luna

eight months of saturday dinners and borrowed tools and jack says the hardware store on fifth is better and you'd gotten very good at being normal about it. pleasant. friendly. treating him exactly like what he was supposed to be which was your dad's neighbor and not whatever your brain had decided to make him.

the fourth of july party clears out slow, the way summer nights do, people filtering out in twos and threes until it's just you and jack on his patio with the last of the whiskey and fireworks still going off somewhere down the street painting the sky pink and gold. your dad had gone to bed an hour ago. neither of you had moved.

"you've been quiet tonight," he says.

"i'm always quiet."

he looks at you sideways. "not usually."

you look at him. he looks back. eight months of this sitting between you in the humid july air.

"jack," you say.

"yeah," he says. like he already knows. and sets his glass down.

he kisses you, one hand coming up to your jaw and tilting your face up and kissing you like he's been thinking about it since you got here and is done pretending otherwise. you make a soft sound against his mouth and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

"this is a bad idea," he says.

"probably," you say. "do you care."

"no," he says with the corner of his lips tilting upwards. and pulls you back in.

it happens on the patio chair, you in his lap with the summer heat thick around you and fireworks still cracking somewhere overhead, your dress pushed up around your hips. he gets his fingers in you first, two of them, thick and thorough, watching your face in the half dark while you bite down on your lip.

“you have to be quiet,” he murmurs against your temple. “your dad’s right inside.”

“i know,” you breathe. “i will.”

his fingers curl and promise dissolves immediately.

“hm.” he doesn’t stop. just watches you with those dark eyes and keeps going, like he’s got all the time in the world. “you’re soaked,” he says quietly. “already.” his fingers drag slow and you shiver. “think it’s because we’re outside?” he murmurs, mouth at your ear. “neighbors could look over any time. anyone could see.”

“jack—”

“getting wetter,” he observes. like he’s noting something interesting. “thought so.”

his free hand comes up to cover your mouth when you make a sound that’s too loud for a patio at midnight, and he keeps his fingers moving and watches you over it with an expression that is doing absolutely nothing to help you be quiet. (thinking of him doing that furrowed eyebrow thing he does, he’s so sexy gawd)

“probably get off on that, don’t you,” he says softly. “someone seeing.”

you bite down on his palm. he exhales sharp and presses his fingers deeper.

when he finally pulls you down onto him you both go still for a second. the tight stretch of him filling you so completely your brain whites out at the edges. his forehead drops to your shoulder. “christ,” he exhales, almost wrecked, hands gripping your hips hard. “okay?”

“yeah,” you nod. “okay.”

you move slow at first, finding the rhythm, his hands guiding you, and somewhere overhead another firework blooms gold and wide and you feel him so deep it’s dizzying, cock throbbing deep inside, your walls gripping around him every time you sink back down. he mouths at your neck, your jaw, muttering something low against your skin that might be your name or might be swearing, probably both.

“been thinking about this,” he says, rough, hips rolling up to meet yours. “since thursday.”

“only thursday?” you manage.

he makes a sound against your neck. “longer,” he admits. “didn’t think it was—” his hands tighten. “didn’t think you’d—”

“jack,” you say.

“yeah.”

“shut up.”

he does. he pulls you in by the back of your neck instead and kisses you properly, and you curl your fingers into the silver of his hair, damp at the roots from the summer heat, sweat gathering at his temple where the grey comes in soft. his tongue slides against yours and you suck on it gently, and he makes a low sound into your mouth like you’ve done something to him, hands pulling you closer, hips stuttering up into yours.

it’s so much all at once. him everywhere, inside you and against your mouth and his fingers curled in your hair, that you make a sound into the kiss that he swallows whole.

one hand slides between you to press his thumb to your clit and you gasp against his mouth and clench around him and he groans low and quiet into the kiss. the fireworks are going off in quick succession now, your breaths coming out as pants between the air you share, lighting the yard in bursts of color, and you come apart in his lap with your lips still on his, and he follows you over with both arms locked around you and his mouth pressed hard to your temple.

“best fuckin fourth of july,” you say.

he laughs. chest shaking under your cheek. pulls you closer. “yeah, sweetheart,” he agrees. “best fuckin fourth.”

"come here," he says. low and a little strained. his hands find your shoulders and he hauls you up his body before you can protest, pulling you into his lap, and you go easily because you always go easily when he does that. "glasses," you say immediately, before anything else. he blinks. "keep them on." something crosses his face - almost embarrassed, almost pleased and he pushes them back up his nose and says nothing.

you sink down onto him slow and you both go quiet. he's thick and warm and your body takes him in with a softness that makes your breath catch, that stretch of him filling you so completely that for a second neither of you moves, just sits there in the full feeling of it. his hands grip your hips. his head tips back and then comes back down, like he needs to look at you, glasses still on and all, flushed and damp at his temples and so focused on your face.

you start to move and his grip tightens. you feel everything. every, slow slide of him through your slick walls, the wet silken pull of your walls each time you lift and sink back down, your body warm around him. he makes sounds he'd never make anywhere else, almost helpless, sweat beading at his hairline, glasses slightly fogged at the edges. "good girl," he murmurs, almost to himself, watching you move over him with those dark eyes. "yeah. just like that."

"jack-" it comes out broken, a whine caught halfway, your lips parted, and he looks at you for a second and then brings his thumb to your lips, pressing it past them without a word. you close around it immediately, suckling soft, tongue curling around the pad of it, and the combination of that and the steady roll of your hips does something to you. you feel yourself get wetter around him, that slick heat pooling deeper, your walls fluttering and gripping him tighter with every drag.

he feels it. you know he feels it because his whole body tenses and he exhales sharp through his nose, hips stuttering up to meet yours involuntarily. you moan around his thumb and he presses it a little further, watching your mouth with dark glassy eyes, and you suck harder and grind down and feel yourself absolutely drenching him, so wet it's audible now in the quiet of the room, slick and obscene. your hand flies up to wrap around his wrist, holding onto it, gripping hard and keeping his thumb exactly where it is as you take more of it past your lips, eyes wetting at the corners from the fullness of it. from the pleasure. his cock thick and throbbing inside you, his thumb heavy on your tongue, overstimulating you. tears slip down your cheeks and he catches one with his free hand, tilting your face up, and looks at you through those fogged glasses with an expression so open it almost undoes you faster than anything else has.

"you alright," his voice drops, thick with quiet certainty. "i've got you." a pause, his hips rolling up slow to meet yours. "go on. take what you need."

you do. you chase it, rolling your hips faster, and he watches you and says "yeah. yeah, fuck. come for me" in that low wrecked voice and that's all it takes. you come apart over him shaking and he works you through it, thumb still in your mouth, hips moving in steady motion underneath you, murmuring "good girl, there you go" into your hair until you go soft and heavy in his lap.

he holds you there after, both of you panting, his glasses fully fogged now and slightly askew. you reach up and straighten them and he looks at you and almost smiles.

"still think they're cute?" he says.

"more than ever," you say with a grin.

he looks up and catches you staring.                                      

you give him a small smile. he holds it for a beat, returns it, quiet and unreadable, and then turns back to the conversation like nothing happened.

“there you are, darling.” your mom finds you before you can register what just happened, pulling you into the huddle. “come meet jack. this is dr. jack abbot, remember? i told you about him. he’s the one who was at the gym with your father when he had that small stroke. kept him stable until the ambulance came.”

you did remember. vaguely. your mom had mentioned him a few times over the phone during those scary first few days, always with this tone like she wanted you to know he was one of the good ones. she’d also, at some point, let slip that he was quite handsome for his age which had made you curious enough to look him up.

you’d found almost nothing. a blurry photo from some hospital gala where he was younger, dark haired, barely recognizable. another from an award ceremony, grainy and poorly lit, his face half turned from the camera. you’d closed the tab and thought nothing more of it.

the man standing in front of you now had not been adequately prepared for.

you reach your hand out. his is warm, large, engulfing your palm easily. the touch moves through you faster than it should.

“nice to meet you,” you say, and you mean it more than is appropriate.

he looks at you the way men his age sometimes do when they’re trying very hard not to. “you as well.”

your dad says something about jack being a veteran, about it being a meaningful weekend for him too. jack doesn’t smile at that. just something solemn moving behind his eyes, confirming that whatever he’d seen hadn’t left him clean.

you think about that look for the rest of the evening.

---

you run into him at the farmer’s market three days later.

you’re standing at a stall debating between two bunches of peonies when you feel someone stop beside you. you glance over and there he is, in a grey henley and dark jeans, looking entirely too good for a saturday morning farmer’s market in suburban new york.

“dr. abbot,” you say, a little surprised.

“just jack,” he says, eyes moving to the flowers and then back to you. “visiting your parents for the weekend?”

“for a little longer than that,” you say. “you live around here?”

“ten minutes that way.” he nods vaguely in a direction. noncommittal. like he’s already deciding how much to give you.

you buy both bunches of peonies just to have something to do with your hands.

he walks with you for a bit, not quite on purpose, or at least that’s how he plays it. the conversation is easy in a way that feels unfair. he asks about your masters, what you studied, what you’re doing now. he listens like he’s genuinely curious about you, takes his time without interruption. you learn he’s been in suburban new york for a few years, that he left his practice in the city after his wife passed, that he has his own little clinic now because apparently that’s what you do when you’re trying to build a quieter life.

he says it nonchalantly and you don’t press for more.

when you reach the end of the market he stops and you stop with him.

“i’ll see you around,” he says. not a question exactly. more like something he’s hoping for.

“probably,” you say.

he almost smiles. almost.

---

you see him twice more before the dinner.

once at your parents’ house when he stops by to drop something off for your dad, catching you in the kitchen in an oversized tee and sleep shorts, hair still messy from bed. he looks at you for exactly one second longer than he should before fixing his expression back to neutral and asking if your father is home.

and then once at the pharmacy, where he’s picking up a prescription and you’re buying face wash, and he ends up standing in line behind you and making a quiet comment about the brand you picked that makes you laugh, and then looks almost annoyed at himself for making you laugh.

he’s trying. you can see it clearly. the deliberate neutrality of him, the way he keeps his eyes from lingering, the way he keeps things brief and polite.

it makes you want to push.

---

the dinner is your mother’s idea. a small thank you, she says, for everything jack did for your father. nothing formal, just the four of you on a friday evening.

you wear a dress that you’d packed for no real reason. silky, short, the kind that sits just high enough on your thigh to be a problem. you tell yourself it’s because you felt like it.

you know that’s not entirely true.

jack arrives at seven. you watch him from the top of the stairs as your dad lets him in, see the moment he looks up and finds you coming down, see him look away just as quickly. his jaw goes tight, a muscle flickering there briefly before he smooths it over.

dinner is pleasant. your mom talks too much, your dad laughs too loud, and jack sits across from you being perfectly polite and perfectly composed and absolutely not looking at you any more than is necessary.

which somehow makes it worse.

you excuse yourself after the main course, slipping down the hall toward the bathroom. you’re washing your hands when you hear him in the hallway.

you step out and find him already there in the narrow hall, and neither of you move. the dinner sounds feel far away. the space between you is close enough to feel the warmth of him, and his cologne reaches you before anything else, something quiet and warm, and he’s looking at you the way he’s been carefully not looking at you all evening.

your pulse does something it has no business doing.

you reach into your pocket slowly, pull out the folded slip of paper you’d put there before dinner, hold it out between two fingers. your eyes stay on his.

he looks down at it. back up at you. and for a second, just one, his gaze drops to your mouth and stays there long enough to make your breath catch.

“i’m your father’s friend,” he says. his voice comes out lower than intended.

“i know,” you say softly.

he should walk away. you can see him thinking it. the war behind his eyes.

he reaches out and takes the paper instead, fingers brushing yours, and then he steps back and clears his throat and goes back down the hall without another word.

you lean against the wall for a moment before you follow.

---

you go back to the table and finish dinner and make conversation and laugh at your dad’s jokes and do not think about the hallway.

you do not think about the way he’d looked at your mouth.

you do not think about the way his fingers had felt brushing yours when he took the paper.

jack stays another hour, polite and easy and perfectly composed, and when he leaves he shakes your dad’s hand and thanks your mom for dinner. he glances at you once on his way out, brief and unreadable, the kind of look that gives nothing and takes everything.

“lovely to meet you properly,” he says.

“you too,” you say.

the door closes and you help your mom clear the table and go to bed and do not think about it at all.

---

a week passes.

you work. that’s the honest answer for what you do with the silence of your phone. you open your laptop early and close it late and fill the hours in between with emails and decks and calls that run long, the familiar rhythm of it steadying in a way you hadn’t expected to need.

it helps, mostly. you’d taken this break to breathe and somehow you’d gone and complicated it spectacularly within the first two weeks, so throwing yourself back into spreadsheets feels like a reasonable correction.

your mom keeps finding reasons to bring him up at dinner. jack mentioned he might come to the farmers market this weekend. jack was asking after your thesis topic, isn’t that sweet. you nod and eat your food and say nothing.

your phone stays quiet.

you start to feel that particular kind of silly that you really hate feeling. the kind that makes you want to be annoyed at yourself more than at anyone else. you’re not a girl who waits around. you’d handed him your number because you’d wanted to, not because you were expecting anything, and it had meant nothing, and you are completely fine.

your phone buzzes on thursday morning and you pick it up embarrassingly fast.

it’s your landlord about a leaking pipe in your city apartment.

you put the phone face down and open another email.

---

you go for a walk thursday afternoon because you need air and because staring at a laptop in your childhood bedroom is making you feel sixteen in a way you don’t appreciate.

the neighborhood is quiet and warm, someone’s sprinkler ticking in a front yard, birds doing their thing in the trees. you have your earbuds in and you’re almost feeling like yourself again when you turn a corner and nearly walk into him.

he’s coming back from a run, slowing to a stop, a little breathless. grey tee, dark shorts, the outline of his prosthetic visible below the hem, silver hair slightly damp. looking entirely too good on a thursday afternoon.

you look straight ahead and keep walking.

you hear him pause then fall into step beside you.

“hey,” he tries.

nothing.

“you’re ignoring me,” he says. there’s a quiet amusement to it that makes it significantly harder to maintain your expression.

you pull one earbud out and look at him with the most neutral expression you own. “can i help you?”

“you walked right past me.”

“i didn’t see you.”

“you saw me,” he says simply.

you stop. turn to face him fully on the pavement, squinting a little in the afternoon sun. “you didn’t text.”

he holds your gaze. “i know.”

“okay,” you say pleasantly, and put your earbud back in.

he reaches out and touches your elbow, gently, and you stop again.

“it’s not right,” he says, when you look at him. his voice is low and even, like he’s explained this to himself many times already. “your father is one of my closest friends. you’re his daughter. there’s an age gap that—”

“i’m aware of my own age,” you say.

“i know that.”

“and i’m aware of yours.”

“that’s not what i—”

“jack.” you say it quietly but clearly. “i have a masters degree. i have a career. i pay my own rent in one of the most expensive cities in the country.” you hold his gaze without flinching. “i don’t need you to decide what i can and can’t handle. i don’t like being put in a box, especially not by someone who looked at me the way you did in that hallway.”

something shifts in his expression. he looks away briefly, jaw working.

“one drink,” he says finally, still not looking at you. “there’s a place on 4th avenue. friday night.”

you look at him.

“no,” you say.

he blinks. looks back at you. “no?”

“dinner,” you say. “and then a drink.”

a beat.

“you’re negotiating.”

“i’m clarifying,” you say pleasantly.

he looks at you for a long moment. you watch him try very hard not to smile and almost succeed.

“dinner,” he says. “and a drink.”

“and you’re paying,” you add.

he exhales through his nose. “obviously.”

you put your earbud back in and start walking. “friday works,” you call back.

you don’t turn around but you’re fairly certain he’s standing there watching you go and doing that almost-smile again.

good.

---

he texts friday morning.

jack: should i pick you up or are you meeting me there.

you stare at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.

he confirmed. he actually texted to confirm, which means he’d been thinking about it, which means he hadn’t spent the week being perfectly unbothered the way you’d assumed he had. and he’d offered to pick you up. like it was a real date. like he was going to come to your parents’ front door and walk you to his car and—

you put your phone face down on the bed.

get it together, you tell yourself.

you pick it up again.

but he’d offered to pick you up. that’s a thing a gentleman does. a thoughtful person. and he’s thoughtful, you’ve noticed that about him, the way he listens, the way he remembers small things you’ve said, the way he—

and he’s so annoyingly attractive. how does that happen. how does someone get to be that age and look like that and also be like that. it should be one or the other. it’s unfair is what it is.

you realize you’ve been staring at the ceiling for five minutes.

you: i’ll meet you there.

you put the phone down and go get ready and absolutely do not smile at yourself in the mirror.

you smile at yourself in the mirror a little bit.

---

the place on 4th avenue is small and warm, the kind of bar that moonlights as a restaurant. dark wood and low lighting and a chalkboard menu above the bar. he pulls out your chair and you sit and pretend that doesn’t do anything to you.

he orders without looking at the menu. you notice that but don’t say anything.

it starts careful. he already knows the broad strokes of your masters from the farmer’s market, so he asks something different tonight. what you actually want to do next, now that it’s done. where you see yourself going. you tell him honestly, more honestly than you expected to, about the job you’re good at but aren’t sure you love, about the version of your career you’re still trying to build toward. he listens with his glass resting in his hand and his eyes on you and doesn’t once look at his phone.

“and now you’re here,” he says.

“now i’m here,” you agree. “taking a break. or trying to. i’m still working remotely so it’s not quite a break.”

“doesn’t sound like much of a rest.”

you think about it honestly. “it’s getting there.”

he nods like he understands that specific kind of tired. you get the feeling he does.

you ask about medicine, what made him choose it, whether he ever wanted something different. he thinks before he answers, which you like about him, the absence of automatic responses.

“lost a close friend when i was young,” he says simply. “couldn’t do anything. felt like i should have been able to.” he turns his glass once. “so i decided i’d learn how.”

“and the army?”

“enlisted after my first year of pre-med. served as a combat medic for two tours.” a brief pause. “finished my degree when i came back.”

he says it with the flatness of someone who has made peace with something that didn’t deserve it. you don’t push. just let it settle between you the way it needs to.

you talk about other things after that. easier things. he asks about the city, whether you miss it yet, and you tell him honestly that you miss the noise more than you expected to. he tells you he grew up in boston, that new york had always felt like someone else’s city even after years of living there. you ask what suburban new york feels like and he thinks about it for a moment.

“quieter,” he says. “in a way i needed.”

you ask him what he does with the quiet and he says he reads, mostly. medical journals, some fiction. runs in the mornings. you tell him that sounds very disciplined and he looks at you with something dry.

“you say that like it’s an insult.”

“i say it like it’s very you,” you say, and he looks at you for a moment like he’s trying to decide what to do with that.

the conversation moves like that all evening, one thing leading naturally into the next, barely any effort. you forget to check your phone. you forget to be nervous. you just talk, and he talks, and at some point you realize you’re leaning forward with your chin in your hand and he’s leaning forward too and the space between you has gotten smaller without either of you deciding it.

at some point the bar fills in around you. the dinner crowd thinning and the drinks crowd arriving, louder, livelier, music turned up a notch. someone laughs too hard at the bar. a group spills in through the door bringing the warm night air with them.

you and jack don’t notice any of it.

it’s only when he glances around and then back at you that you realize how late it’s gotten.

“i’ll just use the bathroom,” he says, pushing his chair back. “be right back.”

you watch him stop at the bar on the way back. a quiet word with the bartender, something slipped across the counter without a word to you about it.

he comes back and picks up his jacket.

“ready?” he says simply.

you smile a little without meaning to. “yeah,” you say. “let’s go.”

---

the night air is warm with a slight breeze when you step outside. you pull your jacket loosely around your shoulders and say “i had a really good time” and mean it completely and then immediately start wondering if it sounded too eager. you fall into step beside him on the pavement and the silence is comfortable but your brain is doing that thing where it replays the whole evening looking for something to be anxious about and finding too many candidates.

did it go well. it felt like it went well. he paid without making it a thing which was. god that was sweet. but he hasn’t said anything since we left and maybe that means—

“you’ve gone somewhere,” he says.

you blink. look up at him. “what?”

“just now.” he glances at you, steady. “where’d you go?”

your mouth opens. closes. “nowhere,” you say.

he looks at you for a moment in that way he has, like he can see straight through the word, and almost smiles and says nothing and you feel your face go warm.

“do you want to take a walk,” he says instead. “there’s a park just around the corner.”

“yes,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.

he definitely notices. doesn’t say anything.

---

the park is quiet, just the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the street. the trees are full and dark against the sky and the path is lit by old iron lampposts and the air smells like cut grass and something floral.

you spot the ice cream stand before he does. a small cart tucked near the park entrance, fairy lights strung around the awning.

you stop walking.

he follows your gaze. looks back at you. that almost smile already happening.

“come on,” you say, already heading over.

he shakes his head slightly and follows.

you get strawberry cheesecake in a cup. he gets dark chocolate pecan, which somehow suits him completely. you both stand under the fairy lights eating ice cream while the warm night moves around you.

“here,” you say, holding your spoon out toward him.

he looks at it. then takes the taste, and his expression does something reluctant and impressed at the same time.

“that’s actually good,” he says.

“i know,” you say smugly.

he holds his own spoon out without a word. you lean in and try it and the dark chocolate hits first and then the pecan and it’s rich and warm and very him somehow.

“okay,” you admit. “that’s also good.”

“i know,” he says, and you laugh, and this time he actually smiles. quiet and real and just for a moment.

you look at him in the lamplight and feel something settle warm in your chest and think. oh. okay. this is a problem.

---

you start walking again when the cups are empty, slower now, no particular direction. the park is mostly yours at this hour, just the occasional dog walker passing with a nod.

you’re not in your head anymore. somewhere between the ice cream and the smiling you’d stopped replaying the evening and landed back in it.

he’s walking close enough that your shoulders brush every few steps and neither of you moves away.

you stop near a lamppost where the path curves and turn to look at him and he’s already looking at you, that careful composure doing very little at this particular moment.

you lean up and kiss him.

he goes still. one second. two. then his hand comes up slow and cups your jaw and he kisses you back, deep and sure, and you forget about the warm night and the lamplight and everything else.

he pulls back first. steps back slightly. shakes his head.

you groan softly. “i’ve never had to ask for things, you know.”

that flicker at the corner of his mouth. “so you’re a spoiled brat.”

“what will it take,” you say, looking up at him. “for you to just give in.”

“i’m not—” he stops. jaw tight. “i’m not relationship material. you should know that going in.”

you hold his gaze. “i’m not looking for a relationship either. it doesn’t have to be more than what it is.” a beat. “we’re adults, jack.”

he looks at you for a long moment. the last argument behind his eyes going quiet.

then he kisses you again. different this time. his hand gripping your face, consuming, and you grip the front of his jacket and let him.

he pulls back just enough to speak, voice low.

“the townhouse is two minutes from here,” he says.

you didn’t know that. you file it away for later.

“okay,” you say.

he takes your hand and you go.

---

the door barely shuts behind you.

his hands find your waist before you’ve taken a step inside, walking you back against the entryway wall, mouth on yours, and the kiss is nothing like the one in the park. that one had been careful, him dipping his toe in. this one is hungry, open mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours slowly, like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for a long time. you make a sound against his mouth and feel him exhale hard through his nose like it costs him something.

your fingers find his shirt buttons. his hands push your jacket off your shoulders and it hits the floor somewhere. something knocks off the entryway table, neither of you flinches.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, hair slightly messed from your hands, and the composed dr. jack abbot of dinner and parks and careful measured distance is completely gone. what’s left is just him, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room he’s done being good about.

he takes your hand and walks you backward through the darkened living room and sits down on the couch, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion, hands settling on your hips.

“jack—”

“here,” he murmurs, guiding your hips forward, then back, slow. “like that.”

your breath catches. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with an intensity that makes it hard to think straight. his hands grip your hips and move them again, that same slow roll, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it.

“you have no idea,” he says, low, almost to himself. his forehead drops to your shoulder for just a moment. “how long i’ve wanted this.” his mouth finds your jaw, your neck. “wanted you.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, chest heaving, lips swollen. his eyes meet yours, dark, pupils blown.

“fuck me,” you breathe against his mouth. “please.”

a groan tears out of him.

he flips you in one smooth motion, your back meeting the couch cushions, him over you, and his hands find the zipper of your skirt, fumbling with it in a way that is deeply satisfying coming from someone so usually composed. you reach down to help and he bats your hands away gently.

“i’ve got it,” he mutters, jaw tight, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling.

he does.

---

you wake up to the smell of coffee.

for a moment you just lie there, ceiling unfamiliar, sheets softer than yours, the morning light coming in through curtains you don’t recognize. then it lands. right. jack’s townhouse. you sit up slowly and push your hair back and look around the room.

it’s neat in the way of someone who lives alone and likes order. dark furniture, minimal, a small stack of books on the nightstand. a glass of water on your side that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.

you stare at the glass of water for a moment.

you find his shirt at the foot of the bed and pull it on and pad downstairs.

he’s in the kitchen. grey tee, dark pants, barefoot. you can hear the faint clink of his prosthetic foot as he moves around the stove with that same leisured pace as always. coffee already poured, two cups. eggs in the pan. toast just popped.

he glances over when you appear in the doorway.

“morning,” he says simply. like this is normal. like you wake up in his house all the time.

“you made breakfast,” you say.

he just smiles in return.

you slide onto the stool at the kitchen island and wrap both hands around the mug he pushes toward you and watch him cook and try not to feel too much about any of this.

you mostly fail.

he plates the eggs without ceremony and sets it in front of you and sits across with his own and you eat together in the quiet morning, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. outside birds are doing their thing in the backyard. somewhere a lawnmower starts up distantly.

“did you sleep okay?” he asks at some point.

“really well actually,” you say, and mean it. the peaceful dreamless kind you’d been craving for months.

---

you leave just after nine. he walks you to the door, and just before you step out he cups the back of your head gently and presses his lips to your forehead.

your insides melt.

“i’ll see you later,” he says.

you look up at him. “yeah,” you say softly. “you will.”

you walk to your car with his shirt smell still on your skin and the ghost of his mouth on your forehead and think. oh you are in so much trouble.

---

it becomes a pattern after that.

stolen minutes, mostly. a look across the room that lasts a beat too long. his hand finding the small of your back when he passes you in the hallway at your parents’, gone before anyone could notice. a text at odd hours that starts as nothing and becomes something by the time you put your phone down.

---

it was gathering at your parents’. a few neighbors gathered in the living room, some rosé for the women, beers for the men, your mom moving between guests with a platter of something she’d spent the morning making. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway.

you’re in a sundress, yellow, the kind that sits light on your shoulders. jack is there when you arrive, talking to one of your dad’s colleagues, and his eyes find you once across the yard, darkening just a fraction.

you go inside for ice an hour in.

the kitchen is quiet after the noise of the backyard, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of someone laughing outside. you’re pulling the ice tray when you hear the door behind you.

you don’t turn around. you already know.

his hands find your hips from behind, turning you, and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the usual careful composed kisses. one hand slides into your hair, the other flat against the small of your back pulling you in, and he kisses you the way he does when he’s been watching you from across a yard for an hour and has run out of patience for it. open mouthed, his tongue sliding slow against yours until your fingers curl into his shirt and you forget what you came in here for.

his hand moves under the hem of your dress, palm dragging slow up the inside of your thigh, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“is my girl wet for me?” he murmurs, low, meant only for you.

your breath stutters. you don’t answer. he finds out anyway, fingers pressing against the thin fabric of your underwear, and the quiet sound he makes against your temple is deeply unfair.

“jack,” you warn softly.

“shhh,” he says, and drops to his knees.

he pushes your dress up and hooks your underwear down in one smooth motion, tucks it into his pocket, and then his mouth is on you and the world narrows to the warm press of his tongue. your hand flies to your mouth. the other grips the counter behind you hard enough to whiten your knuckles, the noise of the party bleeding through the walls while he takes you apart quietly on the kitchen floor.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the thing about jack. he never rushes.

by the time you come you’re biting down on your own fist, eyes squeezed shut, shaking.

he stands up and fixes the hem of your dress back down like nothing happened. looks at you once, the corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk, while you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.

“i’ll give those back later,” he says, patting his pocket.

“you’re unbelievable,” you manage.

he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. presses a single kiss to your cheek and walks back outside.

you stand in the kitchen for a full minute before you follow.

---

he keeps his eyes on you for the rest of the day. not obviously. just enough that you feel it every time, that quiet heat from across the yard. enough to know he hasn’t forgotten.

you don’t get the underwear back.

what you get instead, after the last guests trickle out and your parents call it a night, is his hand finding yours in the dark hallway and him walking you to the downstairs bathroom and clicking the lock behind you both.

you’re quiet about it. mostly.

---

the dinner is a few of your dad’s colleagues and their wives, jack included, the type of evening that involves good wine and stories you’ve heard versions of before. you sit at the far end of the table and catch him looking at you twice, both times immediately looking away.

you wear something simple. nothing risky. you’re behaving.

mostly.

you say your goodbyes at the door, your coat already on. “i’m heading out to meet a friend,” you tell your dad, kissing his cheek. “i’ll stay over hers. i’ll be back in the morning.”

“i can drop you off,” jack says from behind you, already reaching for his keys. “i’m heading that way.” you were going to meet him anyway.

your dad claps him on the shoulder. “perfect, save her the uber.”

you smile. “thanks, jack.”

the drive starts quiet. lights bleeding past the windows, jack’s hand loose on the wheel, the low hum of the radio filling the space between you. comfortable on the surface. charged underneath.

you watch the road for a while.

then you reach across the console.

“don’t,” he says immediately, his hand closing over yours.

you do it anyway.

he exhales hard. pulls off at the next quiet stretch, a side road that’s dark and empty. he clicks the lock and reaches for the lever at the side of his seat and lets it fall back. then his hands find you and he hauls you over the console and onto his lap before you’ve fully registered the movement.

you land against him and his mouth finds yours, urgent in a way that pulls low in your stomach. you’re both pulling at things, his shirt buttons, your top, the zip of his pants, the graceless urgency of too much want in too small a space.

when he finally pushes inside you, both of you stilling for just a moment at the stretch of it, thick and familiar and so so good, your forehead drops to his shoulder and you exhale shakily.

“okay?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, move—”

you start to roll your hips and his hands grip your waist, steadying, guiding, letting you find the rhythm. the windows fog at the edges. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with that focused intensity that makes you feel like the only thing in the room.

then his feet find the floor and he starts thrusting up to meet you, slow and hard, and your head falls back.

“jack—”

“i’ve got you, darlin’,” he says low, one hand splayed across your lower back holding you close, the other pulling your top aside, unhooking your bra, his mouth replacing it, warm against your hardened peak. you dig your fingers into his shoulders and stop thinking about anything at all.

the radio plays on softly. outside the road stays empty.

neither of you are in any hurry.

---

you end up staying the night.

you hadn’t planned to. but the radio plays on softly and neither of you move and at some point the quiet of the car becomes the quiet of his townhouse and then it’s late and he’s pulling his shirt over your head in the dark and saying stay against your temple like it’s nothing.

so you do.

---

a few days later you answer the door at your parents’ when the doorbell goes.

you’re in sleep shorts and an oversized tee, hair up, not having expected anyone. jack stands on the other side of the door in dark slacks and a polo, his glasses hanging from the collar, looking entirely too put together for a tuesday morning.

you lean against the doorframe. “where are you going dressed like that?”

he looks at you. then very deliberately looks at your shorts. “golf. your father suggested i develop a normal hobby.”

“and you listened?”

“he’s very persuasive.”

you open your mouth to say something else when your dad’s voice carries from inside. “jack! give me five minutes, i’m almost ready!”

jack raises an eyebrow at you. you raise one back.

and then he steps into the foyer, glances once over your shoulder toward the stairs, and kisses you quickly. you feel his hand caress your jaw and then it’s gone just as fast when he pulls back.

“i’ll see you later,” he murmurs.

he steps back and straightens his collar. looks completely poised.

you are not completely poised.

your dad comes thundering down the stairs two minutes later, clapping jack on the shoulder, steering him out the door. jack follows, and just before he reaches the car he glances back once.

you’re still in the doorframe.

he smiles. that small smile, only for you, and turns away.

you stay there a moment longer than you need to before going back inside.

---

the phone starts buzzing an hour later.

it’s sitting on the kitchen counter where your dad left it, lighting up with a number you recognize from his office. you grab your keys.

you find them on the sixth hole. your dad spots you first, face confused, and you hold up the phone. his expression shifts immediately into the particular look he gets when something’s gone sideways at work.

he steps away to take the call and you’re left standing on the green in your tiny shorts while jack abbot turns around and takes you in with a slow once over.

“my dad forgot his phone,” you say innocently.

“i can see that,” he says.

“interesting shorts,” he says.

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“i know,” you say, and smile.

your dad reappears, phone pressed to his chest, apology already on his face. “jack, i’m so sorry, there’s something with the mcvoy merger, i have to go. i’ll make it up to you, we’ll reschedule—”

“go,” jack says easily. “don’t worry about it.”

your dad looks between you both. “she can drive you back—”

“go sort your merger,” jack says.

your dad squeezes his shoulder gratefully and strides off toward the car park, already back on the phone. and then it’s just you and jack and the open green and the warm afternoon stretching out around you.

he looks at you.

you look back.

“get a hole in one,” you say.

he stares at you. “i’m sorry?”

“hole in one, old man,” you say. “and i’ll make it worth your while.”

a long pause. he looks out at the green. looks back at you. the corner of his mouth pulling in a way he doesn’t quite manage to hide. he shakes his head with a chuckle under his breath. 

he lines up his shot with the confidence of someone who is very good at things he pretends not to care about.

it drops clean.

he turns and looks at you over the top of his glasses.

you burst out laughing.

he’s still giving you that look, warm and steady and just slightly wolfish, and something flips over in your chest.

“hole in one,” he says simply.

---

things fall in his entryway.

his keys missing the hook. your sandals somewhere near the door. his phone clattering off the console table that neither of you stops for because he has you against the wall with his hands under your thighs before the door is fully shut, your legs wrapping around him, laughing into his mouth until you’re not laughing anymore.

“you wore those shorts on purpose,” he says against your jaw.

“i have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” you manage.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, hair messed, chest rising and falling, and shakes his head slowly, a quiet laugh in his expression.

“what am i gonna do with you,” he says, low and gravelly, shaking his head in faux disappointment.

“i have a few ideas,” you say.

he carries you upstairs with your legs still around him, mouth finding your neck, the curve of your shoulder. he sets you down on the edge of the bed and steps back, reaching behind him to pull his polo off in one smooth motion.

you take a moment to just. look at him.

toned shoulders in the way of someone who has been active his whole life, with a softness at his middle. freckles scattered across his arms and chest, concentrated at the shoulders, the kind that come from years in the sun. a slight roundness to his stomach that makes him look exactly his age in the best possible way. silver hair dusted across his chest, catching the afternoon light. you bite your lip as you take him in.

his eyes are already on you.

his hands find the waistband of your shorts and drag them down slowly, dropping them somewhere on the floor. he straightens up and looks at you for a moment.

“touch yourself for me,” he says quietly.

you hold his gaze for a beat. then you lean back on your palms and slide a hand down between your thighs, fingers tracing down your folds, finding the growing wetness there.

he stands there watching, breathing a little heavily, before his hands find his belt buckle, unhooking it slow, shoving his pants down without looking away from you. his cock is thick and already hard and his hand wraps around it, stroking, eyes tracking every movement of your fingers, and the whole thing is so intense and quiet that your breath has gone completely unsteady.

then he steps forward.

he takes your wrist and brings your hand up and closes his mouth around your fingers, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact, and your brain short circuits completely.

he pushes you back onto the bed.

he buries his face between your thighs, mouth finding your clit with no warning, and your back arches clean off the bed. he works you open, tongue fucking into you obscenely, and you’re loud about it, louder than you mean to be, one hand twisting in his silver hair while your hips roll down against his mouth chasing more.

you soak him and he doesn’t pull back. just makes a quiet satisfied sound against you and keeps going like he has nowhere else to be, like this is exactly where he wants to be, until you’re shaking and your brain has turned completely to mush and your whole body is pulling tight.

“jack— jack i need—”

he pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth slick, eyes dark, expression perfectly composed.

“hm?” he says. “can’t quite hear you. old man ears.”

you groan. “jack.”

“sorry?” the corner of his mouth twitches.

“you know what i need—”

he tuts softly. “you’re going to have to be more specific, sweet girl.”

you huff, thighs squeezing around his shoulders, and he raises an eyebrow at you like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it.

“please,” you breathe. “please please just fuck me, jack, please—”

you keep saying it, broken and shameless, until he pulls back, rolls a condom on with steady hands, and finally fills you in one slow push that knocks the air clean out of your lungs.

---

the bed creaks.

he has your legs pushed up, knees to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, and you are folded so completely beneath him that the only thing you can do is hold on and take it. his hands brace either side of your head, eyes on your face, and he moves with a focus that makes it impossible to think about anything else.

the headboard finds the wall. once. twice. and then it just. stays there, a constant rhythmic clatter that fades into the background because there are other sounds now too — the slap of skin, your moans climbing higher with every stroke, the low sounds he makes when he’s trying to stay controlled and losing the battle. the room is loud with all of it and neither of you are doing anything to stop it.

“you’re doing so well for me,” he murmurs. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles over the swollen bud, and you make a sound that you feel in your whole body. “killin’ me, baby,” he grunts. your puffy lips stretched around him, taking everything he gives, and he looks down at where you’re joined and his breathing is shaky. 

his hips are losing that careful rhythm, thrusts getting shorter and more urgent, and you can feel him everywhere, the relentless drag and push of him, your whole body pulled taut around him.

“jack—”

“yeah baby,” he breathes. “yeah yeah, come for me. fuck—” his thumb keeps those merciless circles over your needy clit. “this pretty pussy’s squeezing me so good, can you feel that—”

and that’s it. you come with his name on your lips and your whole body arching up into him, thighs shaking against his shoulders. he follows right behind you, a low groan pressed into the curve of your neck, hips stuttering to a stop.

for a moment neither of you move.

---

then he carefully lowers your legs, pressing a brief kiss to the inside of your knee before he pulls back. you hear him in the bathroom, water running, and then he’s back with a warm towel and he cleans you up quietly, thorough and gentle, and you lie there and let him and try not to think too hard about what that means.

he tosses the towel aside and settles on the edge of the bed. reaches down and unstraps his prosthetic, setting it carefully against the nightstand. the room is quiet while he does it, a routine for him.

you watch him from where you’re curled on your side, still soft and sleepy.

“does it hurt?” you ask, voice still a little wrecked.

“not hurt,” he says. “just gets uncomfortable after a while.”

you reach out without thinking, fingers finding the end of his residual limb, and you massage there gently. he goes very still for a moment. then his hand comes up and squeezes your shoulder.

neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.

he settles back against the headboard and pulls you into his side, your cheek finding his chest, his hand moving through your hair in long slow strokes. he presses his lips to the top of your head and you close your eyes and breathe him in and think that this is a very dangerous thing to have gotten used to.

“i’m ordering thai,” he says after a while.

“okay,” you say, not moving.

he reaches for his phone with his free hand, the other still in your hair, and places the order without asking what you want because he already knows. you smile at that a little where he can’t see it.

the food arrives forty minutes later and you eat together in his bed, containers spread between you on the duvet, casablanca pulled up on the tv.

you groan when you see the title screen.

“you haven’t seen it,” he says, already settling back.

“i’ve seen enough of it.”

“that’s not the same thing.” he hands you a container of pad thai. “watch the movie.”

you watch the movie.

it’s good. you’re not going to tell him that.

halfway through you’re completely invested and stealing bites off his plate and he lets you, which is how you know he’s in a good mood. the lamp is on low, the room warm, the sound of old hollywood filling the quiet between you. he makes a comment about the cinematography at some point and you make a comment back and it turns into a whole thing and by the time you look up the scene has moved on entirely.

“we missed it,” you say.

“i’ve seen it forty times,” he says. “it’s fine.”

you laugh softly and settle back into his side.

you’re asleep before the ending. you don’t even realize it’s happening, just the warmth of him and the low sound of the television and then nothing at all.

you wake up to a dark room and credits rolling softly on the screen.

jack is asleep beside you, breathing slow and even, one arm still loosely around you. you lie there for a moment in the quiet of his townhouse, the distant sound of a car outside, the low hum of the television.

then you slip carefully out from under his arm.

you find your clothes in the low light, dress quietly, check your phone. 12:43am.

you lean over him. “jack,” you whisper.

he stirs. opens one eye.

“i’m heading home,” you say softly.

he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, still half asleep. “text me when you’re in.”

“okay,” you say.

you let yourself out.

---

the house is quiet when you slip through the front door, just the lamp on low in the living room. you’re halfway up the stairs when your dad’s voice comes from the kitchen.

“that you?”

you pause. “yeah, it’s me.”

he appears in the doorway in his robe, mug in hand, looking more tired than suspicious. “where were you?”

“out,” you say.

“with?”

you open your mouth. close it. look somewhere past his shoulder.

your dad watches you for a moment, something shifting in his expression, gentle rather than pressing.

“hey,” he says quietly. “i’m not going to push. you’re an adult, i know that.” he sets his mug down and comes to the foot of the stairs, looking up at you with that look he’s had your whole life. “i just worry about you, kiddo. that’s all. just want you to be careful.”

you feel it in your chest, that particular warmth that only he can put there.

“i know,” you say softly. “i am.”

he reaches up and presses a kiss to your forehead. “get some sleep.”

you watch him shuffle back toward the kitchen. then you go upstairs.

---

you’re in bed, lamp off, staring at the ceiling when you pick up your phone.

you’re in bed, lamp off, staring at the ceiling when you pick up your phone.

you: i think dad knows

jack: how?

you type out the whole interaction. 

jack: okay. let’s lay low for a bit.

you stare at the screen.

you: :(

jack: be good and i’ll reward you.

you smile at your phone in the dark.

you: tie me up?

jack: i just said be good.

you laugh to yourself, quietly. 

you: fine. deal.

you put your phone face down and close your eyes and fall asleep smiling like an idiot.

---

it’s been a few days since the golf course.

you text. not constantly, not in the way that would mean something you’ve both agreed not to name. just enough. a voice memo here, a late night exchange there, him sending you a dry one liner about a patient that makes you laugh out loud at your laptop and your mom asking what’s so funny from the other room.

you missed him. more than made sense for something that wasn’t supposed to be more than what it was.

you wondered if he missed you just as much. you didn’t ask.

---

it was game day. a few of the neighbors had gathered in your parents’ living room, beers cracked, the big tv loud with commentary. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway, the smell of something good coming from the kitchen.

you’re on the back porch when you hear your name.

“no way.”

you turn. marcus is standing at the sliding door grinning at you, older than you remember but the same eyes, the same easy smile. you went to high school together, lost touch the way people do.

“marcus,” you say, and he pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off the ground.

you spend the next hour catching up in the corner of the living room, half watching the game, laughing at old memories and terrible teachers and that one party junior year that neither of you should probably talk about. he’s easy to be around. always was.

you don’t notice jack until you feel it.

that particular awareness. like a change in the room’s temperature. you glance over marcus’s shoulder mid laugh and find jack across the living room, standing with your dad and two other men, drink in hand, eyes on you.

he looks away the second you catch him.

but you felt it. the weight of it. a different kind of watching than his usual.

you let it go and laugh at something marcus says and don’t look over again.

your phone buzzes at 9:43 pm, twenty minutes after the last guests have trickled out.

come over.

two words. no context.

you say goodnight to your parents, grab your keys, and go.

---

he opens the door before you’ve knocked.

he’s still in what he wore to the game, shirt untucked now, sleeves rolled to the elbow. you can see the definition in his forearms, a vein running through the muscle there, fit in the way of someone who keeps at it without making a show of it. he steps aside to let you in and you cross the threshold and turn to look at him and know. something is sitting differently about him tonight.

“jack,” you start.

“bedroom,” he says. “strip and get on the bed.”

you hold his gaze for a moment. he holds yours back, jaw set, unblinking.

you go upstairs.

you hear him follow a minute later. you’re sitting on the edge of the bed when he comes in, jaw set, eyes darker than usual.

“i said strip,” he says quietly.

“i know what you said,” you say. “i’m trying to figure out what’s going on with you first.”

a beat.

“nothing’s going on,” he says.

“jack.”

he looks at you for a long moment. then he crosses the room, tips your chin up with two fingers, and looks down at you.

“who was he,” he says. low and even, not quite a question.

oh.

you feel the smile start before you can stop it. “marcus?”

his jaw tightens. “is that his name.”

“he’s an old friend,” you say. “we went to high school together.”

his face stays still. but his eyes shift.

“strip,” he says again. “and get on the bed.”

this time you do.

---

the lamp on the nightstand casts the room in dark golden hues. he stands at the foot of the bed and watches you undress, unhooking your bra, sliding fabric off your shoulders, letting things fall. his eyes track every inch of you as it’s revealed, quiet and intent, taking his time with it.

you feel every second of his gaze like a physical thing.

he strips himself without looking away from you. shirt first, then his belt, his pants. the freckles scattered across his body, heavy on his arms, the slight roundness of him. you bite your lip as you take him in.

he looks at you for a long moment in the warm quiet of the room.

“did anything ever happen,” he says. “between you and marcus.”

you look up at him. “we kissed once. at a party junior year.” a pause. “that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“once,” he repeats.

“once,” you confirm. “it was nothing.”

he looks at you for another long moment. then he reaches forward and turns you, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one hand pressing firm between your shoulder blades.

you hear him behind you, the tear of a wrapper, and then his hands find your hips and he tilts your chin gently to the right.

there’s a mirror.

long, leaning against the wall, angled just enough that you can see everything. him behind you, broad shoulders, the curve of his body, hands gripping your hips. you, flushed and waiting. the two of you together.

“look,” he says quietly. “look at how good you look with me.”

you look. and then he pushes inside and your mouth falls open.

he sets a pace that’s different from his usual. not cruel, never cruel, but insistent. purposeful. his grip on your hips tighter than normal, fingers pressing into the flesh of you in a way that’ll leave marks and you both know it. every thrust driving you forward, the headboard finding the wall, that familiar clatter filling the room.

“fuck,” he groans, almost to himself, eyes on the mirror meeting yours. “such a good girl, takin me so well.”

you whimper. his hand moves from your hip to your jaw, thumb pressing at the seam of your lips, and your mouth opens for it without thinking. you suck on it lazily, eyes fluttering shut, clenching around him, and the sound he makes behind you is low and barely contained.

then he pulls back, flips you, hauling you up the bed in one smooth motion so your back meets the mattress. he hoists your leg up over his shoulder, the other hooking around the back of his thigh, and pushes back inside and the angle is different, deeper, and you make a sound that comes from somewhere embarrassingly desperate.

he looks down at you.

his eyes are darker than usual. not angry exactly. something more complicated than that. like there’s a purpose behind them, something he’s working through that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with you, and he’s groaning low with every thrust but his jaw is carrying something heavier than exertion.

he wants to imprint himself on you. you can feel it. the want of it radiating off him in waves.

and somewhere underneath all of it, buried where you can’t quite see it, he knows he needs to stop. that this isn’t — it isn’t — it isn’t supposed to be—

his thumb pressing down, rubbing tight circles against your clit, and your back arches clean off the mattress.

“jack—”

“yeah, baby,” he grits out. “come on. come for me.”

you do. hard and shaking, his name breaking apart in your mouth.

he stills. pulls out before he can get there, jaw tight, sits back on his heels. too far in his own head to follow you over the edge. he deals with the condom quietly, efficiently, like if he moves fast enough you won’t notice.

you’re too far gone to notice.

silence settles over the room.

---

he cleans you up without a word, warm towel, the same quiet efficiency as always. then he sits back against the headboard and you roll onto your side, cheek on the pillow, looking up at him.

you’re smiling. you can’t help it.

he looks down at you. reaches out and tucks a strand of hair back from your face.

“what,” he says.

“i like this side of you,” you say.

he looks at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth doing a slow losing battle.

“go to sleep,” he says.

you keep smiling.

“goodnight jack,” you hum.

---

he doesn’t sleep.

you’re curled against his side, breathing slow and even, and he lies there in the dark with the ceiling above him and his thoughts going in circles he can’t stop.

marcus. the way you’d laughed with him. easy and bright, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere comfortable, somewhere with no history of grief or war or bad decisions made in the dark.

he’s a good guy probably. your age. no baggage. no prosthetic leaning against a nightstand. no dead wife he still talks to sometimes in his head when things get quiet enough.

these past two months have been — he stops himself. doesn’t finish the thought.

it was supposed to be simple. he’d told himself that from the beginning. told you too. not a relationship. not more than what it is. just two adults who understood the terms.

but then breakfast happened. and the ice cream in the park. and you falling asleep against him during casablanca and him not moving for two hours because he didn’t want to wake you.

he’d said he wouldn’t give in. he’d said it to himself in that hallway at your parents’ house the night you slipped him your number. he’d said it on the walk when you’d called him out. he’d said it outside the restaurant.

and then he’d stopped saying it entirely.

he looks at you in the dark. the soft rise and fall of you. something clenching in his chest that he doesn’t have a name for and doesn’t want one.

he should put some space between them. before it becomes something it can’t come back from. before you wake up one day and realize you’ve wasted the best years of your life on a man who is held together with old stitches and careful habits.

he thinks about the sabbatical he’s been putting off for two years. three months. scotland, maybe. somewhere far enough that the distance does the work he can’t seem to do himself.

he makes the decision somewhere around four in the morning.

he lies there until six feeling terrible about it.

he’s careful getting up. detaches his prosthetic in the dim light, reattaches it quietly, presses a kiss so soft to your cheek you don’t stir.

then he goes to the kitchen and makes breakfast.

you appear in the doorway twenty minutes later, hair loose, wearing his shirt again, and something about the sight of you does exactly what he knew it would. you pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and he goes very still.

“morning,” you say, muffled against his back.

“morning,” he says.

he keeps his voice even. keeps his hands moving. eggs in the pan. toast just popped. coffee already poured.

you don’t notice anything. you’re too warm, too soft with sleep, too happy. you steal a piece of toast and sit at the island and talk about something you’d dreamed about and he listens and nods and says the right things and thinks about scotland.

you leave after breakfast with a kiss to his jaw and a smile that does something complicated to his chest.

“i’ll see you later,” you say.

“yeah,” he says.

he watches you go.

---

you drive home giddy in a way you haven’t been in a long time.

you spend the morning working from your childhood bedroom, laptop open, but your mind keeps drifting. to the mirror. to his hands. to the way he’d looked at you in the warm lamp light like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

he likes you. he has to. people don’t look at people like that unless they mean it.

maybe next time you see him you’ll tell him. quietly. simply. just — i really like you, jack. and see what happens.

you’re smiling at your laptop when your phone lights up on the desk beside you. four consecutive buzzes.

5:04 pm.

you pick it up still smiling when you see it's from the man who won't leave your head.

the smile fades before you’ve finished reading.

jack: hey.

jack: i’ve been thinking about us. what we had these past few months has been really good. more than i anticipated, if i’m honest. but i think we both knew this wasn’t built to last.

jack: the sneaking around, your father, the gap between us. it isn’t fair to either of us to keep going. i’m taking a sabbatical i’ve been putting off for some time. leaving tomorrow. a few months away feels like the right call. i'm sorry i couldn't say goodbye.

jack: take care of yourself.

you read it twice. then a third time like the words might rearrange themselves into something different if you give them enough chances.

they don’t.

you put your phone face down on the desk and sit very still. outside the neighborhood kids laugh. a car passes. the world just keeps going.

you’d been planning to tell him you liked him. you’d been rehearsing it in your head all morning.

you think you heard it. the moment your heart shattered into a million pieces.

one thursday she knocks on your door with a bottle of wine and says her plans fell through. you let her in because of course you do.

she sits on your couch with her legs tucked under her and you talk for hours, the wine getting lower, the conversation getting easier, and at some point you realize you've been watching her mouth when she talks and you look away and your face is warm and you think, with some alarm, oh.

oh no.

you've had crushes before. you know what this is. you've just never had one on a woman and you’re not sure what to do with that.

selina sets her glass down and looks at you and you wonder if she can tell. she probably can. she seems like the type who can tell everything.

she stands. smooths her coat. "i should go," she says softly.

“you don't have to,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

she looks at you for a moment. her expression softening.

“yes i do,” she says. and presses a kiss to your cheek, gentle and sweet, and lets herself out.

you sit on your couch for a long time after. your heart beats an unnatural rhythm at her affection. you’re fucked.

three nights later you knock on her door.

she opens it like she was expecting you, which she probably was, leaning against the frame in a silk slip and bare feet, and you don't give yourself time to think about it. you step forward and kiss her.

she kisses you back immediately, one hand finding your face, and it's soft and certain all at once and nothing like you expected and exactly like you’ve wanted the past few weeks.

you pull back. “are you sure?” you breathe, which is the wrong way around, and she laughs quietly.

“are you?” she says.

when you answer with a nod, she takes your hand and pulls you inside.

selina takes her time with you. she sits you on the edge of her bed and kneels in front of you and takes your face in her hands and kisses you slow, letting you find your footing, her thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

your hands find their way into her hair, fingertips grazing the short strands at the nape of her neck as you melt into her. she smiles against your mouth.

“tell me if you want to stop,” she murmurs against your mouth.

“i don't want to stop,” you say.

her hands find the hem of your shirt. she lifts it slowly, watching your face, and when you're bare from the waist up she just looks at you for a moment like you're god’s most beautiful creation.

“god,” she says softly.

she lays you back and takes her time learning you. her mouth moving down your throat, your collarbone, the soft curve of your chest. soft nips at your skin. cat-like licks against your peaked buds. her hands are different from any hands you've known before, softer, more careful, like she knows exactly where to touch and is choosing to take her time getting there.

when her mouth finally finds your clit you make a sound you've never made before.

her hands press your thighs apart gently. “stay open for me,” she murmurs against you.

you do.

she takes you apart slowly and thoroughly, tongue and fingers, reading every sound you make and adjusting, until you're gripping the sheets and your back is arching and the pleasure is so intense and consuming that you don't know what to do with yourself.

“selina—“ her name comes out wrecked.

“my pretty girl, mm, i’ve got you,” she says. “let go for me”

you do.

afterward she pulls you close and you lie there in the quiet of her apartment, her fingers trailing up and down your spine.

“you okay?” she asks.

“yeah” you hum. and then, honestly, “more than okay.”

you feel her smile against your hair.

“good,” she says.

“wanna do this again,” you say in her arms.

she reaches up to cup your face, looking at you with an expression so gentle it almost steals your breath. then she leans in and presses a lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back enough to whisper, “how about i take you on a date first?”

warmth rushes to your cheeks. you can only nod, hiding your face against the curve of her neck.