the dresser.

“Think I’ll fix myself a sandwich,” she murmurs, “Try not to devour the poor girl before I’m back.”

Her hand lands on Pope’s chest in a mock-pat; he jerks away and she chuckles low as she saunters past him, heels clicking all the way down the hall. 

He wipes a palm down his jeans, trying to scrape off the phantom of her touch. 

Devour — that’s her word, not his. And as much as he wants to do that, what he feels for you is bigger than hunger.

It’s blueprints and scaffolding, a whole cathedral of intention he barely dares to name. Smurf can’t fathom that depth. She pokes at the surface and calls it knowledge, never understanding the miles of dark water beneath. 

The bathroom door creaks open and you step out, head ducked, hands smoothing a cotton sundress the color of lemon ice.

The hem flutters modestly around your knees, though you still tug it lower. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, a nervous puff of air. 

The word pricks at him. He wants to say there’s nothing to be sorry for, that the fault lies in his own head, in Smurf’s games, in every inch of distance he keeps for your sake.

A knot in his shoulders eases. “Don’t apologize.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, because after the way he’s treated you, how would you know you didn’t have to?

He presses the heel of his hand over his mouth, scrubbing like he could wipe the taste of the whole night away. His eyes flick to the dirt still crusted on his boots, grit he suddenly can’t stand around you, and scuffs one sole against the other as if that’ll fix anything.

“C’mere.” The request is low, ragged, and you obey without hesitation. Always a good listener for him. 

As you step into the slice of light between you, he lifts one broad hand, slowing it at the last second to straighten the twisted strap at your collarbone.

His touch is rough in theory, calloused pads snagging silk, but in practice it’s feather-light, reverent, as though he’s afraid you’ll bruise if he breathes too hard. 

The tiny contact is a fuse and a salve all at once. The instant your warmth bleeds into him the restless buzz he’s been carrying dims, a far-off generator finally cut. 

He draws back just enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t gotta let her play dress-up with you like that.”

“I don’t mind — honest,” you say, giving a tiny shrug. 

“I mind,” he says, the line grating rough. Even he seems surprised by the bite, lips pressing thin as he exhales. 

Your shoulders dip. “You didn’t like it?”

The downward curve of your mouth guts him. He curses under his breath.

“I… yeah, I liked it.” Too damn much, he thinks. “...It’s just the kind of thing that’s supposed to be private, y’know? Meant for one set of eyes.”

“Private as in… like, saved for a boyfriend?”

He schools his face, but inside he’s turning over every recent memory, searching for the invisible man who might already have his hands on you. 

“Yeah… like for a boyfriend,” he murmurs. “And only when you’re good and ready. Don’t let some jerk fast-talk you into giving him what he hasn’t earned.” 

“He wouldn’t,” you say, like the question never existed. 

Your eyes lift to his like you’re lining up a target, lashes barely fluttering.

There’s no shimmer of shyness now. Just concentrated fire, sliding over his cheekbones, jawline, the slight stubble he didn’t bother shaving. It feels like you’re pocketing measurements for later, mapping angles with the same precision he uses to load a round.

Hallway light glints off your pupils, then pools into rich shadow.

Pope’s next breath sticks in his throat; he isn’t used to being seen like this — like the whole world has funneled down to just him, and you’re perfectly happy living inside that narrow beam. 

And it’s strange when you just confirmed his suspicions. Proof there is someone out there who’s already earned that privilege, someone so gentle you can declare his goodness without blinking. 

It should reassure him. Instead it tastes like rust and gun-oil, sparks off a terrible instinct that wants a name, an address, a reason to break knuckles until the picture stops existing. 

Possession floods his lungs. He forces it down, masks the scorch as nothing more than a normal breath. 

“Good,” he manages through grit teeth. “Just… promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. People aren’t always what they say.”

Your fingers toy with the strap he’d fixed. “Promise.”

Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, just a flicker, before sliding back up, a soft smile playing at the corners as if you know a secret he hasn’t caught.

Something in it says the good man you vouched for is already standing here, but Pope’s too busy counting heartbeats to see the answer staring him down.

MARIA NOTE thank u for reading!!!!! u get a gold star and a juice box !! if u r craving more bunny antics (or want pope to suffer in new and interesting ways), requests are open!! and reminder that feedback feeds the gremlins, and the gremlins write the fics :-) 💛⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ 🌼