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"What would you say to a date?"

You turn to find none other than Dana Evans being the one with the absurd question. You're not even entirely sure where she came from. Suddenly she's propped up, hip against the desk, crashing your peace with that certain gleam in her eye that means trouble. 

This wasn't the first time Dana's complained about your singleness. The way your life consisted of the commute to work, the commute home, a cheesy romance movie, and bed. On the occasional wild day maybe you'd take a trip to a coffee shop, or an in-person trip to the grocery store instead of DoorDash. That is if you were feeling really adventurous. Somehow in those times though you've never managed to have some rom-com meet-cute like in all the movies you watched. 

"As flattered as I am, I was under the impression you were married!" You dodge not only the question but also her. Turning on your heels, you walk to the leftmost side of the desk, keeping your eyes down. 

Sure, a date sounds nice in theory. The same way a leading man chasing you through an airport seems nice in theory. But, if it actually happened you'd most likely pepper spray him. 

"Not me." She says dryly. "Maybe in my younger days though." 

You give her a sideways glance, which she's already giving you. The thought intrigues you more than you care to say. What you would give to know more about Dana's college days!

"I've got a guy for you."

"Dana, really I'm good. I don't have time to even fantasize about a date right now."

To you, a date was never a fantasy. They just never turned out right. Men would speak over you, or you'd intimidate them and it's a night full of awkward silences and bad company. 

However, you find the occasional times to fantasize about Jack Abbot.

Your crush on Abbot started slow and accidental really. A night off work for the first time in months. Which of course you spent doing the one thing you love most: turning off the lights, drinking wine in your pajamas, and watching whatever rom-com popped up first in your recommended tab. This night just happened to be Two Weeks' Notice. You'd seen it a thousand times and could probably quote half of Sandra Bullock's monologues. 

But, there was something different about it this time. Something about the way she was falling in love with her charmingly sarcastic boss. It seemed less like something you'd laugh at and instead it started making perfect sense to you. 

I mean Sandra Bullock is falling in love with her boss. Why can't you?

Somehow by the second glass of red, Hugh Grant's face somehow started to morph into Jack Abbott's. 

But, most of all it was the mistake of falling asleep during the fourth glass and the dreams that followed, guest starring a sexy doctor. 

As quick as this crush started, it was anything but quick to leave. No matter how much you willed it away. 

Sandra Bullock-esque rom-coms don't happen to people like you. Hot boss or not. 

"It won't kill you." Dana's arms thud against the counter as she lays them down with purpose. 

"It might." A voice that belongs to Shen interjects into the conversation you already wish you weren't having. "Have you seen how awkward she gets when hot dads bring their kids in?"

"I do not!" You half-yell. "I'm a professional. I don't think about things like that at work."

"Yeah, and that's why you eye fuck Abb-" 

"OKAY!" You yell. Prying eyes are on you immediately as your voice cuts through the ED. You give an awkward thin-lipped smile and apologetic wave to the strangers. "Okay. Point received." 

Now the only fantasy you're having at work is ripping the Dunkin cup from Shen's hand and drenching him in it. 

"Ignore him." Dana shoos Shen away. He slinks off slurping what's left of his melted iced coffee. 

You can't miss the small glint in Dana's eye as she bites back a laugh at Shen's accusation. Which is totally false!

"Dinner. That's all I'm asking." Dana pries once again. You shake your head, not even bothering to verbally answer anymore. "An hour, two max."

"Dana when I'm not here I'm sleeping or trying to get all my shit done before I have to be back here. I don't have time." 

"You have time." She responds insistently. 

It's almost impressive how she hasn't budged. 

"Fine. I don't want to make the time then."

"You don't want to go out and just have a free dinner with a handsome guy?" Dana's eyebrows shoot up.

Unfortunately, the idea intrigues you somewhere deep down. That same part of you that smiles and rewinds when the movie finally crescendos with a dramatic declaration of love. But, in reality, the movie would end differently for you. A terrible date with a guy who went to a doctor a few times and now feels confident in his ability to mansplain medicine. No love at first sight for you. 

"Sounds like hell."

You can't even remember the last time you looked at a man that wasn't on your TV. Well, I mean besides the ones you're forced to see every day. Abbot… Who apparently you REALLY look at.

Your mind trails off as he moves from room to room in front of you. That quiet confidence radiating off of him like it always does. UGH, and he's wearing those camo pants tonight. OH. You totally are eye-fucking him aren't you?!

You snap your eyes from him back to Dana immediately. "Tell me about this guy." 

No part of you really wants this, but you've got to get your mind off Abbott. Fully. You one hundred percent, unequivocally, cannot be crushing on Jack Abbot. 

"It's a guy I know. He's been single for too long. Like you." She says pointedly. "I think you'll like him. He's good people." 

"You sure you wanna do this?" It's a genuine question, not a threat. Introducing you to someone could be a bad move on her part. You're not exactly revered as a charmer. "Because, if I don't like him, I'll leave."

You we're strong willed and didn't enjoy wasting your time. There was nothing wrong with it, but some men would disagree. Apparently you could be a quote, "a real ball buster" as your college boyfriend so eloquently wrote in the very text message he dumped you with. 

As time went on, you came to realize you liked love more in theory or in dreams. You were not cut out to be a rom-com star. 

"I know." Dana draws out her words, rolling her eyes at you. "But, I have a good feeling."

"What's his name?" You give a defeated sigh. 

Dana's face lights up with that cocky closed-lip smile she gets when she's won something. She's beaten you down enough and she knows it. Success!

"No names." Leaving no room for rebuttal, she claps her hand flat against the counter to make her point. "I don't want you looking him up."

"Come on-"

"No. You and Santos do that cyber stalking thing and you'll try and find him." She's already turned on her heels before you can get another word out. 

 "It's not stalking!" You yell after her. "It's the way the world works. Get with the times Dana!"

Well, looks like you just got yourself a date you didn't really want to go on in the first place. But if all goes well you'll fall in love and never think of Jack Abbot as anything more than a boss ever again. 

"Jack, c'mere I gotta talk to you." 

Dana surveys the floor, making sure you're nowhere in sight. Luckily for her, you're tied up in a trauma room with a very chatty guest who, based on their facial expression is not very happy with you. 

His face turns confused for a second, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening before he falls in step.

"You need a date." She says simply. 

For once in his whole life he's actually speechless. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is an offended scoff. 

"When's the last time you've been on a date?" She asks, crossing her arms over her chest. 

The offended sound comes out once again as he blunders for a second. "I don't know. A year…?"

He tried once, maybe twice after his wife passed. Someone who asked him out both times. He'd never actually pursued anything himself. It wasn't exactly that he was resisting, there was just never anyone who caught his attention first.

Then came you. But to him, that was forbidden.

"That's sad."

"I'm doing just fine for myself-"

She holds up her hand for him to stop before he says anything further. "I didn't ask about that. And, I don't believe I want to know that."

Robby laughs from somewhere behind her. Of course, listening in on the conversation. Somehow his ears seem to be everywhere at once. There's no conversation he misses in this hospital. 

"What?" Jack asks him. The tone of his voice would almost sound offended if he wasn't chuckling. 

"No, nothing." Robby shakes his head. He clasps a friendly hand on Dana's shoudler. "He's doing fine Dana. Just this morning Myrna offered to flash him." 

Alright, now they're just being mean. 

"Tell him he needs a date." Dana elbows Robby. Before Jack can interject, Robby's response is immediate. 

"Ohhh, you need a date brother."

Jack's outnumbered and somehow they're also beating him at his own game. He has no defenses left. No sarcastic comments that'll stop them 

"You know what? Fine." Jack tosses his hands up. "I'll start looking for someone." 

His eyes rake across the hospital floor like he's looking for someone and before he's even made any conscious effort, they land on you. 

One day you were a thorn in Jack's side, a new resident he had to get acclimated to. But, very, very quickly you became something else. The worst part was it wasn't even because you were attractive - which you absolutely were. No, it was the first time you yelled at him during trauma. You, a resident, yelling across the table at your attending.

He was gone. 

Robby and Dana side-eye each other at Jack's obvious stare. He was never a subtle man and even less so when it came to matters of the heart. The number of times Dana's caught him acting like a giddy school boy around you was absurd.

That time you complimented his technique for a chest tube and he walked around like a God for the rest of the night. 

Or, even worse, that time he let his beard grow and asked you, Dana, and Ellis for your opinions. They both agreed it was fine. - not that they cared much either way. - But, you weren't a fan. The next day he was shaved. 

It was just something about you. Something he had never seen in someone else. You had no angle, you didn't play games or hospital politics. You came in to work every day, yelled at whoever needed yelling at, and fixed whoever needed fixing. No ass-kissing or pride involved.You had no ego; it was refreshing. If you thought he was acting like a dick you'd tell him. If you thought he was right you'd tell him. Though maybe a little awkwardly because nice feelings weren't really your thing.

"No need!" Dana says with a satisfied grin. "I've got someone for you."

Robby howls a laugh at how perfectly Dana manipulated Jack into this. 

"Who?" He asks. 

"Someone I've been wanting to set you up with."

"Set me up with? Like a date?" He says emphatically. "Like I'm twenty?"

"It'll be fine. You'll like her."

"Well, who is it?"

"You don't know her." Her face gives nothing away but for a fleeting second Jack would almost swear that seemed like a lie. 

"She's smart and beautiful, you'll like her."

"Well, I can't say I don't like those two things." A small smirk creeps up his face. Smart and beautiful was great but he knew someone who fit that description already. Doesn't much matter though, Jack can't remember a time he's seen you show interest in him. And, he was the furthest thing from a pushy man.

Plus, if you wanted him surely you would've said something by now. 

"She's a little young," Dana trails off. "That okay with you?"

Jack finds himself calculating in his head how old you were. Would that be weird? Wait. First, why would he care? Second, why would it matter? 

"I mean how-" 

"Okay, great." Dana claps her hands with a loud boom, ending his sentence for him. 

She's already exited the conversation before he can ask more of the many pressing questions he has. "What's her name?" He calls out, Robby still beside him, happy to be a non-involved third party to this shitshow. 

"Secrets." She hollers back not turning around, her hands doing most of the talking. 

"Looks like you just bought yourself an appearance on the Dating Game." Robby claps Jack's shoulder with an overjoyed smile that crinkles the skin around his eyes. 

Hopefully she isn't that young because God, they really are old. I mean the Dating Game, really?

"What are you up to?" Robby asks, narrowing his eyes onto Dana once he's managed to find her alone. 

"Just think he needs someone." She shrugs sounding a little tender, strangely. 

"Uh huh." Robby clicks his tongue. "And I'd swear I heard you giving that same advice to one of our residents earlier.

Dana gives nothing away, just a shrug. 

"Not saying it's a bad idea. Jacks clearly got it bad. It's just ballsy."

"So you'll help me?" Dana asks. 

"Whoa, no." Robby lets out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. "I didn't say that."

"All I'm asking is that you keep them away from each other tonight so they don't find us out."

"There's no us here Dana." He tosses his hands up in surrender. Always the dramatic. "I've got a hospital to run and this is your master plan." 

She gives him a look over the rim of his glasses. He knows he's too grown to be scared into submission by Dana but damn if it doesn't always work. 

"I'll see what I can do."

"Hey, why don't you ever set me up on dates?" He can't help but ask as he's already halfway leaving. 

"Because I've seen you in relationships."

Somehow as if by miracle, the ER was the Q word you'd never dare utter. So, for now you'll just say slow. It seemed brighter without so many people clogging the place up, not such a terrorizing place to spend your nights. But, on the other side of quiet and peaceful meant all you could think about was this stupid date with some (probably) stupid guy you don't even want to meet. 

Even if it was a leisurely night, there was no such thing for Dana. She paced around the giant hospital centerpiece that was the nurses' desk, doing a million jobs that somehow all belonged to her. 

You came out of nowhere, suddenly popping up on the other side of the desk. "I don't like mansplainers." 

"Okay, and I don't like the Ravens. What're you telling me for?" It always seemed like her accent had a way of getting thicker when she was stressed or angry. 

"For the date." You tap your finger to your temple in a duh fashion. "If they start mansplaining anything to me, I'll leave."

Dana doesn't give you a response, just a curt nod. Because she was definitely going around the city looking for the perfect asshole mansplainer to force you into a date with. 

"And they need to be politically sound. I can't deal with someone who doesn't care about the issues I do." 

As much as you loved Maid in Manhattan, you always found yourself disliking the leading man just a little too much. That was not a rom-com you wanted to star in, alongside a right-leaning politician. 

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Dana snaps her head up, shutting you up immediately. It's terrifying when she starts cursing in catholic. "He's a non-mansplaining registered democrat. Does that satisfy you?" 

"Yes." You answer quietly tucking your lips into a thin line apologetically. 

She reaches over the desk, gripping your arm and guiding you somewhat forcefully until you're standing under the track board. 

"Work." 

Looking down at the iPad in your hand, you said your patient's name to yourself over and over again. You had this terrible habit of knowing everything you needed to know about someone and then coming face to face and forgetting everything, even down to their name. You've done this with friends and patients alike your whole life. 

"Janet Lawson." You mutter on a loop, scrolling through to see what the nurses had already done for her. 

"Janet Law— Ow." 

Your forehead is suddenly rebounding off a black T-shirt; underneath it is a weirdly muscular back that's actually managed to rattle your brain around. Of course. Who else wears a black T-shirt and camo pants to work and has this muscular of a build? 

"Doctor Abbot! Sorry." You laugh to mostly yourself, running a few fingers over your forehead. Why'd that come out like a giggle? You laugh. You don't giggle. 

"My fault. I should've known better than to stand here when you're running around." He grins.

He's so charming. 

You drop your eyes back down to the iPad, looking at him made your chest pinch. Why does it feel like you're cheating on him by going on this date tonight? He's your boss! People don't usually feel like they need to divulge their dating life to their bosses right?

"You off this weekend?" He asks, tilting his head to be able to better to see your downcast eyes. 

"Yep. Played my cards right and got two whole days."

"Got any plans?" He crosses his arms over his chest casually. He always asks about your life. This isn't weird, this is just the only time you've thought about keeping it secret. 

"Not much." The lie comes out before you can stop it. 

"Me neither."

"Cool." 

Jack Abbot could befriend a brick wall and somehow you've just managed to have an awkward interaction with him. 

"Jack!" Dana's voice echoes between you too. It's so loud and desperate-sounding that he whips his head around immediately. 

"Yeah?"

"I need you in room 3."

He looks to the whiteboard, eyes scanning over it twice. The hospital's calm tonight, what could possibly be this critical?

"No one's in room 3…"

She doesn't even turn to the whiteboard herself to double-check. "Room 4 then."

"Okay…" He agrees. "Catch you later?" He turns back to you with a sympathetic frown, waiting for your confirmation. Once you nod at him, he pulls himself and his lingering eyes away.

Like clockwork, Abbot finds himself in your orbit once again. He's nearly convinced you have some kind of magnetic force he's not aware of because there's no rational reasoning for him to be trailing after you all the time. 

Your shift is officially over and if you're not going to fall asleep behind the wheel you're desperately going to need a cup of coffee. As your hand rests flat against the break room door, you feel a much bigger and stronger hand just inches above yours.

"Together again." He laughs. He's so close behind you, you swear you feel the vibrations in your own chest. He pushes the door open, just enough that you have to duck under his arm to step over the threshold. 

"How was everything with that patient?" You ask, hoping your voice is even and trying your best to keep your face away from him until the heat in your cheeks die down. 

"Fine. Just cut and dry stress hives. Not sure what the big emergency was."

You plop down in the chair around the small table, the one leg that's off kilter shakes it back and forth for a second. "Weird." You stretch your legs up onto the second chair in front of you, resting until he's done making his coffee. 

As the coffee maker percolates in the background he considers mentioning the fact that Dana is setting him up on a date. Do attendings and residents ever share that much personal information with each other? Probably not.

What was he even hoping to achieve? That you'd imagine him out with some (probably) hot nurse friend of Dana's and lose your mind with jealousy that he's never once seen you have. 

It felt weirdly offensive to share his weekend plans with you. He's wanted to ask you out since the second week you worked at this hospital and never has. He couldn't, as the superior here and the man twice your age he wouldn't even let himself think about you too long if he thought it would be disrespectful. It'd be too weird to sit here and talk about his dating life like this. So, he opts for silence. 

You push your chair out once Abbott's done using the coffee maker, groaning from the pain that's popped up in your spine from standing all day. 

"Here ya go." He extends a full cup to you just as your feet hit the ground. 

You stare at the drink for a second. He made you coffee? Coffee you didn't even ask for. He pushes the cup towards you once more, urging you to take it instead of staring at it.

You wrap both hands around the thin cup, feeling the warmth seep through to your palms. "You know how I take my coffee?" You ask, noting the color difference in your cup compared to his. 

"Yeah, milk and two sugars. I've seen you make it enough times." Wow, the world really was never going to let this crush ease up was it? "I didn't give you any vanilla though. Keep taking it like that and you'll end up in a coma." You laugh, noticing the wide smile on your face in the reflection of your coffee. 

"Thanks." Your voice loses the harsh edges it usually has. 

He shrugs as if this was a small gesture and not something that made your entire body feel like it was on fire. He sips the coffee but never takes his eyes off yours. They have a darker look to them as the cup puts a shadow over his face. 

"Heading out?"

"Yep." You toss your bag over your shoulder. "I'm caught up on all my charts from tonight."

"Yeah, I trust you." His words come out smooth. 

You know you're so far gone when these upcoming two days off start to feel like punishment more than a much-needed break. Two days without seeing him might be bordering on eternal torture. 

This is the last time you'll see him until your date with some stranger. You're being so dramatic but it literally feels like you're some Wild West movie heroine seeing her one true love for the last time before heading to her arranged marriage.

Maybe it's just because your fantasy had to end now. You had to live your life, date (annoyingly so), and you could keep falling asleep at night and having Jack Abbot's face pop up in your dreams. It was a fantasy, that's all it was. 

Abbot likes people, not you. He liked to be friendly, wink at nurses, and flirt with the old ladies who were frequent fliers. Even if you weren't his resident, people like you didn't end up with people like him. 

Plus, if he wanted you surely he would've said something by now.

"Want me to walk you out?" He asks, always the gentleman. 

"Sure."

He reaches over and slides the bag from your arm, throwing it over his own shoulder. His arm stays on the small of your back as you pass through the crowded triage area, only dropping when you make it to your car. A small, beat-up Civic you're embarrassed to tell people the year of. 

"Have a nice vacation." He grins, setting your backpack in your backseat for you.

"Yeah, two days is one crazy vacation." 

"Well, either way don't miss me too much."

You laugh, your head lulling backwards as the sound reverberates outside in the quiet parking lot. "Might be too hard. Living in a cold, cruel Doctor Abbot-less world." 

He leans over, enough that you can tell he's not wearing any cologne as the smell of antiseptic wafts off him. And the worst part is, somehow it works. The click of your car door opening is the only thing that draws your eyes away. 

"Be safe." He says, carefully shutting the car door once you're solidly inside. "Come by if you start missing me too much." He speaks a little louder so you hear him through the sealed window. 

You give him a thumbs down as your reverse lights come on. 

He watches you pull out of the parking lot and imagines what that sight would be like more often. Your taillights pulling out of the driveway of his house every day, waving you away while drinking his morning coffee, knowing you'd be back that night. 

Oh yeah He's going on a date with another woman tomorrow. 

This is horrible

You stand in front of the mirror in the third outfit of the night. You pull at the fabric, like a toddler. It clings to everywhere you don't want it to. You've got to have help for this.

Where's your quirky best friend sidekick that everyone in the movies has?

To: Santos From: You what do you wear on a date?

To: You From: Santos show up naked power move 

Unhelpful. 

A dress feels like too much, but dress pants make you feel like a politician. The place is way too nice for jeans. As Dana specifically told you. You don't even own anything you'd consider a blouse. And to make matters worse, you're beginning to notice you have very little color in your wardrobe. 

This is agonizing. 

The outfit you have on will have to suffice, if only because you're running out of room on your floor for discarded clothese.

The long skirt feels less dramatic than a dress but less stiff than pants. This is the nicest shirt you own and the closest thing you'd associate with fancy. All in all, you clean up pretty well. Everything is black like all the other items in your wardrobe. But, Dana requested you wear black since she told your date that's how he'd recognize you. Your mystery man will be in white tonight 

Your body collides with your bed as you toss yourself onto it like an angsty teenager. You haven't been on a date in months and the last one you went on lasted an hour before you faked and emergency and left. 

Katherine Heigl's voice blares through your apartment as 27 Dresses begins auto-playing after whatever you threw on to begin with. 

What the hell is with these movies and falling in love with your boss?

Rolling onto your back, you're fingers start typing Jack Abbot into the Instagram search bar before you even know what you're doing. It only takes the letter J for his account to come up. You've for sure done this too many time. Maybe Dana's right. This is totally stalking. 

He has three posts and none of them are his face. He's got a picture of Robby and Dana at some fancy hospital event and two pictures of some scenic locations he visited. He's such an old man. The only thing you can see him in is his profile picture. Much to your dismay, you screenshot and zoom in. 

He's so handsome and this is such weirdo behavior.

The more you zoom in, the blurrier the photo gets. Right now, you're essentially looking at pixels that vaguely resemble Jack Abbot and even then he's otherworldly handsome. Some selfie from a terrible angle that he no doubt took the moment Instagram prompted him for a profile picture. 

You scream as the name pops up on the top of your screen, tossing the phone on your bed like it burned you. For a second you actually believe he somehow knows your cyber stalking him right now, but there's no way. On your feet now from the scare, you timidly reach over and in one quick motion flip the phone face up. 

Abbot: Have fun on your vacation while the rest of us are working our asses off. 

You've got to stop reacting to everything he does like some school girl experiencing their first crush. You're more giddy from this stupid text than you are about this date. This is what you're actively trying to avoid!

You click the side button stuffing the phone into your skirt pocket. Yeah, the skirt has pockets. You give yourself one more look in the mirror, closing your eyes and taking three deep breaths to clear your mind. 

No more Jack Abbot tonight. 

This place is nice just like Dana described. An Italian restaurant that you had to take a taxi to reach. The outside has a deep maroon awning where people waiting on tables are congregating. It's not crowded but there's way more people here than you want to experience a first date in front of. 

The inside is even nicer. Dark walls and romantic lighting. There's even a band playing from somewhere you cant see, but you recognize the sound of live instruments. The tables are all covered in white cloths. This is far from the restaurants you usually eat at where children color on those paper table runners. 

"Hi," You approach the hostess more timid than usual, clearing your throat. "I'm meeting someone…"

Your eyes scan over the many people in the room. Theres way more people seated than you'd hoped. Great, all these people may witness your biggest humiliation tonight. Theres a small, even fancier dining room that's walled in and you wonder if your mystery man is in there. 

The maitre d responds but your ears are suddenly filled with nothing but the sound of your own heart beat. Your eye's zero in on someone, someone sitting in front of the giant burgundy curtains that drape from floor to ceiling. 

A very familiar face.

No. Fucking. Way. 

"Doctor Abbot?" You say standing beside the empty chair at this table for two. 

His eyes shoot up so fast you're afraid he's going to hurt himself. He looks like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out of his barely parted lips. You're mirroring the same expression back to him. Shock and horror. 

He stands up from his chair so fast, the table rocks and sends ripples through the expensive water glasses. "What are you doing here?" He asks, hands flat on the table like he needs to prop himself up. 

"Me?" You say back, clutching the purse strap over your shoulder. "What are you doing here?" You want to dissolve into dust in the huge fancy restaurant that suddenly feels much smaller. This can't be happening. 

"Oh fuck." 

You both speak at the same time. Your sentiment is much more verbal than Abbot who had the decency to whisper under his breath. 

You two go back to staring at each other for another moment. Completely still except for the twitch around Abbots eye. You know your eyes are wider than usual and probably frighteningly so, but you can't make them close. To make matters worse the trumpet crescendos into something romantic from wherever they're playing from. You're a little too busy to look right now. 

How could this happen?

"I think Dana uh—" The words die in your throat as soon as they start. You gesture vaguely hoping to fill in the blanks. 

"Yeah." He speaks gruffly. 

"Yeah." You parrot the same word back, unsure of what else there even is to say. "I could go." You gesture back to the grand entrance of the restaurant. 

That's all it took to shake Jack from the shell shocked state he was in. He reaches out before he even thinks much about it. Not a pull, just his palm flat against your forearm making sure you don't bolt.

"No. Were already here." He shrugs like it's simple. "Plus, I need you to stay and help me plan on how to get Dana fired."

You laugh, your shoulders easing finally, dropping from where they were pulled up so tight. The immediate horror of this situation is beginning to dissipate between the two of you. Despite the knot in your stomach, you actually feel a little giddy. I mean, you've dreamed about this for a long, long time. Maybe it wouldn't be awful of you to at least try and enjoy yourself. 

"We might as well stay and eat." He picks up his menu and gestures to the chair that's meant to be yours. 

"Might as well?" You repeat back with a sarcastically sensual tone. "Well, with an offer that romantic how could I refuse?"

He walks around the table, eyes on you the entire time. He pulls out your chair without even looking at it. When he puts his arm on the small of your back to guide you onto the seat, your actually worried your knees might buckle. 

"You know what I meant." The breath from his nose tickles your ear as leans in close to tuck your chair in. 

"Can I get you two started with anything?" The waiter appears from the kitchen, dressed just as nicely as half the patrons in here. Jack gives him a polite just a second gesture. You've both been far too distracted to look at the menu.

"You want wine?" He asks, flicking his eyes from the menu to you. "I mean… we are on a date." Theres a small smile in the corner of his mouth when he says it, almost humorous like he's enjoying saying that in the presence of the server.

A date. Officially a date.

"Yeah, I'll do a glass."

"A bottle of the house red." Jack speaks to the waiter. A bottle? Big spender! 

The wine the waiter returns with is in expensive glassware. The stems are crystal thin and make you feel like you're back in the OR holding a delicate medical instrument.

Jack makes a polite declining gesture as the waiter goes to fill his glass. "None for me, thanks."

"You're not having any?" You ask, lowering the glass from your lips, suddenly feeling embarrassed of the large sip you've already taken. 

"I've got work tonight. Not everyone has the weekend off like you." He laughs. Oh yeah. It was only 5:30 of course he'd be heading to work after this. Always saving lives. 

"You didn't need to order all that then." You gesture to the still mostly full bottle the server left behind. "I'm not gonna drink a whole bottle myself." Not in front of him at least!

"Take it home then." He shrugs. Damn that's sexier than it needed to be. He orders one of the nicest bottles of wine, doesn't have any for himself, and then tells you to keep it. "I know how much you like your wine. 

"You look nice." He crosses his arms on top of the menu resting on the table so there's nothing that could possibly distract him from you. His words are genuine but a little stiff. He hasn't complimented someone on anything outside of a medical context in a while.

"Thanks " You actually smile. looking down at the fancy outfit you were so hyper critical of in the mirror. "I wouldn't get used to it though."

"You clean up nice yourself." You force out. Not because it wasn't true, it very much was. But, it's always felt awkward to you to compliment someone. 

"Feels weird." He tugs at the black tie resting on top of his white dress shirt. It was quite the site. Under the warm lights of the dining room, at certain angles the muscles under his shirt were highlighted perfectly, especially his arms.

Jack however is more caught of guard by your new look than you are of his. Your hair is fixed and resting on your shoulders in waves instead of pulled back and frizzy from a scrub cap. I mean, you looked beautiful the other way, but he didn't know this was an option. And your clothes. It was few and far between that he saw you in anything but scrubs and certainly never anything fancy like this. Your scrubs were loose and unflattering. These clothes were tight and highlighted all your features well. You'd been hiding all this? But, maybe that's for the better because he wouldn't be able to survive this look day to day. 

"Would you judge me if I had another glass?" You have a small smile just on the corner of your mouth. Your stemware was getting emptier and emptier as the conversation went on.

"I'm not your boss tonight." He chuckles, filling up the glass for you. He holds your eyes when he says it, like it's important to him that you remember that.

"Alright. Let's be honest with ourselves." You finally laugh out, shaking your head. "This is weird." The wine coursing through you is making it a lot easier to say whatever you're feeling. Plus the small drink you had back home to pre game that you're not going to bring up. 

Thankfully, he laughs too. "Yeah. I didn't imagine I'd be sitting in front of you tonight."

"Yeah. I certainly wasn't expecting Doctor Abbot." You gesture widely towards him. "… I should probably drop the "Doctor" on a date right."

"Yeah probably." He nods. "Just Jack is fine." 

You're stomach flips. It's silly, something as simple as a name change getting you this worked up.

"Jack." You test it out, turning the name over in your head a few times. It just felt so intimate for some reason. You've known him as Doctor Abbot for so long, now you get to learn Jack.

"So, Jack" You laugh, using the name one more time now that you've been awarded the permission. "I was expecting Dana to set me up with an Orthopedic surgeon I'd hate or something." You laugh. If your relationships with the Ortho team at work was anything to go on, that date certainly wouldn't have gone well. 

He laughs loudly in the dining room full of people talking softly below the music. "Yeah, God help us all if she did that. I was expecting a nurse or a lawyer or something. Not my resident."

"But, I'm glad she didn't." He says at a lower register.

"Wait!" You completely skip over the romantic thing he said, your brain already locked onto a minute detail you just thought of. "You texted me before I left the house." 

"Yeah? So?"

"So?!" You scoff at him, but you're laughing too much for it to be perceived as upset. "So, you texted me before you thought you we're going on a date with some woman."

He just shrugs. "I was thinking about you."

Your cheeks burn hot and you have to roll your eyes to try and get some of your cool demeanor back. "That's crazy."

"Well, it doesn't matter now does it."

-

Being on a date with Jack is even nicer than you imagined it could be. You've barely lifted a finger tonight. He pulled out your chair for you, he refills your glass for you. 

Yes, you're now a quarter through your third.

From anyone else, you'd probably get a little annoyed with this, but there's something romantic about the way Jack does it. He's not smothering or chauvinistic about it, just someone who wants to care for you. 

He really is like a man from a movie. 

By the time they drop your food off at the table, you're enjoying yourself more than you ever have on a date. He cuts into the steak while telling you the story of the first patient he ever had, which actually makes you snort. 

"My first patient at PTMC bit me." You laugh, nodding emphatically as you do. The third glass of wine has definitelyloosened you up. Enough to even reach across the table and put your hand on his arm when you laugh.

"Oh yeah! The one with the suppository." He points the end of his fork in your direction as he remembers. 

You make a sound of dissatisfaction between your teeth, scrunching up your face. "Let's avoid saying suppository on a date."

"Fair enough." He laughs, covering his mouth with his napkin. "Man, I thought you were gonna kill that guy." 

"I remember telling Robby when you first started, you we're gonna drop the night crews patient satisfaction scores by half." He shakes his head fondly.

"What?!" You laugh, dropping your mouth open with a jokingly offended expression. 

"You have a real mean streak to you." He shrugs truthfully, but he smiles when he does. He loves that about you. 

"I do not." You roll your eyes, the mean streak showing through clearly. "And, I could say you're not as charming as you think you are." 

He doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah I am." 

Yeah he is. 

You pretend to care about his accusations some more, but he can see the smile you can't wipe off your face. "I can't believe you talked shit about me to Robby." You shake your head. "And to think I actually liked you when I first started. You were my favorite Attending." 

"Yeah?" He quirks his eyebrow up, somehow looking even more handsome with that smug sideways smile. 

"Yeah I did."

"Did it wear off?" He asks, leaning back, tilting his head as he looks at you. 

"Nope."

The words hangs there a moment too long. You expect him to make a joke, tell you that you have good taste, or that he was the obvious choice, but he doesn't. Instead he just looks at you, his smug grin changing into something much softer. 

"Good to know." His voice is maybe as tender as you've ever heard it. Like your statement meant more to him than he's letting on. 

Jack's already reaching into his pocket for his wallet before the check hits the table cloth. In fact, he doesn't even let it sit there. He takes it from the waiters hand so there's no argument about who's paying. 

"I can cover my half." You offer anyways, hand digging around in your purse under the table. This would not be the first date a man expected you to go dutch on.

"No you can't." He rolls his eyes. He knew you'd offer no matter how obvious he made it that you weren't paying this bill. It was just in your nature to be fiercely independent. But, he was here now. "I don't make a habit of asking women out and making them cover the bill."

"Technically you didn't ask me out… Dana did." You raise your eyebrows in a challenge. 

He makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "Either way, you're not paying."

Jack opts for cash, pulling out a few bills that you try and count up so you total how much he's spent on you tonight. You can't make out if a few pieces are twenties or fifties, but based on the wad alone it must be a lot. 

"Fine. I'll get the next one." You're eyes widen a little as you catch what you said, your words coming way too freely with your tipsy-ness. "I mean… not, or, If- you know." You flubb, your hands moving quickly in front of you.

"No you won't. But, you can offer, again."

He stands first, extending his arm to you like the gentleman he's been all night. The sleeve of your jacket catches the chair as you stand making you wobble on your already slightly uneven footing. "Alright, let's get you out of here before you hurt yourself." He laughs. His reassuring hand stays flat against the small of your back, guiding you through the beautiful dining room and into the cool night air. 

Jack stands under the awning with you, shoulder to shoulder as he waits for your ride to arrive. Before he has to drag himself back to work and away from you. Through the window, you can still hear the bands instruments playing, on the high notes it rattles the glass just barely. 

"I love this song." You gasp, leaning against the wall and physically feeling the song course through you. Jack listens intently for a second, making out what you're hearing. He jogs his memory and remembers having heard the songs a few times. Something by Louie Armstrong; there was no mistaking that voice. La vie en rose that was it!

Jack stays silent, listening to the song alongside you. He doesn't close his eyes like you do. To be honest, he's far more interested in you than the song. This was what he's thought about so many times. Not this exact scenario, but things like it. You in domestic situations, calm, happy. With your eyes still shut, he roams his eyes over every part of your face without fear of being caught. 

The slope of your nose, down to the curve of your lips. You had a prominent cupids bow that made your lips look sharp in a way he could never stop thinking about. Your eyelashes that now fluttered along your under eye. He wasn't sure in this moment if you've ever looked more beautiful. 

"You know," He says quietly, making sure you we're still able to hear your song over this words. "all thing's considered I think this was a pretty good date." 

You peek one eye open, flickering it over to him with a smile. "So we are calling it a date?"

"Yeah." He grins back at your silly looking one-eyed expression."I mean that's what it was wasn't it?"

"Just making sure." You relax again, back to closing your eyes. You can hide the gleam in your eyes by shutting them, but you can't hide the smile on your face. 

"But," Jack starts his sentence quietly, devoid of that usual sarcasm he carries through every word. "I was always under the impression good dates usually end with a kiss."

Both your eyes open now, quickly. You stay leaned against the wall, putting a few fingers over your mouth to try and cover the stupidly giddy grin. You coyly nod, eyes looking back and forth like you're thinking hard. He crosses his arms over his chest as he waits for whatever response this could possibly lead to. 

"That does check out." You laugh, one finger tapping on the side of your mouth in fake thought. "That's usually how all the movies end."

"Yeah?" He mutters close to your mouth, settling his hands on either side of your face. You floss your lip in between your teeth, not even that hiding the grin. "Yeah." 

La vie en rose crescendos in the background as Jacks lips finally connect with yours. It's perfect. It's like a movie. Like a really perfect rom-com. He's not careful, but he's not aggressive. You can feel how long he's wanted to do this in the way he swallows every breath that leaves your mouth. Your hands trail up his arms, finally feeling how toned they actually are after wondering what they'd feel like under your fingers every time they flexed in the OR. 

You're sure you're getting stares from a few concerned citizens along the sidewalk but you couldn't care less. You feel that same smile grow on his lips as you press a hand to his chest. You're reminded of the scene in The Princess Diaries and swear your leg almost kicks up just the same.

He pulls back for no other reason than breathing which he's almost sure he could live without if he could do that a few more times. But, before he can go too far you chase him for one more peck which he reciprocates with just as much enthusiasm. Your hand is still on his chest and now white knuckle gripped against his tie.

"Yeah pretty good date." You repeat the sentiment, any ability to form new thoughts left your head the moment he kissed you. You smooth down his tie with one hand, straightening out the wrinkles your fist caused. He stops you, enveloping your one hand with both of his, pressing his lips along your knuckles. "I'm glad it was with you."

Once your taxi pulls up, you feel like lying and claiming you never called for it. But you have no choice, Jack's got work and you're under strict doctors orders (Doctor Jack Abbot) to rest and enjoy your one weekend off. 

"Text me when you get home." He says, shutting the taxi door with you on the other side, painfully. "And, swing by the hospital if you have any more wine. We may need to get you on a saline drip." You laugh way too loudly in the enclosed space of the cab. You hold the wine bottle by the neck, showing it off. 

"Goodnight Jack." You say elbow resting on the sill of the rolled down window, smiling up at him. Jack. Not Doctor, just Jack. 

You're phone vibrates in your pocket a few minutes down the road into the silent cab ride. The notification disrupts your staring out the window with a smile that was starting to hurt your cheeks. You figure it must be Jack, way too worried about you commuting home alone and already checking in, but it's not.

You smile, without really meaning to. Your words are breathy, “Oh, no, no, I’m— I’m okay, I’m almost there.” Your neighbor glances away and his brows furrow. Expecting him to finally get on his way, you start to collect the loops of the bags in your already red fingers. But suddenly he’s beside you, already straightening up with all the bags in his large hands. You open your mouth to insist that it really is okay, but then his fingers brush your palm as he takes the two you grabbed, and you’re caught up trying to recount the scratchy feeling of his callouses.

“Still another floor,” he grunts, nodding his head curtly in explanation, and turning to climb the next flight. There’s barely even a flex to his shoulders at the haul. You hurry to walk next to him; the least you can do is give him company, right? Even though a guy like him doesn’t seem to need it much.

Or maybe he just makes like he doesn’t. Because once you get talking, he seems fine to keep it going. Gruffly, not much of a social butterfly, but with the easiness of a man that maybe once upon a time, really was talkative. “God, you’re a lifesaver.” You sigh, looking at your feet and smiling down at them in reply to your neighbors indifferent sound.

“Couldn’t let a lady carry all this up the stairs.” He shrugs your compliment off. Old school. You kind of liked it.

“So.. not because you saw I’m like, crazy out of shape?”

He laughs. More of a low, brief chuckle, you guess, but it’s not forced. You return it when he tilts his head side to side, humming dubiously and squinting up at the landing above, “Nah, well.. just uh, looked like y’needed a hand.”

“Well, my ego says thanks.” You sigh, pulling the heavy door onto your level open. Theres just a ghost of a smile on your neighbor’s lips, the corners tugging upward underneath his facial hair. But it’s there. “Y’know, and uhm. Me too. I say— uh, just thank you.”

He shakes his head in what you guess is as close to a ‘you’re welcome’ you’ll receive. You expect him to leave your groceries by the door and retire to his own across the hall, so you rub some warmth into your knit sweater clad arms and wait for him to drop the bags. But moments go by, and he’s standing at your apartment door, eventually squinting and cocking a brow at you. “Oh!” You let out, immediately turning pink from embarrassment. At least that warms up your freezing cheeks a little.

Turning the key, you step in and gesture to your kitchen counter, mumbling another thank you and quickly realizing he had a clear look into your living room, entryway, obviously kitchen— your entire life, practically. The thought pops into your head that it might be a mess or god forbid you left something embarrassing lying over the couch. You’re snapped out of it before you can busy around your apartment cleaning everything like a psycho, because suddenly your neighbor is standing right in front of you, and just as suddenly, he appears double as broad. And he smells fucking amazing, too. Like cologne and a lived-in musk that isn’t overpowering, isn’t nasty. It’s manlier than any of the men you’ve ever gone out with who brag about how much they bench, in a quiet yet very clear way.

“Uhm, thank—“

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he cuts you off, shaking his head and reminding you with a lift of his brows that you’ve said that a million times. You smile at your feet, embarrassed all over again.

Maybe it’s because of that embarrassment that the words slip out without you meaning them to, maybe it’s that meek part of your brain that desperately wants to leave a good impression on practically everyone ever. But you find yourself saying, “Do you want some coffee?”

He hesitates. You see it in the way he averts and squints his eyes, lips just barely parted. Just when you’re about to backtrack and say that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to say yes, you’re just trying to thank him— he nods. “Sure. If it’s no bother.”

You nod right back and let a smile overtake your face. “It’s not!” You slip past him in the small entryway, heading to the coffee maker. Looking over your shoulder, your neighbor is leaning against the opposite countertop and looking around the place. You hope not to judge it; because it’s definitely privy to some critique. Small, kind of shitty, but you have to pat yourself on the back that it’s pretty neat. And you don’t have the worst decorative eye, either.

“I’m uh, I’m Pete.” He grunts while your Keurig grumbles to life. You reach for another pod for yourself, catch his dark chocolate eyes in the meantime. Weirdly, you hadn’t even realized that you didn’t know his name at all. Pete.. didn’t really suit him. But who says that out loud? You tell him your own and he nods, his jaw feathering under his beard. You think you catch his lips moving silently, like he’s testing out the syllables of your name on his tongue.

“Kinda weird,” you laugh lightly, handing him your nicest looking mug, baby blue with navy paisleys around the rim. “I’ve lived here, what, nine months? And I never knew your name.”

Pete grunts, a faint smile tugging at one of his lips. You predicted right; he drinks the coffee black, doesn’t ask for any sugar. You dump a generous amount in yours, though. “Yeah, well. Ain’t good at the whole neighbor thing.”

You nod your chin to the pile of groceries on the counter behind him, grinning at his handsome side profile as he averts his eyes. “I happen to think you’re pretty good at it.” He hums. Squints a little and presses his lips after a greedy sip of coffee. You curl your fingers around your cup, sighing softly at the heat of it. The air was absolutely frigid in the apartment, you were surprised that your shower water didn’t freeze the moment it left the faucet. “I’m sorry about, uhm.. how cold it is. Heaters broken, and y’know how the landlady is.”

That seems to grab Pete’s attention. His brows draw, and you take the chance to really look at him. He was undeniably handsome, dark hair, a bulky nose and puppy-dog eyes even despite the clear hard shell he wore. He wore solely dark colors, a black hoodie under a black jacket, dark, nearly black jeans. Like he was going to a funeral, or mourning, you thought. Definitely the brooding type. But he had this weird charm, cool and without any effort to have it, it simply rolled off him in easy droves. The set of his shoulders and the heaviness of his steps; calm, but not off-guard. He nods thoughtfully, and you’re noticing his little mannerisms. He tilts his chin and averts his eyes around the room as he speaks, punctuating each word with a nod or a shake of his head.

“How long’s it been broken?” He sets down a quarter-full mug beside him on the countertop, brow tight. You shrug, fisting your hands in the sleeves of your sweater to warm your fingers.

“Maybe.. a month?” He nods almost gravely. It’s not much longer before he thanks you for the coffee, waves off your own thanks for the help, and returns to his door across the hall. You spent the rest of the afternoon and the sacred time between laying your head on the pillow and drifting off thinking about him, endlessly. Trying to recall that distinct smell that lingered on his neck, every gravelly word he uttered. Putting the pieces together as they came back to you while you brushed your teeth or slipped on fuzzy socks. The interaction coupled with the blessed knowledge that tomorrow was a Sunday, you sleep like a baby.

—

You intend to spend the next morning lazy. You wake up just before noon, eating cereal on your couch and rewatching episodes of House MD you already know the plot twist of. Fresh morning light that nearly smells like linen filtering in through your window, and just as you’re settling into your couch, decked in a cotton Victorias Secret set and with hair in a protective braid, there’s a knock at your door. You sigh, setting down your steaming cup of coffee and getting ready to let a solicitor disrupt your ‘me-time’-morning. But when you open the door it’s none other than your neighbor. Whose eyes look even better right in front of you than they do in the back of your eyelids.

“Hey.” It’s all he says, grunted low, his expression almost shy. Crazy for a macho, rough-road man who looks like he could crush your femur in his palm. Strangely, you don’t even think of that. Instead you focus on his perfectly fitting gray sweater over dark blue jeans— simple and handsome. Your eyes catch on the toolbox he’s holding. “You uh, mentioned your heater. Figured..” his eyes leave yours for an instant, he squints. “S’too cold t’be waitin’ for the landlady to send somebody. You’ll uh.. you’ll freeze, y’know.”

You nod, a little stunned, a little delighted as you step aside to let him in. In a sigh, you say, “You’re absolutely my favorite neighbor.”

That gets a chuckle out of the guy. You’re starting to learn him, like a little girl figuring out how to balance her weight on a bicycle. Without any worded instructions. You just.. Find it out. He doesn’t laugh, not outright, not with his chest. He huffs through his nostrils, he barks a rough sound, his cheeks push up into his eyes just barely enough for you to decipher that he’s smiling. He brushes past you and makes his way to the radiator, silently looking over it like he’s sizing up his workload.

“You’re really, really too kind, Pete.” Something about the square of his shoulders stiffens when you say his name, but you keep on. “How much will I owe you?”

Pete shakes his head firmly, not even looking at you where you lean against the kitchen island. His mouth yawns open like he’s about to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, come on. I need to pay you, you can’t work for free. Especially not on your day off.” He makes a noncommittal sound, scratching his beard as he shakes his head yet again. You huff like he’s ridiculous. “Please. I don’t like having debt.”

Maybe that gets him. Finally, he grumbles over his shoulder, “Y’can make me some coffee.” As if that comes close to settling the matter, but it’s something, and you’ll take it. Your freezing apartment is one less thing you have to worry about, so it’s onto the next; your closet is a total wreck. So, you leave your bedroom door wide open a few feet deeper into the apartment than the radiator, and try to give him as much company as you can with a wall between you. You figured he wouldn’t like you hovering over him while he worked anyway. And you’re right.

You don’t talk his ear off. But when you do talk, about the dog you’d been eyeing online and trying to work out the logistics of hiding from the landlady, or about your older coworker— well, you can’t see it, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. A smile that’s careful, hesitant like he doesn’t quite remember how, like he’s trying to retrace his steps.

When you’re finished with your closet, and you wander into the living room sighing, “I feel lighter! And this heater, too, thank god I can finally stop calling Ms. Jiandinski for it.. I can’t thank you enough, Pete,” he feels something he doesn’t need to find his way back to. The guilt, it’s familiar, clenches at his chest as naturally as the filling of his lungs when he breathes. Something is just slightly off-kilter, though, he’s terribly aware of it as he chews the inside of his cheek and cranks the wrench taut. It’s guilt, yes, but the source is.. falsity. He’s a fraud. A liar, in a way. And though he does it every day, lives that lie— it feels wrong to let it touch you.

So he doesn't look up from the heater he’s busting his ass over (and the effort’s pretty visible in the noticeable bulge of his biceps under his rolled-up sweater sleeves, you try to not stare,) when he grunts, “Frank.”

Your brows draw as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee you forgot on the counter. “What?”

Frank stops, looking over his shoulder at you with a feathering jaw and a grave look in his eyes. They hold your gaze for a lingering moment, enough time for something warm in your chest to stir, before he looks away and nods tightly. “My name. It’s Frank.”

“…Not Pete.” You’re thoroughly confused, now, but something about his tone with the admission makes you feel as though it’s more than what most people get out of him. He nods again, silent. So you mirror him, tilt your chin curt and firm. “Frank suits you better.”

His lips turn upward almost imperceptibly, and he looks back to the heater. Clicking the funneled paneling back into place, and twisting a bolt first with his calloused fingers and then with the wrench, Frank mutters, “I’m, uh. All done here.”

As he stands, you smile toothy and cross your arms. “Okay, seriously now. I owe you more than a cup of coffee.”

“Nah, you don’t.” Frank shakes his head adamantly, squinting at the window and then you. You huff indignantly. What a stubborn ass. Well, stubborn ass that has now done you two favors and won’t let you do more for him in return than click a button on your Keurig. You tilt your head and lift your eyebrows, trying to bully him into it. But he doesn’t seem the pushover type.

You pout. Luckily you aren’t looking at his grip on his toolbox, because otherwise you would see the flex of his fingers when you make that damn face. He doesn’t make any moves to leave, just turns his cheek. “C’mon.”

“C’mon nothing,” he mocks in a huffed chuckle, like you’re ridiculous but he doesn’t have the heart to be completely annoyed. He even punctuates his point with your name, firm and no-nonsense. He really was a stubborn ass.

You shift your weight, chew on the inside of your cheek. Nodding slow, you narrow your eyes at him. He mirrors you, like he sees the gleam in your eye. You’re up to something. But you nod, quicker, like you’re sealing off the deal. “Okay. Well.. Thank you, Frank. I’d say I owe you, but..” You shoot him a grin, cheeky as anything as he makes his way to the door, pivoting on his heel to look back at you.

That’s the first time Frank really does smile back at you. Teeth and all. It’s weird, the feeling it stirs in you. Like you want to chase it, over and over, keep this rugged, solitary man across the hall smiling constantly, with his shoulders too broad and heavy to not have some old weight. And the busted nose, the perpetually furrowed brow, the..

Frank had forgotten what silence was supposed to feel like.

For years it had meant the few seconds after pulling a trigger, the ringing left inside his ears after an explosion, the heavy pause between one interrogation and the next while another man decided whether dying was preferable to talking. Silence had never been peaceful. It had always carried the weight of another corpse, another confession, another night that refused to end.

Tonight was no different.

His knuckles ached beneath dried blood that wasn’t his. A shallow cut stretched across his forearm where a knife had managed to find skin before he’d broken the man’s wrist. His back protested beneath the familiar weight of his vest, and every muscle in his body reminded him that he wasn’t thirty anymore.

He barely noticed.

Pain had long ago stopped asking permission before settling into his bones.

The apartment building appeared at the end of the block exactly where it always did, its windows glowing softly against the New York night. Frank climbed the stairs two at a time despite the exhaustion pulling at his legs, already picturing what waited beyond the front door. Maybe you’d be asleep on the couch again, pretending you hadn’t been waiting for him. Maybe you’d have burned dinner because you’d become distracted by whatever book currently occupied your entire personality. Maybe you’d hear his boots outside and throw yourself at him before he even had the chance to complain that you ought to be sleeping.

It happened almost every night.

The first pair of arms around his neck.

The quiet kiss against his jaw.

Your ridiculous habit of greeting him as though he’d returned from work instead of from beating information out of men who deserved far worse.

He never admitted how much he’d grown to expect it.

Maybe because admitting it would mean accepting that somewhere along the way he’d developed routines again. Small ones. Domestic ones. Dangerous ones.

Frank Castle wasn’t supposed to miss being welcomed home.

And yet...

The thought alone was enough to loosen something inside his chest before he’d even unlocked the apartment door.

The lock clicked open with the familiar metallic sound that usually announced your smile long before he heard your footsteps.

Tonight, there was nothing.

Frank stepped inside without bothering to turn on another light. The apartment was already bathed in the warm amber glow of the lamp beside the couch, filling the small living room with the kind of quiet most people would’ve called peaceful. He shut the door behind him with his shoulder, dropped the duffel bag carrying the weight of another night’s worth of violence onto the floor, and stood there for a moment, waiting.

Nothing.

No hurried footsteps crossing the apartment.

No cheerful “Frank?”

No arms wrapping around his neck before he’d even managed to take off his boots.

His brow furrowed almost immediately.

You were there. He could see you from where he stood, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch beneath the blanket you always stole from the bedroom. One leg was tucked beneath you, your nose nearly buried between the pages of an embarrassingly thick smutty romance novel, so completely absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed the front door opening.

For a brief second, Frank wondered whether he’d somehow managed to come home quieter than usual.

Then he noticed the mug of tea resting on the coffee table beside you, still steaming gently.

You were awake.

You simply hadn’t looked at him.

Something unexpectedly sour settled in his stomach.

It was ridiculous.

Completely irrational.

He’d spent the last four hours dragging information out of men whose names wouldn’t survive the week. One had laughed at him until Frank had introduced his face to a concrete floor. Another had cried. A third had begged. By the time he’d gotten what he wanted, his patience had disappeared somewhere between broken furniture and bloodstained walls. His shoulders ached, his ribs complained every time he inhaled too deeply, and dried blood—not his own—had stiffened across the sleeves of his shirt.

All he had wanted during the drive home was you.

Just you.

The thought had carried him through the entire night with embarrassing ease. He’d pictured your sleepy smile, the inevitable little lecture about tracking dirt across the floor, the way you’d wrinkle your nose before pretending the blood didn’t bother you as much as it did. You always kissed him first and scolded him second. It had become a ritual neither of you had ever spoken aloud.

Tonight, that ritual had been interrupted by four hundred pages and what looked like an offensively handsome man on the book’s cover (was it a fairy man?).

Frank stared at it for another second.

“You’re kiddin’ me,” he snorted, as he took off his bulletproof vest and dropped it to the ground without a care.

You hummed absentmindedly, turning another page.

That was it.

A low grunt escaped him before he bent to remove the knife from his belt, setting it beside the duffel with more force than necessary. His boots echoed heavily against the hardwood as he crossed the room, yet even then your attention never left the book.

“Hey.”

You lifted one finger. “One second.”

Frank blinked.

One second?

His jaw shifted.

He had waited outside warehouses in the freezing rain for six hours without moving. He had spent days tracking men across three states. Patience wasn’t foreign to him.

But waiting for a damn smutty novel?

That felt personal.

Frank trudged toward the kitchen, hoping you’d at least say something more, but you remained engrossed in your reading, lost in magical, obscene words. It was insulting that your attention was drawn to some unreal fairy man and not to him, not to your man.

It was absurd. It wasn’t as if Frank was jealous; he was simply annoyed that… you weren’t paying him any attention.

With that thought, Frank quickly washed his hands to remove the blood. One rule Frank Castle had was that he wouldn’t touch you with dirty hands, not with the remnants of the executioner’s justice. He couldn’t defile his sweet girl like that. You didn’t deserve that.

But once his hands were clean? That was another matter.

“Lemme get this straight…” he muttered, stopping beside the couch. “That damn thing’s got more of your attention than I do?”

You smiled to yourself at something you’d just read. “I’ll answer in a minute.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, will ya?”

There wasn’t any real anger in his voice, only a rough sarcasm that barely concealed something much softer. If anyone else had heard it, they might’ve mistaken it for annoyance.

You would’ve recognized it immediately.

Frank wanted your attention.

Every last bit of it.

“Hey,” he called you again, trying not to seem interested, but there was still no response from you beyond a giggle, probably due to one of those obscene scenes that you liked so much.

He let out a low grunt and snatched the book from your hands. His dark gaze was fixed on you completely, because everything about Frank now belonged to you, down to the smallest particle of his miserable being, which bore your name. It was pathetic, truly pathetic, that part of him was getting annoyed because his girl couldn’t put down her fairy-tale romance novel for a few seconds, but Frank, in this moment, was beyond all logic. Not after a long day where all he’d wanted was to be in your arms.

“That crap’s really more interestin’ than me, darlin’?” he muttered, looking disdainfully at the book cover for a few seconds and then returning his gaze to you.

Your reaction was instantaneous; you clearly didn’t want to interrupt your reading, the very thing that had kept you awake while you waited for Frank.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, getting up from the couch and letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I was at a really good part of the book!” you said. “Give it back, Frankie,” your tone was the same one you used when you didn’t care about getting into trouble, that same tone that drove Frank crazy in different ways.

Oh, you were really in the mood to annoy him. Not only was your priority a book and not him, but now you were standing up for yourself instead of throwing yourself into his arms.

Frank let out a derisive snort, his nose wrinkling as he caught the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to his jacket. He didn’t care about the plot, the characters, or whatever flowery bullshit was written on those pages. All he cared about was the fact that your attention was somewhere else when he needed it.

“Good part, huh?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register. 

He approached you with decisive, strong steps. His presence was overwhelming, dominant in the space you shared, but you didn’t move away; instead, you remained planted in your place, letting him press closer, his broad, strong presence crowding your space.

You didn’t hold back or erase that mischievousness so characteristic of yours from your bright eyes; on the contrary, you let Frank present himself to you as the man who filled a room simply by being there, but who was reduced to a disaster because of you.

“Lemme guess. Some pussy-ass poet’s goin’ on ’bout how soft some girl’s lips are... or some poor bastard finally got lucky, huh?” he grunted, staring at you.

He looked at the book again; the cover was a man clearly designed for people whose fantasies lay elsewhere, perhaps for people who didn’t have a man like him to fulfill their desires. He didn’t read the title; he didn’t give a shit about reading now. He simply tossed it onto the coffee table like it was yesterday’s trash. His hands, calloused and rough from years of gripping triggers and breaking bones, slid to your waist, gripping you possessively. He needed to remind you exactly what kind of reality you were dealing with.

“Real shit don’t happen in books, sweetheart,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of gunpowder and cheap coffee. “You want somethin’ that’ll actually stick with you? Somethin’ that actually fucks with your head?” His grip tightened just enough to be commanding, his dark eyes boring into yours with a raw, hungry intensity that no romance novel could ever replicate. “Look at me.”

Frank was usually the kind of man everyone would think was a beast in bed—and he was—but the truth is, he was generally the kind of man who adored your body, who fucked you with a rhythm that wasn’t lethal in the sense of roughness, but rather in precision. For Frank, exploring your body wasn’t a task, but a reality, as natural as breathing. His calloused hands always roamed your body not with the gentleness of a prince, but with the devotion of a knight errant returning to his lady’s arms.

Frank fucked you like no one ever had, but very rarely had he done it in a way that turned adoration into possession.

And you, at this very moment, wet from a silly smut romance novel, wanted to feel under the power of your beloved Frank. You needed to feel the other side he tried to keep buried most of the time.

You looked at him as he instructed, the blush involuntarily rising up your neck to cover the tips of your ears and decorate your cheeks as your eyes locked onto his intense gaze.

Frank noticed the flush creeping up your neck, staining your cheeks a deep crimson. He wasn’t stupid; he could read your body language better than he could read a target through a scope. That blush wasn’t from offense, it was arousal. The way your pupils dilated, the way your breathing hitched just slightly it told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t reading about some noble knight saving a damsel; you were reading about something filthy. It’s not like he didn’t know it before, but your reaction? Yeah, that confirmed it.

A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The cornerstones of his irritation crumbled, replaced by something far more dangerous: genuine interest.

“Fuck,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he realized what you’d been up to. “So that’s what this is, huh? Reading about some fantasy cock while I’m standin’ right here bleeding from my knuckles. You’re really gonna ignore your man for some made-up asshole?”

He didn’t give you time to deflect or make an excuse. His large hand slid from your waist, moving upward until his palm pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the rapid flutter of your heart beneath the fabric of your clothes. He leaned down until your noses brushed, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin.

“You want to read about what it feels like to be fucked properly?” he asked, his words dripping with crude provocation. “You want to know what it’s like when someone doesn’t write about it with pretty fucking metaphors, but actually takes what they want?” his free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. “Tell me. Was the book better than what I’m going to do to you tonight? Does that imaginary cock feel better than mine, princess?”

A gasp escaped your lips when he tugged on your hair. It felt good, the way his firm hand held you and reduced you to this, to a moment in which he took complete control of the atmosphere.

But of course, you were you. You were the one who won Frank Castle over; your attitude didn’t just disappear.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, a defiant smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know if you could fuck better than him,” you said, staring intently into his eyes; a gaze locked, without a flicker of blinking.

Frank’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The sarcasm died, replaced by something far more primal and volatile. That challenge hung in the air between you like gunpowder before a shot, and Frank Castle never backed down from a challenge. He knew you were playing with fire, poking at the beast just to see if it would bite but he wasn’t about to let you win this round. Not today at least, not when he completely needed your attention.

“You really think some ink on paper’s got a shot against me?” he growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert dominance, forcing you to meet his darkened gaze. “You think some made up bastard could make ya scream like you actually mean it? Some made-up son of a bitch who ain’t even real?”

His free hand slid down from your chest, past the curve of your waist, to your crotch. Frank’s calloused, large hand cupped your pussy through your pajama shorts. Firmly, but gently, he squeezed while two of his fingers moved along the covered slit of your intimacy, making sure you felt the length of his fingers caressing that area.

“Yeah... got you all worked up, didn’t it?” he said, with a smile that wasn’t playful, but rather a warning. “Over a damn book, uh? You got turned on reading about a nonexistent cock? Were you plannin’ to plunge your fingers into your pretty pussy while ya waited for me?”

A husky laugh escaped his throat when he saw your blush deepen, and he shook his head, almost as if your dampness were an insult. He didn’t cause it, but an idiot dressed in silk with ears like Legolas’s.

“That book can’t touch ya. It can’t make your thighs shake or make you beg for it like I can. It can’t fill your pussy over and over again, princess, that little bitch can’t even eat your pussy like you deserve,” his lips brushed against yours as he spoke, his words filthy and direct. “I’m gonna make ya forget every word that asshole writer ever wrote. By the time I’m through with ya, you won’t remember a single word that sorry bastard wrote.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black military jacket. “Prove it then, Frank,” you whispered, your voice a challenge wrapped in silk. “Show me I’m wrong.”

Frank didn’t need permission. He growled low in his throat and claimed your mouth in a kiss that tasted like desperation and possession. This wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a collision. His tongue invaded your mouth with crude urgency, claiming your territory as he backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the couch.

His saliva mingled with yours, his tongue conquered yours, and your teeth clashed in a dance born of a primal need to remember. To remind you, rather, that you could only get wet thinking about him.

“Jesus... that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” he muttered against your lips, his hands working feverishly. He yanked your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the room. His eyes raked over your soft skin, dark with hunger. “...Christ, you’re beautiful.”

He knelt between your legs, his calloused thumbs rubbing circles into your inner thighs, deliberately working your arousal. When his fingers finally found your slick, swollen clit through your panties, you gasped, your back arching off the cushions. “Frank,” you sighed.

Frank didn’t hesitate to carelessly pull your pajama shorts off. He didn’t care where the fabric fell; at that very moment, he could throw all your clothes out the window just to have you naked and presented to him.

“Shh,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Listen to yourself... already losin’ it” He hooked his fingers under the lace, tearing it aside to expose you completely. He leaned down, his stubble grazing your sensitive flesh as he buried his face between your thighs. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft folds made you cry out, your fingers tangling desperately in his short hair.

Frank drank you in, his tongue working with precise, punishing accuracy, tasting every drop of your arousal. He wanted to hear you unravel, wanted to hear that angelic voice break into something filthy and undone.

Your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth, your legs shaking as Frank’s tongue swirled around your clit with brutal, focused intensity. He was emphasizing his point, the inherent ideal within him that you belonged to him completely, even in fantasies.

“Oh fuck, Frank yes… just right there,” you cried out, your head tossing back against the couch cushions. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks through his shirt as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Frank didn’t stop. He wanted to push you further, to drain every ounce of control you thought you had. He swirled his tongue faster, sucking harder on your swollen clit until you were sobbing his name, your cunt milking his tongue with involuntary spasms. 

“Look at you, pretty girl” Frank grunted, momentarily pulling his face away from your crotch and using his free hand to run two thick fingers along your wet slit. “A mess…” he chuckled huskily. “Now tell me somethin’... this all because of me…” he asked, his voice dropping lower, “...or that dumb son of a bitch in your little book?” 

Frank’s fingers parted your labia, becoming wet with the essence of your arousal and causing the hairs on your body to stand on end at the mere touch.

“F-Fuck off,” you cursed, letting out a trembling sigh as you were denied the sweet sensation of his tongue as you had done moments before.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” his words were accompanied by a firm slap against your pussy. Not hard, but enough to make a gasp of surprise and pleasure escape your lips. “Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.” Two of Frank’s fingers wandered along your slit, pressing near your entrance to tempt you with the idea of ​​being filled, at least, by his fingers now. “Tell me... was it me…” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, “...or that sorry bastard you’ve been readin’ about all night?”

You swallowed hard, the blush that had spread violently across your face being empirical evidence of the mess you were, all because of his tongue, fingers, and words. Even though you were the type of person who didn’t like to back down, the idea of ​​missing out on your orgasm wasn’t something you wanted to think about.

“It’s for you,” you murmured, exhaling shakily. “Only for you, Frankie.”

You saw him smile briefly before burying his face again at the source of your wetness. You moaned loudly as his large hands gripped your thighs and pressed you against him, as if he wanted to merge with you.

His tongue moved with precision, the same precision of a man of slaughter and punishment, but now focused on making you feel the pleasure only he could give. His fingers were hard, strong, digging into your soft flesh, marking the insignificant area while his lips sucked your clitoris and then his tongue circled that spot. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to imagine his jaw dripping with your pleasure because, at that moment, you didn’t have the strength to keep your vision focused, and you let the sensation of his tongue traveling from your clitoris to your entrance be enough.

His tongue was heavy, precise, and strong as it first circled your entrance and then fearlessly plunged inside. It was almost embarrassing how you disarmed yourself under this man, under the rhythmic touch of his passion for you.

“C’mon, princess. Gimme the first one,” Frank murmured, collecting your fluids with two fingers and then plunging them into your entrance. He soon began to move it, fingering your pussy as he lowered his mouth again to focus on your clit.

When you finally climaxed, your body convulsing as you screamed into the empty apartment, Frank didn’t pull away. He stayed there, tasting the salt and the sweetness of your release, savoring the way your pussy pulsed against his lips.

“That’s it? That’s all you got?” he growled, pulling back to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with a hunger that was almost frightening. “That pathetic little story didn’t make ya come like that, did it?”

Before you could even catch your breath, he was stripping off his own clothes with impatient, jerky movements. Precision in escaping the fabric prison didn’t matter now; he just needed to fill you completely. When he freed his cock, it was angry and thick, throbbing with need. You reached for him, your eyes glassy and unfocused with lust. 

“Frank... fuck me. I need you,” you whispered breathlessly, but without shame, because there was no such thing in the world that was just you and him.

“Hell yeah, you do,” he said, pushing your hands. Frank grabbed both your thighs, hauling you to the very edge of the cushions so you were spread wide open for him. “Open up for me, baby.” He guided the head of his cock against your dripping entrance, pausing for one agonizing second to watch your expression. “Tell me what ya want, princess. Go on... say it.”

“I want your dick inside me,” you whined, your hips lifting off the couch instinctively. “Show me how wrong I was.”

Frank didn’t make you wait. With a guttural growl that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, he drove himself home. He buried his thick, throbbing cock deep into your soaking wet pussy in one relentless thrust, bottoming out against your cervix.

You let out a strangled cry that was half sob, half moan, your eyes rolling back as your body stretched to accommodate his sheer size. The sensation was overwhelming the fullness of him filling you completely, stretching your walls until you felt like you might split apart. “Fuck, Frank oh god, you’re so big,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his scarred arms as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was bringing.

As you dug your nails into his skin, you felt a trace of his blood, a small cut he’d likely gotten earlier that day, and something twisted in you, rather than feeling worried, you found yourself even more aroused because Frank prioritized fucking you over tending to his wound. Even if it wasn’t a deep cut, he preferred the idea of ​​being inside you to caring for himself.

“Yeah? You like that?” Frank grunted, his voice rough with exertion. He didn’t give you time to answer before he began to move. His rhythm wasn’t tender; it was punishing, each thrust a deliberate strike meant to claim you. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the quiet apartment. “This better be better than that fuckin’ book.”

He reached up, his large hands cupping one of your breasts. His thumbs raked roughly over your nipples, which were already peaked and sensitive from your arousal. He squeezed it hard, his callouses grinding against the soft flesh as he leaned down to bite at your throat. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Fucking drippin’ all over me. My fucking mess.”

You were beyond words. Each thrust sent waves of electricity through your nervous system, your pussy clamping around his dick in desperate, involuntary pulses. You felt the raw power in his hips, the way his muscular frame dominated every inch of your space. “Yes... yes, fuck me like that,” you whimpered, your hips rising to meet every punishing stroke. “Harder, Frank. Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you gasped between breaths that sought the normal rhythm of the air, but you weren’t going to allow it, not when agitation was synonymous with pleasure and union at this moment.

The friction was building toward something catastrophic. Frank could feel it too the way your cunt was milking him, the heat intensifying between you. His own climax was clawing at his throat. He shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your knees to push them higher toward your chest, opening you up even wider so he could fuck you deeper, harder, more viciously.

“Just me. We clear?” he growled between thrusts. You could feel his balls slapping against your ass, the force of his movements making every fiber of your being tremble, from the physical to the emotional.

The friction became unbearable, a white hot lightning storm building between your joined bodies. Your vision was blurring at the edges, the only thing anchoring you to reality being the crushing weight of Frank’s body and the relentless, rhythmic pounding of his cock inside you. Every time he slammed into you, you felt it in your teeth, in your bones, a raw sensation that stripped away everything except pure, unadulterated need.

“Frank, I’m—I’m gonna,” your voice broke into a high pitched keen as your climax began to build like a tidal wave. Your internal muscles began to spasm uncontrollably around him, milking his cock with desperate, rhythmic squeezes that drove Frank to the brink of madness.

You heard him moan your name in a desperate escape of pleasure. “Go on,” Frank growled, his own composure fracturing. His movements became less controlled, more feral. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore; he was trying to claim your soul. “Come for me, baby. Scream my fucking name.”

He accelerated, his hips moving in a blur of motion, each thrust faster and more violent than the last. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your juices being churned by his dick. Your hips bucked wildly as you finally broke, your body stiffening as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. “Frank! Oh fuck, Frank!” you shrieked, your legs locking around his waist as you convulsed around him.

The way your pussy tightened around his cock seemed to mimic a mold tightening around a sword; it was as if you wanted to melt every detail of it inside you, from the tip to every vein that decorated the cock that remained throbbing and restless inside you.

He was surrounded by you, by the fluids of the orgasm that he himself caused and that bore his name, only his.

Seeing you unravel was the final trigger. Frank’s vision went dark, his entire body tensing with primal force. “Fuck!” he roared, his voice raw and guttural as he gave three last, devastatingly deep thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt, his cock throbbing violently as he unloaded. He could feel his cum pumping into you in hot, thick jets, filling you up while his own climax wracked his muscular frame.

For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was your ragged, desperate breathing. Frank collapsed forward, his sweat slicked chest pressing against your heaving breasts, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to regain your senses. The violence of the act left you both spent, drained, and utterly connected in the aftermath of the storm.

Frank stayed pressed against you for several long seconds, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. His cock remained buried inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, each pulse sending a warm trickle of cum between both of your bodies.

Slowly, Frank shifted his weight, rolling off you just enough so he could prop himself up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, sweat slicking his forehead, and his eyes, usually so cold and guarded, were still dark with the residual haze of lust. He looked down at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, seeing the flushed glow of your skin and the way your lips were swollen from his kisses.

A slow, possessive smirk spread across his face. The satisfaction wasn’t just physical; it was a victory.

“So,” he rumbled, his voice gravelly and thick with satisfaction. He reached out, his rough thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip before dragging down to the damp hollow of your throat. “You still thinkin’ ’bout that damn book?”

You could only manage a weak, breathless laugh, your fingers curling into the sheets as you tried to catch your breath. Your body felt heavy, boneless, and completely undone. “I think... I might need a new book so you can show me how good you are,” you managed to whisper, your eyes half lidded.

Frank let out a rough chuckle, leaning down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your temple before biting lightly at your earlobe. “Yeah? You can throw that shit in the trash,” his hand slid down between you, feeling the slick mess where you two were still joined. “’Cause I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I just proved I’m better than any bastard written on those pages.”

He nipped at your neck again, his tone dropping to that dangerous, possessive growl you loved. “Next time ya want somethin’ that’ll keep ya up at night, sweetheart... just ask me. Ain’t no book gonna beat the real thing.”

notes: i think this is the first time in years i've written anything smutty about frank lmao, i hope it meets the expectations of whoever is reading this ahaha.

( diveders by @kodaswrld )

Claws hit hardwood at a full sprint. Before you could even react a brindle blur rounded the corner - and a dog stopped several feet away, body rigid. He was bigger than you’d imagined. Lean instead of bulky, all long legs and muscle beneath a dark brindle coat striped almost like a tiger. A bright white chest stood out against the rest of him, ears pricked high, amber eyes fixed entirely on you.

He stared at you for a moment - and then he exploded.

“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!”

The sound hit you like a punch. The bark wasn’t high or frantic. It was deep enough that you felt it vibrate in your ribs before you heard it. You couldn’t help yourself - you let out a high-pitched scream. The coffees flew out of your hands and the bagels hit the floor.

The dog sprinted in your direction.

“No. NO! NO!”

You stumbled backward so quickly your shoulder slammed into the front door. The dog skidded to a stop only a few feet away, body still rigid, barking so violently you could see every single tooth in his mouth.

“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”

“Oh God!”

You slapped both hands over your face on instinct - before realizing you couldn’t see him anymore which was the absolute wrong decision. You dropped your hands again.

He was still there. Still staring. Still barking. Tail stiff. Blocking the hallway. As if you would attempt to sneak past him. You weren’t stupid - or suicidal

“I’m sorry!” you whimpered. “I’m sorry, doggy. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

Your back pressed harder against the front door. And the barking somehow got louder.

The bedroom door flew open with a loud thump - and Jack appeared in the hallway, only wearing boxer shorts, a baseball bat in his hand.

His eyes flickered from his dog to the coffee puddle on the floor - to the terrified woman plastered against his front door.

“... Jesus Christ.” He let out a sigh and lowered the baseball bat. “Enough.”

The dog stopped barking immediately.

“Tabasco - place!”

The dog’s ears twitched. He hesitated for half a second, his gaze never leaving you, before turning reluctantly and disappearing into the bedroom.

Jack leaned the baseball bat against the wall, then crossed the hallway in three quick strides. His prosthetic leg clicked against the hardwood and hitched for a step as if he’d buckled it on in record time.

“Sweetheart!” He wrapped his arms around you - and everything you’d been holding together (badly) fell apart.

“I’m so sorry” you choked out, clinging to him. “I… I didn’t know… I didn’t think about the dog. I just wanted to surprise you.”

“I know.” His hand cradled the back of your head while the other rubbed slow circles across your back. “I know.”

“I thought he was going to eat me.”

Jack chuckled softly. “He wouldn’t do that. His meal plan purely consists of stupid interns and pharmaceutical reps.”

A quiet wet laugh escaped you. “He sounded like he wanted to kill me.”

“He exactly sounded like a dog who’s convinced someone just broke into his apartment” Jack replied softly. “He never met you before. As far as he knows you’re stranger walking right into his house.”

“I had a key.”

“He’s a dog. He doesn’t know that.” Jack pressed a soft kiss on top of your head.

“He hates me” you said with a sniffle.

Jack leaned back just enough to brush a kiss against your forehead. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“He definitely hates me.”

“Give me about twenty-four hours.”

You looked up. “That’s a long time.”

“Twelve if you let him have the bagels you just dropped.” He shrugged. “He’s clever as hell but also very bribable.”

That made you smile. He returned it and gently wiped another tear away from your cheek.

“I’m really sorry, Jack.”

“Ah, sweetheart, you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I scared your dog.”

“In fact - you scared me” he said with a chuckle, resting his forehead against yours. “If you’re trying to kill me next time just wake me up with sex.”

You stared at him.

“I’m fifty. My heart’s probably questionable already.” He kissed you softly. “Seems like a much nicer way to die than getting woken up by Tabasco convincing me someone’s breaking into my apartment.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The dog appeared in the hallway. His head was tilted slightly and he still stared at you suspiciously. Jack turned around. “My fault” he said with a sigh. “He heard his name.”

Your whole body went stiff as you watched him standing there. You gulped. “He’s enormous.”

Jack had to hide his grin. “He has a good size.”

“He stares at me” you whispered.

“Yeah, because you’re new and pretty and you make more interesting noises than his squeaky toy.”

You glanced at him horrified. “He wants to chew on me?”

“No.” Jack chuckled. “I want to chew on you. Exactly on that sensitive spot right here.” He kissed the spot right under your ear which made you gasp.

But not even this helped you relax. “Jack, he’s still staring.”

He pulled away with a small sigh then turned around. “Tabasco, come here.”

The dog started walking toward him and stopped right in front of him.

“Sit.”

He followed immediately - and started wagging his tail.

“See? He’s friendly.”

You took a step back, pressing yourself against the wall again. “He still wants to eat me.”

Jack laughed. “Okay, come on - I’ll bring you back to bed and then I’ll clean up this mess and then I’ll show you there is only one Abbot here, who wants to eat you.”

“WOOF!”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “No, Tabasco, that’s my girlfriend. I’m the only one eating her.”

“WOOF! WOOF!”

“Did I allow you to backtalk to me? Huh?” Jack lifted his eyebrows - which was enough for the dog to fall silent. “Yeah, thought so.” He bend over and started ruffling his ears. “I’m the only one taking care of her, okay? She’s mine.” He paused for a moment. “She wouldn’t want you anyway. She’s not interested in neutered guys.”

Tabasco blinked.

“Sorry.”

“Woof.”

SIX DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING

The night Nicky Cunningham proposed to you was the night a part of you died. It’s not that you didn’t love him. He was utterly perfect. His kindness felt effortless. His patience made people soften around him. Nicky had always known how to take pieces of himself and offer them up to others like it cost him nothing. You used to think that was the purest kind of love. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why this feels so wrong.

Maybe it was because you were only with Nicky for six months before he popped the question. You’ve known him since you were a child, so it made sense for him to propose so soon. He practically spent his entire life time loving you, or at least being told that he should love you by his mother.

You remember the look on Nicky’s face with his hands trembling just slightly as he held yours. Your mother was already crying before you could even answer, and his parents watching like this was something inevitable like it had always been predicted before you were even born. You said yes, and you meant it.

At least, you think you did. Your mother always told you to be in a relationship where the man should love more than his wife. “So if he loves you more, you’ll always be safe,” she would say with a painted smile,”…and you can get whatever you want in the world without needing to do anything in return.”

You used to believe her. It made sense because you have been gifted with such a lavish life at the hands of your kind father who adores you and your mother more than anything else. Your mother was divine. She is effortlessly beautiful and the kind of woman people turned to look at twice. You loved her at a distance. She never reached for you first, but you stopped expecting her to. You couldn’t do anything right in her eyes unless they were carefully crafted by her own mind.

She wore your father’s love like jewelry. To her, he was something nice to have, something that completed the picture. You never once saw her look at him like he looked at her. Never saw that same devotion reflected back. Now that he's gone, you can't seem to remember what it feels like to have parental affection.

Now you’re afraid that your life has led you back to this path. The path of empty laughter and a greedy mouth ready to spill half truths of your perfect life to whoever is willing to listen. Why does it feel like you’re stepping into your mother’s life instead of your own?

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

Three months have passed since Nicky popped the question, and now it is the week of your wedding. In just six days you are going to be Mrs. Cunningham. You were hoping for a longer engagement. One where you would be able to make every conscious decision carefully, but your families were eager to see you at the altar with Nicky. There was truly no way around it. It was like your mother and Victoria had a deadline that needed to be met, but you couldn’t figure out why exactly they were in a rush. You’re staying in the Cunningham lodge. Everything is curated to perfection, every detail intentional. You should feel like you’re in a dream. Instead, it feels like you’ve stepped into something that was written long before you ever had a say.

You thought, at some point, the anxiety would fade. That excitement would take its place. That you’d wake up one morning and feel it. You would feel the certainty and joy that your mother always talked about, but that feeling never came. If anything, it got worse. Wedding planning didn’t feel like building a future. It felt like a chore that required the input of every person in your life. Every decision felt like something you were pushed into. The colors, the flowers, the dress, hell, even your venue, you felt like you had no say.

So you did what you always do. You disappeared into your work. Art has always made sense to you in a way life doesn’t. As a curator, you know how to place things. You know how to create meaning, how to make something feel right just by positioning it correctly. But lately, it’s felt like your life is the one being arranged. You don’t recognize the narrative anymore.

The front door closes softly behind you as you step into the lodge, the scent of polished wood and something faintly floral filling the air. This scent is nostalgic, reminding you of the many holidays spent here. This was your second home growing up. Not necessarily the lodge, but any place owned by the Cunningham family was also your own. Your mother and Nicky’s mother were college friends. They were mirrors of one another, often validating the other’s thoughts and feelings without a second thought. A part of you always felt like your mother loves Victoria more than your own father. Hell, even yourself.

You’re alone. Well, not technically. The housekeeper is helping carrying in your things. Despite your pleas to help her, she refused. You saw another car parked outside, but you didn’t care to check and see who it belonged to. You assumed it was the housekeeper's. The evening was supposed to be a welcome party with just the women, and the men would come later in the night. Just you, your mother, Victoria, and Portia. Your mother wanted to throw you an early celebration with just the matriarchs of the family. She wanted to congratulate you for following her orders to create a perfect life. The women are out in the nearest town apparently picking up the “surprise” they’ve been planning for you. Nell never responded to your calls or messages from weeks ago. You swear you’ve mentioned your wedding plans to her many times in the past, but she decided to ghost you right before your big day. It was unusual of her to leave you stranded, but you assumed she was busy. Besides, wedding planning has been so stressful, the last thing you’re worried about is just one person.

Nicky and the boys should be out collecting suits for the groomsmen among other bachelor activities. You’re honestly glad you are alone because you don’t think you could handle the entire Cunningham bloodline here.

Your eyes follow the beautifully crafted details in the home. You walk through the home in awe as you stride through each room transitioning into another work of art. Then they stop. Your gaze lands on the large portrait hanging above the mantle. Your eyes find him immediately. No, not Nicky, but the other brother. Like they always do. He sticks out within the precisely painted Cunningham family. You’ve seen this painting many times. But something is different.

You step closer without meaning to, your chest tightening as your eyes scan the familiar figures. Victoria, Dr. Boris, and Portia are painted beautifully, each stroke perfectly capturing their essence. Then there is Nicky. Oh, your sweet Nicky. You notice a new addition beside Nicky. There’s a chair. Your chair. It’s unfinished. The chair waiting for your place in the painting is detailed like the others, but it’s empty. It’s waiting for you. Like you’ve already been placed.

Your throat tightens. This isn’t just a painting. It’s a future someone else has already framed. An expectation. A quiet, suffocating certainty that this is where you belong. And then you see him. You see Jules. Then you see something else. The space to the right of him has been carefully painted over, as if to cover something. To cover a mistake. Your stomach drops again. Nell is gone. Sweet Jude is still there, but there was no sign of Nell. That explains it.

“You noticed.” A low voice startles you. Of course it’s him. It’s always him.

Slowly, like you’re afraid of what you’ll find, you turn your head. Your heels softly click against the floors, filling the quiet and tense hallway.

Jules stands just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him ever touching you. Like he’s drawn to the same thing you are. Or maybe… to you. How long was he there for? How long has it been since you last saw him? Maybe since your engagement, but you aren’t too sure. It’s been too long.

“You don’t think it’s strange?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend. “To just… erase someone like that?”

“Isn't it stranger to have an empty seat for someone not in the family yet?” You stop and immediately frown. You just have to ignore him.

“I really liked Nell, you know. She was good with Nicky, but she was even better with you. Also, Jude adored her,” you bite your lip, trying to find the words to explain your mixed emotions. A part of you is shocked to see her gone, but a part of you is relieved. You don’t exactly know why though. Your turn back towards the painting, trying to remember what it looked like with Nell.

“She left,” he says finally.

You frown slightly, glancing at him now despite yourself. “Left?”

Another pause. He speaks with a low and silky tone, enticing you to turn and look at him. You refuse to fully turn to him. You don’t want to acknowledge his pain or the tension in the air. Nell left only a month before. It coincidentally occurred the same time you sent out invitations. She was quick to sign the divorce papers and move on with her life, but why didn’t you find out about this sooner?

“Some people don’t stay where they’re expected to.”

Your heart stumbles. You have a feeling that this was not just about Nell.

“People don’t get erased,” Jules says, his tone sharper now. “They just get replaced.” The words land harder than they should. Your chest tightens. Because no one is getting replaced in this scenario. You start to wonder what his words truly mean. Is he the one getting replaced?

“Is that what you think this is?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. "I haven't seen you in a year, and the first thing you do is criticize me?"

Silence stretches between the two of you.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’re about to put yourself somewhere you don’t belong or…” Jules glances at Nicky in the painting,“…someone else is in a place they don’t belong.”

Your face burns with anger, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. There is a bit of truth to his words, yet you’re filled with so much rage. Are you supposed to feel offended or hurt? Maybe both.

“Why are you here, Jules?” Your voice rises because you can’t take the sly remarks anymore. “Shouldn’t you be with Nicky? Picking up the tuxes? Doing bachelor things?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. Jules just looks at you like he’s weighing something, like there’s a version of this moment where he says too much and everything shifts. Then he shakes his head. He remains steady and impossible to read.

“No.”

Your brows pull together in confusion.

“No?”

“They don’t need me there.”

“That’s not—” you exhale, trying to steady yourself and level out your frustration. Your hands come to your forehead, massaging out the anger. “It’s your brother’s wedding.”

“I’m aware.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten. Not defensive. Not dismissive. He is calm and cool, like he always is. You swallow. “Then why aren’t you with him?”

He pauses long enough to feel intentional.

“Because I’m here,” he says simply, “with you.”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” he replies, quieter now.

You shake your head, frustration boiling under your skin. “Jules—”

“You want the real one?” he cuts in, voice rising.

Your eyes falter because something in his tone shifts. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before his eyes find yours again. “I couldn’t stand there,” he says, “pretending this is normal.”

Your pulse spikes. “Pretending what is normal?”

His jaw tightens. “This,” he says, gesturing faintly between you, the room, the house and everything. “You. Him. The way everyone’s acting like this is exactly how it’s supposed to go.”

“I’m supposed to be here,” you insist, even as it sounds weaker out loud. “This is my wedding.”

“I know.” His jaw tightens, just slightly.

“Then stop—” your voice cracks, your emotions bleeding through now, “—stop looking at me like I’m making a mistake.”

Your heart skips a beat. You can’t believe you said that.

“Are you?”

That was enough of his insults and banter. You start walking away from him, making your way towards the kitchen so you can cool yourself down with a glass of wine. Your heels rapidly tap down the hallway as you try to run away from him. But of course, Jules follows after you. You’ve tried everything possible to keep him away from you. You never texted him or called. You never told him about you and Nicky's quick union. You needed to keep him from being an obstacle from the life you’ve always wanted. You just want to feel safe, but he has always threatened your safety.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You shout in frustration, trying to wave him off. You are both alone in the kitchen. You frantically search for the nearest bottle of wine to pour yourself. “All you have done since I’ve been with Nicky is make my life hell! For the love of God, just leave me alone already. We aren’t kids anymore, Jules.” You can feel tears threaten to fall from your eyes, but you fight them back as you pour yourself a glass. You can’t even look at Jules because you are seething with anger.

“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone. Why do you keep on questioning all of my choices?”

His expression shifts. It’s painful. It’s the kind of pain that yearns for comfort.

“…Because no one else will,” he says. His voice is normally so calm and cool, but you can hear just an ounce of his pain. Jules is practically pleading for you to turn around without saying a single word.

Your chest aches. You finally turn around to face him, and your breath catches. He’s closer to you than you realized. You weren’t prepared for this version of him up close. Not like this. Jules Cunningham looks different when there’s no distance left between you. The sharpness you’re used to melts into something more real, more human. There are faint lines etched into his face. The skin around his eyes and along his brow have marks left behind by too many night shifts. His hair is slightly unkempt, like he ran a hand through it too many times and stopped caring about fixing it.

His eyes. Those beautifully rich, brown eyes stare into your soul. His eyes are locked on yours. There is not a trace of mischief or playfulness, and he’s not detached. He’s focused on you. Just you. There’s something quieter there now. He looks like someone who has been carrying something for a long time. Something heavy. Something that hasn’t let him rest. Underneath his hard exterior is a look of regret. It sits there unhidden like he’s stopped trying to disguise it.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away. Because you can’t. This is the Jules you’ve cared about for years. For a second you can see a glimpse of young Jules. The young boy who would always tease you, yet always knew how to make you smile after the fact. Standing this close, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you were using to steady yourself.

That version of him flickers across his face now, and it makes everything worse. Standing this close to him, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you’ve been using to steady yourself. You’ve missed this Jules. Your Jules. The one that knew you better than anyone else.

“See?” he says quietly. His is almost tired from pleading for you. “This is what I mean.”

“Please, Jules,” you whisper, shaking your head slightly. “Just stop it already.”

“I just need you to be honest with yourself and with me. You never lie to me.”

Your chest tightens. Jules has always been the person that challenged everything you did. He didn’t criticize you though, not like your mother. He never made you feel belittled over your decisions except for this one. He just knew how to get you thinking critically about your choices, and he always supported you in the end.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been lying to everyone else since the moment you said yes to Nicky, but you know you can't fool me.”

“No, I—”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupts, but there’s no bite in it now. Just certainty. “Just tell me this, and be honest.”

In this moment, he reaches his hand out to you. He softly holds onto your shoulder as if he needs to brace himself for what he was about to ask.

“Do you really love Nicky?” He asked the question he knew he didn’t want the answer to. Because then it would truly feel real. You would finally get away from him.

It takes you a minute to respond. Too long.

“…I love Nicky,” you say finally, firmly, like you’re trying to convince yourself it is true. “…and I am going to marry him.”

Jules exhales slowly.

“Okay.”

Just that. Okay.

And then he lets go of your shoulders. The absence of his hands hits you harder than the touch did. He steps back, putting distance between you that made him feel further away than it actually was. Only then do you realize you’re crying. You don’t even remember when it started. Fat tears roll down your cheeks, your nose is pink, and your lips are practically raw from biting on them.

Jules notices immediately. His expression shifts to deep devotion and care, something that didn’t happen often to people that were you or Jude. He steps forward again without thinking, hand lifting slightly as if to wipe your tears away.

The thing about you and Jules is that you two are always honest to each other. Always. No matter how hard a truth can be, you have to tell him. Unfortunately, that's the hardest truth you've ever had to admit to, and now it's eating you alive despite you being honest.

Before he can, voices spill into the hallway. Loud. Bright. Too cheerful to belong to what just happened.

“Where is Future Mrs. Cunningham~”

Portia’s voice echoes through the lodge like nothing in the world has changed. Jules freezes mid-motion. Your blood turns cold when you realize. You step back quickly. Five steps away from him in seconds, turning your face away just as you lift your glass and take a long, shaky sip of wine like it can erase what just happened.

The three women enter the kitchen in a wave of perfume, silk, and celebration. Each of them enter bearing lavish gifts wrapped in pink and gold. Portia is practically glowing with excitement, hands already clapping together. Victoria follows with composed elegance, her smile softer but observant as per usual. Then your mother gracefully enters the room. Your mother is radiant. Perfect and beaming, until she sees him.

Jules. The other brother.

The shift is immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable. Her smile doesn’t fall, but it tightens at the edges, like something carefully maintained under pressure. She is clearly irritated. She cannot stand Jules. He’s more accomplished than Nicky in every way possible. He’s a doctor, devilishly handsome, and so incredibly smart. But, he is not Nicky. So your mother will never approve of him. Just tolerate but nothing more.

“Jules?” she says with disguised joy, “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Nicky?”

Victoria’s gaze flicks between the two of you. She is slowly assessing the situation as if she’s trying to solve a problem no one has officially admitted exists yet.

“I was,” Jules replies evenly. He is calm and controlled. “I brought Jude to the lodge early because he was not feeling very good. He doesn’t enjoy car rides.” Your mother’s eyes narrow just slightly, not at you, but at the situation. At the shape of it and the imbalance she can feel but not name. She doesn’t believe him entirely, but she does love little Jude.

“I promise I won’t get in the way of tonight. I’ll stay in the room with Jude.”

“And where is dear Nelly?” Victoria asks. Jules is silent and cold. Everyone understands immediately what he means.

“Oh…” Portia breaks the silence and gives Jules a little pour. “I am so sorry, Jules.”

“It’s fine. Seriously, I am okay,” Jules reassures.

The other women clearly look a bit concerned, but not so much Victoria. She seems almost relieved.

Suddenly, you are hyperaware of everything. Of the wine in your hand. Of your unsteady breathing. Of the fact that Jules is still standing too close to where you were moments ago. Of the way your body hasn’t fully recovered from the conversation that just cracked something open inside you. So you don’t respond. You just drink again.

Portia claps her hands, breaking the tension before it can settle.

“Okay, okay, enough seriousness,” she says brightly. “We have a wedding to finish planning!”

She turns to you with her sickeningly cheerful attitude, “We can find another bridesmaid right?!” You are honestly a little stunned to see how the scene around you continues to move despite your stillness. Everyone continues their chatter and excited banter as you stare off into your glass of wine.

Jules isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at you. Long enough that your breath catches again. No one else notices. At least you think no one else did.

“I should go…” Jules says hurriedly, “…I need to check on Jude.” He turns before anyone can respond. But right before he leaves the room, his eyes flick back to you once more. It is brief, unreadable, and far too steady for what just happened between you. Then he’s gone, leaving the air behind him heavier than before. Portia immediately launches into another sentence. Your mother adjusts her posture. Victoria starts speaking about seating arrangements.

But you stay still. Glass in hand. Your eyes are practically glazed over while you wrap your head around what just happened. Heart loud in your chest. Even with him gone, it feels like the conversation never ended.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

A few hours have passed and you’re in the Lover’s suite alone. Curled into yourself on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, you absentmindedly twist your engagement ring around your finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like if you keep it moving, you won’t have to think about what it actually means.

The room is filled with gifts. Boxes. Tissue paper. Satin ribbons carelessly draped over polished surfaces. Beautiful things. Expensive things. None of them feel like yours. You try not to sound ungrateful—even in your own head—but it’s hard to ignore the disconnect. Every gift feels like it was chosen for someone else. Someone easier. Someone more predictable. Someone who fits the perfect mold for the perfect future Mrs. Cunningham. The purse sitting on the chair is stunning. It is sleek, structured, clearly worth more than you’re comfortable thinking about. But it’s not your style. It never has been. The mink scarf draped across the vanity makes your stomach turn slightly. It’s soft, luxurious. However, it is completely unwearable to you. You’ve never understood how something dead could be considered beautiful.

Your eyes land on the box at the foot of the bed. Your mother’s gift. You already know what’s inside. It’s your “something old”. Slowly, you reach for it, lifting the lid with more care than you intended. The heels are breathtaking. Delicate. Timeless. The kind of shoes you once imagined picking out for yourself one day. Something that would feel like you. But they aren’t yours.

They’re hers and your mother’s mother. A legacy. A path already walked. Your throat tightens as you stare at them. Because that’s what this all feels like, doesn’t it? Not a beginning of your life but a continuation of her's.

“I don’t want to be her…” you whisper to no one.

The words sit heavy in the room. You love your mother, but you’ve seen what her life looks like. You’re not sure you can survive it. A wave of nausea rolls through you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming. You press a hand to your stomach, breathing shallowly. God. You actually might be sick. The anxiety has been building for weeks, but now it’s something physical.

You are honestly relieved Nicky won’t come until tomorrow. He and Dr. Boris got stuck in the snow and is staying in a motel for the night. Nicky is everything you are supposed to want. You love him, but now they’re an immovable obstacle in the way. You try not to think about him, but it’s already too late. He has infiltrated your thoughts. It’s him.

The other brother.

You have a secret. One that only Jules knows. For as long as you could remember, you loved Julian Cunningham. You didn’t love him in a fleeting way but deeply with devotion. He was your first everything. Your first date, first kiss, first time, and first love. But he was never your first boyfriend. No, your affair was hidden like a shadow from your families. Why? It was because he was the other brother. The wrong one. The one that neither of your parents would have approved of. Jules was never the safe choice. He was sharp, blunt, rough around the edges in a way that made people uncomfortable. But none of that ever stopped you. You loved him anyway.

You think about it now. The way you used to sneak through these halls as teenagers, your heart racing as you stole quick, breathless kisses in corners you thought no one would notice. Or in college, when you would drive hours away to see Jules after his medical school rotations. He’d be exhausted, barely able to stand. You’d still cook for him, sit with him, tuck him into bed like he was something fragile, even when he pretended not to be.

Those years taught you everything. How to love someone fully. How to care for someone like they were a part of you. Like losing him would feel like losing air. But there was always a line you two couldn’t cross. A boundary neither of you named, but both of you understood. You were never public. The feelings were never acknowledged. Never real to anyone but yourselves.

Jules kept you like a secret, but you kept him like an oath.

A sound breaks through the silence.

Soft at first. Then again. A knock.

Knock knock.

You know it wasn’t your mother. She doesn’t ask for permission, she just goes in. “…I know you’re in there.” It’s his voice. It’s low, muffled through the door, but it was unmistakable.

Jules. The other brother.

Your heart starts racing again, faster now, your body already reacting before your mind catches up. No one should be here this late. Not tonight. You slowly slide off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your breath shallow, your hand hesitating just before the handle.

You twist the knob. The door creaks open, and there he is again.

Jules.

“Hey,” he says quietly, trying not to signal to anyone else in the home that he’s here. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry…”

You don’t let him finish. “For what, Jules?” Your voice is sharper than you expect, but you don’t pull it back. “For being an asshole to me on my wedding week?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes… but also for everything else.”

You hesitate. “What do you mean, Jules?”

He exhales, glancing at you like you already know the answer. “You know what I mean.” The weight of it settles between you.

“Oh.”

It’s barely a response, but it’s enough. He takes a step into your room. He slowly and carefully makes his way inside because he knows he’s allowed to, but can’t stop himself anyway. Now, he’s right in front of you. Closer than he should be. Closer than you should let him.

Before you can think, before you can stop it, he pulls you into him. His strong arms wrap around your waist, keeping you stable. It’s tight and familiar, and it makes your chest ache instantly. You freeze at first, but then you melt. You missed this, and you absolutely hate that you do.

It isn’t the kind of safety Nicky gives you. Nicky gives you something steady, dependable, expected. This is different. This is the kind of safety that feels consuming, like the rest of the world disappears, like nothing exists outside the space between you and him. Your arms wrap around his neck before you can stop yourself, your body remembering before your mind can argue.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly. Just enough to look at you. And God, that look. There’s something in his eyes you’ve been trying not to name all night. Something heavy. Something aching. Something that looks a lot like longing. He leans in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his hands sliding up to cradle the back of your head. Your breath catches, your fingers tightening against him. His nose brushes yours softly, carefully, like he’s asking a question he already knows he shouldn’t.

“Jules…” you whisper. “Please…” he murmurs, “...don't make the same mistake I've made…”

Your chest tightens painfully. “No.” The word comes out shaky, but you force it out anyway as you step back, breaking the contact. “You’re just acting like this because you’re alone again. You don’t have someone to run to… because Nell left you.”

His expression shifts immediately. “No,” he says, firm, almost desperate. “It’s not like that. It’s never been like that.”

“Then what is it, Jules?” Your voice cracks. The dam holding back every single emotion you've been containing cracks and spills out. Heat rises to your face as tears blur your vision. You push him, once, then again. Your fists hitting his chest over and over again.

“You think you can just come back into my life? Try to take away the one thing I want? Ruin my wedding?”

“You know that’s not what you want,” he says quietly.

“Stop acting like you know me!” you snap, shaking your head as you step back again. “You don’t know what I want. You don’t know me.”

Something in him pulls tight. That hit him hard. It hit something that you knew you wouldn't dare touch.

“You know that’s not true,” he says, his voice lower now, strained. “I know you better than anyone else in this goddamn world, and you know that.”

Your chest rises and falls quickly as your heart beats at an irrationally fast pace. This isn't fair. He's not allowed to do this to you, when he did it not once but twice.

“Whatever you think this is,” you say, forcing the words out, “you’re too late. We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re not in college. We are adults. You need to move on, Jules.”

Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. He looks at you like he wants to argue, like he has a thousand things he could say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps forward, and before you can react, his hands come up, gently framing your face as he pulls you closer.

Your breath stops. Everything stills. This is it.

Your eyes close instinctively, your body bracing for something you’ve been chasing for far too long. You’re searching for something familiar, dangerous, impossible to undo. You wait for it, your heart pounding loud enough to drown everything else out.

Something soft and warm presses against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering.

Then he pulls away.

Your eyes open slowly, confusion flooding in where expectations used to be. The feeling of his lips remain on your forehead, your body trying to chase after that feeling.

“I don’t know if I can make it to Saturday,” he admits quietly, his voice rough now, “without at least trying to show you that I care.”

Your throat tightens. “Julien…”. He never lets anyone call him that, unless that person is you.

He shakes his head, already stepping back. “I am sorry... for how I treated you,” he says, forcing something steadier into his voice. “I’m going to leave now. Jude doesn’t like being here alone.”

He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I can’t promise I won’t get in the way,” he adds, not turning back. “I’ll try… but I don’t know if I can.”

“Goodnight.” Jules lingers for a moment, and then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him, but the silence he leaves behind is anything but quiet. The room still feels full of him, of everything he said, of everything he didn’t. Your chest aches, your thoughts tangled, your emotions impossible to separate.

You’re not just anxious anymore. You’re unsure, and somehow, that feels worse. You sink into the bed, the room spinning just enough to make you feel sick, your fingers drifting back to the ring on your hand. It feels heavier now. Jules’ words remain in the air, tangled with your own thoughts, impossible to separate from what you actually feel. You stare down at your hands, at the life that’s been so carefully placed in front of you, and for the first time, you don’t see certainty.

You glance at your phone, hoping you received a text from Nicky. A “goodnight” or “I love you” a reminder that this is simple, that you’re not spiraling alone in it. But the screen stays dark and silent.

You do the one thing that brings you comfort during stressful times like this. You sketch. You pull your thick journal from your suitcase, the familiar weight of it grounding you slightly. Years of work live inside it. There are drawings layered over drawings, pages taped in, corners folded, charcoal smudged into old pencil lines. It’s messy, chaotic even, but it’s yours. You’ve never been able to throw any of it away. Your pencil moves automatically at first, tracing the strong line of a jaw, the familiar structure of Nicky's face, the softness you’ve always associated with him. You try to focus, try to anchor yourself in the details you know by heart. You get lost in your art, meticulously adding details to Nicky's face.

But somewhere between the shading and the shaping, your hand slows. Your breath catches slightly. The face forming on the page isn’t Nicky.

It's Jules.

Your pencil freezes. You stare at the page like it’s betrayed you. It's not like you didn’t just do that. A quiet curse slips out before you can stop it.

“Shit.”

You have a very long week ahead of you.

I didn’t move for a while. I shut my eyes while the morning warmth started to creep in and the sound of his breathing dared to take me back to sleep. Everything these past few days felt so far away now. Whatever it was, it was over. 

Finally, Tom did wake with the sharp inhale and subtle tightening of his muscles as he pulled me closer to him beneath the sheets. 

“Good morning,” his groggy voice murmured against my neck. 

His bare chest pressed against my back and I shuddered at the heat. “Morning,” I quietly returned, holding his hand at my chest. 

This was a life I could get used to, I initially thought. But where my mind went after felt like uncharted territory; one I didn’t want to explore. Why did the thoughts of leaving already plague my thoughts the second I felt at ease? 

We met with Wyck and Patricia that morning at the Salty Whale. The sun already felt brighter, the tension I witnessed in Tom’s features this week now nonexistent. He proudly held my hand as we entered the busy restaurant up until we parted to take our seats. 

It truly felt like the summer weekend was in full swing as I looked around the place. 

I guess it would look that way when we were distracted by the things we were distracted by recently. We could look fondly on the families that strode in, the workers who served with untarnished smiles. More importantly though, we all could take a deep breath and rest easy knowing that the curse was gone. Hardly any words were exchanged over breakfast for that reason alone.

Wyck left first. Who knows if I’d see him again while I was still in Widows Bay. Patricia remained, saying I could still stay with her until I left. 

The thought of leaving created a small tear within, one that grew every time I thought of it. My return ticket for the ferry was this Sunday and with it, the nagging inability to return to normal life after this. 

Before I even knew it we left the restaurant and stood idle in the parking lot, stuck between his car and Patricia’s who snuck back into hers, leaving the two of us standing with my hands in his. 

The smile hadn’t left his lips all morning and I couldn’t help but mirror the gleefulness of it. 

“You look so happy.” 

“Do I really?” Tom’s grin widened, chuckling in disbelief. “I’m scared to know what I looked like to you before all this.” 

I stood straighter, my hands coming up to his chest to close some of the distance. 

“You looked like someone I would enjoy waking up to.” I tilted my head. 

Tom’s eyes dipped, as if it could hide the pinkness to his ears. He took a deep breath as his hands rested on my hips to pull me in. 

“Really?” he asked, more bashful than I would have anticipated from him.

“Really.” 

His shoulder sagged and his expression did too. “I’m going to get to the office. But tonight, I’m going to show Evan the tickets and just get on a clean slate with him.” 

“I think that’s a great idea.” I grinned. 

It felt like I never knew him and his son to be on the same page since I’ve come here. It bothered him in ways I couldn’t understand. I could only see how much happier it made him though knowing he could take his son off the island. It even sparked a few ideas in my own head about what our future could look like. 

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked hesitantly.

My face scrunched. “One night without you? What could go wrong?” 

I laughed as his face flashed with worry and he glanced at Patricia in her car. “I will be fine.” I assured. “We’ll have our own fun. Plus, I think a night in with Evan is what you need after this mess.” 

He nodded with relief, hands reaching up to my face. 

“This weekend though, I’m yours.” Tom promised, kissing my forehead. 

This weekend. That tear grew again and I could feel it digging deep even while I smiled. The weekend felt like an end. 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

I leaned up to kiss him. His fingers loosened for only a second before reaffirming their hold again. The pull away felt like pulling apart velcro, but we could only look like this in a parking lot for so long. 

Tom opened the passenger door for me, leaving me and Patricia in silence for only a moment. 

“So, you stayed at Tom’s last night.” 

I looked over at her, slightly startled. But the second she looked at me, we both grinned in sync before I started to laugh. 

“Yes, yes I did.” I answered coyly. “And I’ll leave it at that.”

~

The rest of the day carried on as it always should have when I first arrived. 

Patricia and I mostly stayed in her home. She was still dealing with the repercussions of what happened at her sunset cocktails so she wasn’t quite ready to show her face around just yet. But her front yard sufficed under the sun and fun drinks we made to have over some good books. 

“You leave soon, don’t you?” she asked.

I had been staring at the sky in the lawn chair, my head dipped back, when her words sunk their teeth into that growing feeling. 

“Sunday.” I said, my voice taut. I didn’t even want to say it aloud.

She sighed and it was the only feeling I could resonate that with. 

“What about you and Tom?” 

I had to laugh, a dry sound that escaped me without any ounce of humor. 

“I don’t know. Honestly.” I shook my head, glancing over at her. 

Patricia and I both sported sunglasses and large t-shirts with the sleeves rolled up to our shoulders, toes stretched out into the grass with our shorts hiked up. We watched those who crossed the street to avoid passing in front of us with their dogs or strollers, staring behind shaded lenses like we were old men on the porch. 

“I don’t know how to go back to city life. With or without factoring Tom in, I don’t know how to go back to normal.” 

“Do you miss it?” 

I thought of my apartment. The job I fought for. My friends. The things we could do in our free time. Of course I did. 

“Yeah,” I answered, the uncertainty in my voice betraying me. “But I really love what I have with Tom. I don’t think I can go home and function properly as a journalist with everything that’s happened.” 

She snickered, equally as empty. 

“I don’t know how to function after all this at all.” Patricia expressed, her eyes locked in on something or nothing as she stared out at the grass. Then, she snapped out of it. “But, we have no choice but to carry on anyway, so, we just do it anyway.” 

I nodded in agreement. 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong.” I echoed, also losing focus on the lawn before me. “I have to go back and just figure it out from there.” 

“I mean, who knows,” Patricia shrugged. “You may get back to the city and realize you don’t want anything to do with us—well, not us. Tom, I guess.”

My head lulled back in her direction with a knowing grin. 

“I’m going to miss you too, Patricia.” 

A smile awkwardly crept onto her lips and she nodded. “Thank you.” 

As the afternoon sun turned, we went back inside and I returned to the guest room where my laptop and notebooks awaited me. It felt so out of place to open these things up when I laid on top of the sheets. My life of concrete, tangible structure was distorted beyond my imagination.

As much as I wanted to forget everything that happened, I also didn’t want to lose it forever. So, I spent the better part of the afternoon writing in my notebook. It was out of place and out of margin, but how does one write the things I’ve seen without feeling all over the place? 

I shut my book when I ended up at my current predicament; how could I have both lives at the same time? 

I rolled on my back. The sun hung low, casting a shadow across the room that was a deep orange sliver across the walls. 

I couldn’t simply uproot my life to this island I only just heard of for one man and the curse we broke. That was the rational thought I had to remind myself of because every time, my mind wandered back to the idea of staying and never looking back. I was no better than a child let loose in a toy store, because in their mind, they’d never leave it if they didn’t have to. 

But I was back to square one by the time Patricia ordered dinner from the Driftwood. 

While we waited for the delivery, we sifted through the DVDs in her living room. 

“What if we watch Jaws? I watch that every summer.” I suggested. 

She shook her head. “No, that movie scares me.”

I frowned. “Patricia. It’s not real.” 

“It’s based on a true story!” she exclaimed, avoiding eye contact as she looked through more movies. 

I didn’t argue that. Maybe I’d get Tom to watch it with me this weekend as we soaked in our final days.

“Grease?” Patricia suggested. 

I grimaced and shook my head. “I have had ‘hopelessly devoted to you’ stuck in my head since my grandmom made me watch that as a kid.” 

Patricia pouted slightly. “I love that song.” 

We finally settled on The Lost Boys because of a mutual love of Kiefer Sutherland and the fact that vampires weren’t as scary as sharks to her. As Patricia grabbed some plates and napkins to sit out at her coffee table so we could watch the movie while we ate, a knock sounded at the door. 

“I got it!” 

I greeted the delivery boy and gave a ten dollar bill as a tip since we had a hefty order. But when he handed me the bag, I couldn’t help but notice it felt pretty light.

Bringing it to the kitchen, Patricia must have sensed the worry on my face and she stood on the opposite side of the table as I removed the various styrofoam containers. 

“God dammit,” Patricia whined as she tore open the first box.

What was supposed to be chicken parm was a haphazardly tossed piece of lettuce and maybe a crabcake? I picked up the next box, small and maybe anticipating my fries. But it was a singular piece of sausage.

“Oh, that’s really wrong.” I huffed.

Patricia had a scowl on her face as she opened the few that remained only to find that everything was wrong. I couldn’t even fathom this belonged to someone else and it was a mixup. 

“I’m calling them!” she barked, turning to her phone that hung on the wall.

“Patricia, it’s fine–”

“No. I’m going to find out who did this.” 

I had yet to see Patricia in this mode and I wasn’t going to stop her. I started to clean up the other items and listened as she demanded to know who bagged their food. 

“I-I don’t want a refund. I just want the person who did this to find out and I don’t want the person to get in trouble I just, ya know, want them to learn from it. Better yet–”

Patricia paused, withdrawing the phone from her ear with a staggered look. It was then that I heard the voicemail. She looked ready to snap into two.

“Why don’t I take your car and go request a new order?” I offered.

Patricia immediately shook her head. “No, that’s ridiculous! That’ll take forever and–and that just lets the person get away with it! I know it was Kathy.”

I sighed. I’ve heard that name too many times at the source of many woes her and Tom face. 

“Yes, but it’ll be faster than delivery and I can make sure they get it right this time.” I insisted, picking up the boxes and placing them back in the bag. “I’ll bring this back with our receipt and won’t leave until they get it right.”

Patricia finally conceded, beckoning out her hand to where she kept her car keys and nodded while her eyes never left the floor.

“Alright, fine.” 

I smiled and grabbed the keys. “The movie isn’t going anywhere. We have all night and an unopened bottle of wine.”

The misery that riddled her face faded at that and I quickly made my way to her car. I still sported the t-shirt and shorts from earlier and a pair of slippers I wouldn’t be caught dead in at home. But this place didn’t know me nor will they ever, so I carried onto the Driftwood without a care in the world.

I started her car and the radio came to life, playing Caribbean Blue from Enya. 

“Hm, good song choice Patricia.” I muttered to myself before pulling away.

~

It may have been an hour. No–forty five minutes tops. I had timed myself from the second I left to the second I got back in the car. It definitely took some hassling with Kathy but she actually broke kind of easy when she remembered my face. 

I tried to ring Patricia’s home phone from my cell, but the service regularly failed me here. 

Instead, I put a bit more push on the gas pedal as I made my way back to her home with the little service my phone maps allowed. 

As I turned onto her street though, a figure appeared among the street lights that lined the road. My eyes narrowed; he was too big and burly to be Patricia. For a split second, it didn’t surprise me that she would have been waiting in the street. But I slowly rolled to a stop as the man remained unmoving from his spot. 

Her house was only right there. 

Frowning, I rolled a few feet closer. He still didn’t move. 

I sighed to myself and manually had to roll her window down. 

“Hey!” I poked my head out the window. “Do you mind moving out of the way?!”

Again, he didn’t move. I had to guess it was an old man, dementia maybe? Every other possibility sifted through my thoughts.

But then, I heard my name. A scream wrought out from not much further ahead and my body stilled. 

“Run!” I heard again. “Run him over!”

My mind buzzed. The alarm bells triggered before I could even register it. Was that Patricia’s voice? Was I finally breaching insanity and hallucinating things? I settled back in my seat, gripping the steering wheel, eyes locked in on the man in the road. He suddenly shifted, hands coming into view and with it, a long blade extended at his side.

Light bounced off of the weapon, and my blood ran cold. 

Patricia’s voice still screamed and it cut through my senses all at once.

I locked up and didn’t think as I slammed my foot on the gas pedal. I squeezed my eyes shut as the body came closer and closer, finally hitting the front of the car like I had driven into a wall. But it rolled atop, shattering the windshield with a webbing effect across it and I slammed on the breaks. 

My breath escaped me, knuckles white against the wheel.

Through the shattered glass I could just barely make out Patricia, frantically waving her arms. She was saying something but I couldn’t register it. I had just ran someone over and the line between what was real and what wasn’t became painfully blurry as the only thing I could hear was my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Patricia, what did I just–”

Darkness swallowed the corner of my vision as a hand reached in, leather gloves wrapping around my neck. My hands made the mistake of leaving the wheel to seize the hand that compressed every vessel in my neck, because it pulled at me like I weighed no more than a feather through the window I had foolishly left open.

I felt every scrape and bang as my body defied any form of gravity as the man pulled me out the car. 

He squeezed and I could feel the heat in my face as air started to escape me. 

But I was thrown, in the air for what felt like a minute before I came down on the dewy grass with a thud. The color left me and my lungs burned. I tried to roll onto my side but the earth spun around me, leaving me wondering where the ground was and where the sky was through my starry vision. Every muscle in my body ached as I collapsed on my backside, finally getting some form of air back to my head.

Just as my vision cleared though, I was met with a masked figure and the gleaming blade. 

Adrenaline soared through me as I tried to roll away.

But something pinned me down, a muscle cramp in my leg that turned into searing, white hot pain that made a scream tear through my lips. It didn’t even sound like it belonged to me as I tried to roll away from the pain–only for it to tear against me even more.

The pressure was pulled away and when I looked up again, the masked man’s blade was coated in crimson.

“Hey! Over here!” 

My muffled ears could just barely pick up Patricia’s voice that the masked man easily followed.

He turned as if I was nothing more than the grass itself and started away.

“No,” I gasped, my voice hoarse. I didn’t realize how swollen and raw everything felt until I tried to make a sound. “Patricia–no–” but I coughed on what felt like iron and spit all in one.

The use of my voice alone sent a wave of exhaustion through me. But as I tried to roll over and crawl towards her, despite her being a mere speck in my vision, my leg felt like dead weight. The throbbing, blinding pain was enough. I couldn’t bear to look down at it as I forced it to roll with me. Instead of looking, I reached my hand down behind my thigh, turning it forward and with a screaming cry, I was laying on my front.

When I brought my elbows forward to crawl my way out, I saw my hand was red. Not a single piece of skin could be made out in my palm as it dripped with blood.

“Oh, fuck…” I muttered.

It felt like hours before I crawled myself back to her door. Every inch further, the lightheadedness grew stronger in its waves. When I made it to the stairs, her home becoming darker around the edges of my vision, I finally looked down.

My thigh was eviscerated. There was so much blood I couldn’t even make out the wound edges. 

Everything in my stomach churned despite myself. The pain wasn’t even nearly as terrible as the sight anymore. It was the first time since I was struck that the dripping cold fear started to become a real concern. I was stuck on stairs, bleeding out all over her lawn, probably having already expended more energy than I was given to make it only a few feet.

I let my head sink against the stairs, heavy and dropping too fast with a thud against the wood.

It was almost the final nail in the coffin. 

Every ounce I had poured into my survival up until this point, and all I could think of was Tom. 

I hadn’t realized the tears that poured from my eyes until now, their salty sting refurbishing themselves as I thought of him. I wanted to call for him and I couldn’t even say his name if I tried right now. 

Suddenly, a light flashed over me. I let my body sink against all the uncomfortable points that dug into me at every angle, a newfound exhaustion that was almost peaceful? I was so tired, so worn from my climb of merely a few feet. But when I blinked, almost too long this time, I opened my eyes to see Wyck standing above me.

His face was screwed into a different level of fear as he shook me, a feeling I didn’t register until I was watching his arms move against my shoulders.

“Kid! Wake up! Come on!” Wyck cried.

The sharp inhale I took just then was enough to remind me I was alive. Enough to remind me I was in pain and yet, alive. 

“Patricia–” my voice croaked, barely making out any syllables. “It’s after her.”

“I know. I know.” he softened, face crumbling as he tried to sit me up.

Wyck grunted as he lifted my upper body, and my head still felt like it was on the ground, spinning now that I was upright. 

“I-I’m–” I gagged, leaning over to the opposite side.

Something came up from me. I couldn’t even feel it, just the churning of my stomach and the rawness against my throat. Whatever splashed beside me was between me and whatever kept me hanging on–which seemed to by Wyck.

“Alright, now that you got that out.” Wyck said. “Can you balance on your right leg for me?”

Balance? Stand? The thought almost made me sick again.

“I’m an old man, sweetheart. You gotta help me help you make it out of this.”

Okay. Okay, I told myself. I must have said it a thousand times in my behind before finally having the courage to use him as a crutch. As I did though, my leg soared with pain. I cried through gritted teeth, standing for a moment to catch my breath. But it all felt clear now. With one feat behind me, the others felt manageable. 

I breathed through pursed lips. Pain was good because it meant I could feel my leg and find it in me to bring it forward, no matter how much it brought me to the brink of death.

Wyck’s words of encouragement fell deaf to my pounding ears until we made it to his truck which was nearly on the lawn. 

I think I blacked out in the time it took to make it into his back seat. 

“Keep your leg elevated!” 

I didn’t even answer. I just hoisted up my leg with my shaking hands, trying to not let it slip through the blood that oozed around it.

Wyck kept talking.

“Uh-huh.” I’d answer. I didn’t even hear him. I’d just agree to hear myself make any sound as the darkness crept in closer.

“Stay with me, come on.” I heard him say. “I can’t tell Loftis you died on my watch.”

“So dump me on the person you dislike the most and blame it on them.”

Wyck’s cackle brought a smile to my lips. “You’re still there alright.”

While that may have been true, I immediately slipped out afterwards.

~

I had a terrible headache.

Consciousness returned in pieces. Fragmented by the throbbing of my head, the first swallow of saliva that burned and almost got stuck. My eyes blinked open to the dim, fluorescent light as every ache and pain in my body came to life. The local news played lowly in the background on the small box TV that hung in the corner of the room.

The one thing that didn’t hurt though was the gentle warmth of another that was in my hand. I first noticed the dark head of hair, short curls formed from the constant raking through them, and I immediately squeezed his hand.

Tom sprung up from where his head rested, eyes rimmed red above the shadows that hung them. 

“Oh my god,” his voice shuddered.

I smiled. How lucky I was to smile upon waking.

“Hi.” 

My voice was barely a whisper, nothing more than my lips mouthing words.

“Here,” Tom quickly moved, handing me a small cup of what I presumed was water. 

I eagerly took it and the sips soothed as much as they ached. When I cleared my throat I thought I’d see stars again but it was well worth it. As my senses came back to me, I motioned to pull the blanket off my legs to find my left thigh was wrapped in a thick layering of gauze.

Then, my medicated, dream-like state drained from me.

“Patricia?!” I gasped.

Tom’s warm expression calmed me before he could answer. “She’s fine. Everyone’s fine.” But he faltered. “Except for the paramedics but that’s–” he shrugged, shaking his head. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

The last words slipped off his tongue delicately and desperately. I reached for his hand again as I watched the weight return to his shoulders.

“I am.’ I echoed, sinking back into the bed.

All I could do was stare at him as he pulled my hand between both of his to his lips. Then, his eyes drifted to my neck and they glossed over again.

“You just had to say ‘what could go wrong’ earlier.” he shook his head.

My lips pulled into a grin and the dry laugh that escaped me made me wince. 

“Don’t make me laugh.” I croaked. Even Tom couldn’t hide his laugh through the tears that stained his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head. 

We sat in silence for a while longer. I stared at my leg, wiggling my toes and moving as much as I could, despite the notion that I probably shouldn’t do so. The doctor came into my room to tell me I only needed ten stitches and the rest was superficial enough. I found that incredibly hard to believe. But what shocked me the most was the final comment he made about laying off the wine.

When he left the room, I stared wide eyed at Tom.

“What the hell did Wyck tell him?”

He stuttered at first, eyes falling to the rough fabric of the blanket. 

‘Uh, well, it was the only story that really–” he began, before sighing in defeat. “He said you had a lot of wine and dropped a knife on your leg.”

I sunk back against the mattress, shaking my head.

“If there was ever a possibility of coming back to this island to be with you, I’m now going to be known as an alcoholic who can’t be trusted with sharp objects.”

I didn’t realize the meaning of what I said until I watched the light flicker in him like I had just blown on a small fire and Tom was the wood.

“Well,” he chuckled and sighed all in one breath. “Lucky for you, most of our population already has you beat on that so, don’t be afraid to come back if that’s what holds you back.”

I squeezed his hand again. My chest hollowed. Despite everything, I couldn’t shake the way I felt with him, the way waking up to him whether in bed or the hospital made me want to leave everything behind to stay. 

“We have a lot to talk about.”

Tom nodded solemnly. But this time, I pulled his hand up to my lips and kept it close to my face.

“I don’t think this curse problem of ours is over.”

He shook his head.

“Nope.”

Then, a banner appeared on the bottom of the TV screen; red with warning and words telling of severe weather. The screen shifted to a weather report that looked absolutely miserable. As we watched it though, I knew that the feeling it evoked didn’t belong to only me. Tom must have felt the same dread I did as the weatherman reported a storm said to be devastating as it rolled along the coast of the cape. 

We looked at each other then.

“Can you get up here with me?”

Tom didn’t hesitate. I squeezed over as much as I could and sunk into his arm that wrapped over my shoulders in an attempt to find some comfort with my head on his chest. We silently watched the rest of the weather report even as it cycled over again, the silence in the room feeling heavier by the minute.

Your absolute favourite people to watch were the those that worked in the PTMC. They stood in line in the mornings, airpods in swaying to their music, anxious for the day ahead, time filled with polite chit-chat as they wait for their drinks to kickstart the day. Or they slumped onto the counters with mid-shift exhaustion coating their demeanour, tasked with a coffee run to keep the emergency room afloat for a couple of hours more. Post-shift coffee runs were your favourite to observe, doctors, nurses, HCA's and the likes dotted around the tables as you watched the debriefs take place, rounded shoulders and whispers fill the cafe morning and night. Of course, in all this you have your favourites that frequent Rose & Co., a young nurse who wears dutch plaits religiously who's name you haven't got the chance to learn yet; an unassuming doctor, Mel, who's earphones bleed Docheii and Megan Thee Stallion every time she stands in the queue; and an enigmatic night shift doctor, who solely goes by Abbot, that joins the line with a stoic energy that seeps right into your bones, whilst also being devastatingly charismatic.

Jack Abbot had called into Rose & Co. after both Crus and Ellis had raved about their pour over. Ever the economical, he rarely thought a coffee out was worth it beyond social outings, but God, it tasted like liquid gold. One cup of pour over turned into a weekly treat, which after a two months turned into a twice a week treat, which eventually turned into practically daily ritual. It wasn't just the coffee that Abbot liked, he'd really bought into the vibe of the shop, or rather that's what he told himself. The music choices of the baristas often felt like they were reading his mind, Pink Floyd's 'Comfortably Numb' echoed around one early morning after a particularly bad double, another day the dusk coffee run was accompanied with the soft tones of old school Fleetwood Mac 'Albatross' easing Abbot into the night shift. The conversations with the baristas didn't hurt either. He enjoyed the enthusiasm of your coworker Kelsey, her larger than life personality and borderline obnoxiously bright clothing choices always lightened his mood. Jack thoroughly enjoyed his short conversations with your manager Chris on his latest read, often swapping recommendations as the paper cup is pushed across the countertop. But there was one person in Rose & Co. Jack looked forward to talking to more than anyone else - you.

Visiting Rose & Co. quickly became a highlight of Jack's daily routine, standing in line, sometimes chatting away to resident's, laughing easily, arms crossed and head tilted back as he listened to their stories. Other days, he stood in line with what seemed like the weight of the world on his shoulders, with what could be read as a scowl or a frown, but you read as deep in thought etched on his face. On any occasion, he stood in line, ready for his pour over, subconsciously waiting to turn around the corner of the counter, and see you. He waited to see your sweet head deep in thought, sometimes nose stuck in a notebook or book, to look up from the counter bright eyes softening into a soft smile to greet him. There was just something about you that he couldn't quite put his finger on, you seemed to seep kindness from every pore, making it seem like you truly care about every little detail people told you about their lives. Not that Jack told you much about himself, no, he ordered and asked you questions about yourself; how your day was going, was it busy, what album you had on rotation these days. And he listened to every word, finding out that you're a writer, that you've put most of the staff onto the music that plays daily and maybe most importantly, he's picked up that you really love to make people smile. You had an inexplicable hold over his routine, it felt like he could settle into his work day more at ease, as if seeing you made the day easier to settle in to.

More often than not, you saw the more playful side of the doctor, especially when he was in the presence of his co-workers. Like recently, when you saw Abbot over the top of the coffee machine as he made way into the shop, a taller more jovial man, standing by his side, gesticulating lively his story. Abbot slipped from view, but his signature gravely chuckle bounced down the line towards you. The screeching of the steaming milk overrides your ability to fully hear their conversation but you can tell it's a lively one. As Abbot and the man beside him made their way over to you, they are still deep in conversation "- tellin' you man, Robby has a death wish, you know he'll only listen to you." the tail end of their conversation piques your interest, sliding over to in front of the till to greet the men. Interrupting Abbot's slightly dramatic tsk you pop in with a full smile and customer service voice set to 100% "what can I get started for you folks -" ever the professional, you remember the silver fox's order "- pour over for yourself, doctor? and for you?" focus shifting politely to other man in his company taking his order. Abbot shoots a slight smile and wink in your direction, muttering a quick "thank you", before turning his attention to the doctor beside him with an exasperated sigh "Shen, brother, I really don't know what you guys think I can do here".

As you got to work pulling shots for iced lattes and heating up the water for the pour over, you hummed to the soft tones of Clario that surround you. The two doctors slumped against the counter, with Abbot's attention on you, he watched your movements like a hawk, not really listening to the doctor - Shen - you think he's called, yabber on about the social crisis that appeared to be happening in work. You pop the two cups in front of the men, a gracious giggle slipping from you as Shen let out a gleeful "lifesaver!" as you pushed the iced coffee in his direction. Unceremoniously you pushed the paper cup in Abbot's direction, promptly followed by placing the jar holding sugar packets beside the rugged doctor's cup, because like all good baristas, you know how your regulars take their coffee. Abbot glimpsed down at your hand as you pushed the jar towards him, eyes tracing up your arm and settling on your mouth for a split second before letting out an easy smile as he looked you directly in the eyes, crows feet deepening with the smile as he pulled two sugar packets and stirred into his coffee. Shen teases Abbot lightly "customer service here is a ten out of ten Abbot" with a nudge of his shoulder, he turned and headed out. Abbot waits a beat and rolls his eyes "don't mind Shen, that's probably his fourth coffee of the day. Thanks as always - " and with a mischievous glint in his eye he finished his sentence with a sarcastic tone coated with a sultry undertone "- sugar". A nervous laugh and shake of the head is all you could muster up, as you avoided his direct eye contact, only lifting your gaze to watch him as he joined his coworker at the door, giving what seems a serious albeit sarcastic telling off as they head out.

One of the tricks of the trade was pulling a high stool from the backrooms to sit by the counter on the slow days. Perched on the stool, you watched as the early morning rain hit the windows, fat droplets streaming down gathering in little pools halfway down the windows before splitting again. The shop is mostly empty, apart from the odd customer seeking reprieve from the hospital across the way. You sit at the till, watching as blurs of people spin by the front of the shop, raincoats and umbrellas crowd your view as you absentmindedly write notes on the latest character that has entered Rose & Co., for your list of character building. As you sit, your ears tune into the dulcet tones of Beach House's 'Myth' that fill the quiet café. Outside, you see a pair of men stand in under the awning, a taller man with a scruffy beard looms over the shorter more stocky man, hands fly around the place, with the taller of the pair turning away, facing the café window, hand pulling down his face in pure frustration. The shorter man turns to face him, giving you a glimpse of a worry ridden Abbot through the window. Almost on impulse, you hold your hand up to give a small wave as he peers in the window, Abbot scans the café quickly, he meets your eye and swiftly ignores your wave. It becomes obvious through the rain drop laden window that the men are arguing, you can hear the slight muffled "brother" and "fuck sake" through the window as Abbot is left in the dust of the other man storming off.

You tear your eyes away from the window, for fear of being caught staring and force yourself to focus on your notebook, suddenly your character list has become the most interesting piece of literature in the world. Pushing the door open with more force than is probably needed, Abbot makes his way up to the counter, landing his damp hands on the surface with a sudden thud. Peeling your eyes your notebook, you smile at Abbot and softly say "oh! we don't often see you here so early! the usual doctor?". Barely meeting your eye he huffs out a sharp "yeah and uh - for here" before dropping a stack of coins on the counter and practically throwing himself into an armchair in the corner. Bad humour practically spills from his pores as he sits in the corner staring at the building across the road, eyes flitting from the emergency room entrance to the rooftop, scanning with a methodological precision for what you think is apparent threats. The water heats in the background, hissing steam behind you as you watch your regular roll his shoulders as a hand reaches to run through is silver curls. You wish he was in a better form, that you could pry slightly to see what the argument was all about with a carefully timed joke, for your writings sake of course. Your timer goes off, pulling you out of your head and kicking you back into action, swaying your hips to the music as you let the coffee bloom, to busy to notice the eyes that gone from tracking the rooftop to tracking your hips.

Abbot is at least partly self-aware of the fact that he's appearing overly broody, sulking in the corner, but his mind is too preoccupied by his closest friends suicide mission to care. It's only when he turns to see where his coffee is that he comes back down to earth. His line of sight is met with you swaying to the music as you work on brewing the coffee, your long locks moving in time with your hips. Jack knows much better than to be ooggeling at anyone while they work, much less you, so he locks his eyes back to the rooftop in search of Robby at the ledge. As you bring the coffee down to he you notice just how tired he looks, not his usual post-shift fatigue, but it is as if there is something physically weighing him down, frown lines seeming more prominent and his usual quips swapped with absentminded remarks. Not that you should be noticing these things about your regulars, but its coming up on nearly six months of seeing this guy nearly every shift so you've learned a thing or two about him. Bringing the coffee down to the set of chairs where Abbot has placed himself hands in, you place the cup onto the table and place a hand on the empty chair and another on your hip asking "work drama?". You've never felt a stare like it, misdirected anger laced his eyes, somehow staring down his nose at you as you stand beside him, confidence shattering. You start to worry that you've completely misread the dynamic between you to, that it's all just faux niceties that filled your conversations, rubbing the back of your neck, heat rushes to your neck in pure embarrassment. After a beat, Abbot postures in his seat, as if his brain is catching up and full registering your presence, with a deep sigh he turns away from you slightly "if you could call someone's borderline suicidal vision quest drama, then yea, a hell of a lot of drama". Internally cringing, you catalogue the conversational misstep for something to ruminate on later, but now you let out a simple "oh". Abbot just shrugs, sarcastic 'what to do' face plastered on him as he reaches for a sip of his coffee, which you take as your queue to head back behind the counter.

Back on your perch, you turn your attention back to your notebook, but your eyes keep making their way over to his corner of the café. After a few minutes pass, Kelsey practically skips into behind the counter, with a side hug and her signature bosturious "hey girl!". She slides her glasses on and takes account of the seats in the café looking for empty cup to pick up. Turning back to you, she slides her glasses down her nose with a dramatic flair ,pointing her thumb over her shoulder to where Abbot is sitting whispering with no effort to be quiet "what's up with dr.moody over there?" lifting your arms in a show of defeat, you mutter back "dunno" before turning back to your notebook. Kelsey laughs, too loud for this time of the morning and most definitely too loud for the café right now teasing "well if his favourite barista can't figure it out, god help everyone" to which you throw a panicked glare over your shoulders all senses alert and firing due to the fact that he absolutely can hear your full conversation. Almost on queue, he rises from his chair, practically stomping up to the counter with his empty cup, placing it in front of Kelsey, the deep hazel eyes which are normally hold a baseline of amusement show no hint of it today. He looks her straight in the eye, fierce expression coats his every word as he mutters "you know people come here to relax, not to hear the pair of you gossiping". Straightening your posture, you go to apologise quickly, but he heads to the door fast, only catching a glimpse of your wide eyed expression through the window as he walks away. You want to punch Kelsey for being so loud, but you just storm to the backrooms, cup in hand and give it the most vigorous wash of it's life. For once, Kelsey reads the room and leaves you to it, letting the embarrassment of the morning wash over you again and again.

Jack Abbot's coffee treat streak ends there. After his fight with Robby, Jack is too embarrassed to head back into Rose & Co. until nearly a week later. Heading into the shop, he isn't filled with an unnamed anticipation to see you, rather he shifts nervously from foot to foot. After leaving that morning, Abbot internally bet himself up for how rude he was, just because he was having a shit day didn't mean you too had to have one. You, the sweet kind barista had no idea of any of his baggage, and yet there he was acting like a complete and utter ass. He just couldn't get the sad look you had as he left out of his mind, never wanting to be the cause of it ever again he thought he could just steer clear of the café but that seemed decisively more rude. So here he was, standing in line holding a small green leather notebook in his hands like it was a grenade about to go off as a peace offering. He'd seen it at the bookstore at the weekend and immediately thought of you and your writing at the counter. At first he pushed it away, it was obscene to buy your barista a present, surely she'd call the police over it? But he mulled it over and over as he circled around the shelves, finally deciding to pick it up as a peace offering for being such an ass the last week.

While Abbot waits in line to see if you're on, you don't even notice. Completely locked into the afternoon rush, you don't notice the doctor until he's standing in front of you. Looking up and already starting your autopilot script "Hello there, what can I do for you this after -" you stop once you register who it is in front of you. Letting a genuine smile form across your face after you take a good look at him, and see that he is clearly nervous to be there you sigh dramatically "my god doc, thought we'd lost you to the underworld of coffee shop chains, what can I get started for you? the usual?". Unable to utter a word Abbot just nods, scrunching his face slightly in amusement as you practically hop to it; in his mind you are too kind, and most too kind for him. He second thinks the notebook in his hand, thumb brushing over the cover, wondering if it is too much, but as you turn back around with his coffee in hand he's reminded that he is too much for most people so, fuck it. As you push the sugar across the counter, he slides the notebook in your direction trying to appear as cool and collected as he can, he simply states "a peace offering, for the last day, I was beyond rude to you and you're nothing but kind to me".

With that he can't bare to stick around and fully see your reaction, so he practically runs out the door, all he registered was a gentle 'oh' from you and a softening of your eyes. Looking down at the forest green note book, you can't quite name the feeling coursing through your veins. Your cheeks warm as Chris eyes you from the coffee machine, slightly embarrassed but also flattered by the gesture. Making a mental note to explain the whole story to Chris later, you get back to serving the customers in front of you, but your focus is somewhere else completely. It seems inappropriate of him, if it was a different worker and a different regular alarm bells would be going off in your mind. But for some reason there isn't any going off, at least not yet, you cannot help but smile and cringe slightly that you made him feel bad when he was already having a bad day. A few minutes go by before you can open up the notebook and see a yellow sticky note on the front page "a peace offering, apologies. - from the 'moody doctor' Jack Abbot". If you didn't know any better, you'd think it was his subtle way of telling you his name, you smirk, because even though you didn't know it yet, there was nothing subtle or coy about Jack Abbot. While you flip the notebook in your hands, you feel the leather, and think to yourself that while you can't place the feeling Jack's elicited in you, you wouldn't mind feeling it again.

a/n: as always, reblogs, comments and likes are apprecidated. Letting your tumblr writers know you liked their stuff is one of the best ways you can give back to the fandom!

coffe divider from @strangergraphics

“Oh?” Tom finally responds, angling his head towards you, though his gaze is still set on the notepad as he writes. “What kind of dream?” His tone is curious but void of anything that would imply he’s being coy. When he briefly glances at you, there’s nothing in his expression that hints that he’s assumed what you could be referring to, merely genuine interest. “What kind of dream?” he repeats, giving you a reassuring smile, as though he’s not sure you heard him the first time.

You briefly wonder if you have time to come up with something different than the actual events of the dream, but your mind blanks, giving you nothing that would sound normal or believable. You let out a sigh, and try to play it cool as you begin to speak.

“Yeah, we were…” you trail off for a moment but then power through. “We were at The Waterline together so you could make the announcements for Founder’s Day.” You let out an involuntary, nervous chuckle, narrowing your eyes at your laptop, pretending to read something. “And, uh, you kissed me,” you add, with a shrug, trying to play it off. “Then…it’s silly. That's all.” You stop yourself before revealing the rest of the dream, finding yourself flushed with embarrassment; you finally bring your attention to Tom when he doesn’t answer. He finishes what he’s writing, and sets his hands down on the notepad, one on top of the other, a small grin on his face.

“That’s all?” he echos, and now you think you detect a faint playfulness to his tone. You get trapped in the sound of his voice, until you realize that you haven’t responded to his question.

“Yeah,” you shrug, looking back to your laptop. “Like I said, it was silly.”

“Was it a good kiss at least?” Tom asks, and you can’t help but laugh.

“It was a peck,” you reply. “I don’t know.”

“Well–”

Though Tom speaks with a smile, it immediately drops from his face as Patricia enters the room carrying a stack of papers towards his desk. His demeanor quickly shifts to professionalism, straightening his back to focus on Patricia’s explanation of the paperwork she sets before him. The energy that had begun to fill the room has evaporated, and you’re hit with the reality that you were tempted to reveal the full extent of your dream to him. It makes your heart race, as you still haven’t come to terms with these newfound feelings you’ve developed for the mayor, so you quickly finish the final bullet points of your station announcements and snap the laptop closed. The sound catches Tom’s attention, who is almost too eager to break his focus away from Patricia to peer at you.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a flash of disappointment in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you smile, standing up and tucking your laptop into your backpack. “I’ve got the agenda for the announcements ready to go, you’ll just need to prepare your speech.” You gesture towards the clock on the wall that reads half past eight, forcing a smile to your lips. “I gotta get back to the station,” you explain. “The music block I set up ends at nine.”

“The announcements are tomorrow, right?” Patricia asks, looking between you and Tom. “I can help you write the speech.”

“No, that’s–thank you,” Tom replies. “No, thank you. I have an idea of what I’m planning on saying.” Tom’s tone with Patricia is only slightly annoyed, as though he’s been working on improving his patience; you stifle a laugh at the thought. “Okay,” he says, looking at you once again. “What’s the theme for this morning?”

“Americana.”

“Country music?” Patricia asks.

“Not quite,” you reply. “Think more of a blues and folk sound than regular country, but there’s some overlap.” Patricia hums, looking back at Tom, who adjusts the volume on the radio.

“Like Bob Dylan?” Tom asks.

“Exactly,” you agree. “Any requests?”

“Hmm,” Tom hums, thoughtfully. “James Taylor count?”

“Of course. Sweet Baby James?”

“Perfect.”

“Patricia?” you ask. “You got one for me?” She lets out a heavy sigh, her eyes darting around the floor for a moment as though she’s sifting through all of the songs she knows for one that would fit the theme.

“Bob Dylan?” she asks, referencing Tom’s earlier suggestion.

“Easy enough,” you nod, with a smile. “I got you both. Tomorrow at noon okay with you, Mr. Mayor?”

“I’ll see you then,” Tom replies, rolling his eyes at your teasing.

The following day sees Tom with you at The Waterline, the studio you inherited from your mother, to make the announcement regarding the upcoming Founder’s Day event. Though the broadcast radius is only as wide as the island, you take great pride in your job and introducing people to new music that you think will suit them. Over the time you’ve known Tom, you’ve mentioned songs here and there but when he finishes his speech and you throw to a block of music, the man inspects your record collection, commenting on those he’s heard of.

The conversation feels like it goes on for ages, and still ends too soon for your liking. In an effort to make an escape before Patricia comes looking, Tom leaves you with a request: make a mix CD for him of songs you think he’ll enjoy. It takes the rest of the day for you to curate the perfect playlist of songs that remind you of him, and as the songs burn to a disc, you peer out the window, noticing that a storm has begun to form over the water. The clouds, dark and heavy, don’t seem real but judging from the demeanor of other inhabitants of the island as they pass by your studio, you think you should begin to take it seriously - starting by boarding up your window.

The wind whips around you, nearly causing you to lose your balance as you struggle to keep the plywood pressed against the window frame. Rain obscures your vision, dirt and debris kicking up with each gust, complicating your task. You fumble with a nail that you try to bring up to the corner of the board, lifting your knee to keep the board upright to free up one of your hands.

“Fuck,” you groan, when you lose your grip on the nail, and it falls to the ground. When you attempt to dig another nail from your jacket pocket, you keep one hand on the edge of the board and your knee beneath it. You curse yourself for not removing the picture window from The Waterline when you first took over.

A noise echoes from within the storm, something that sounds like a voice, but you attribute it to the other islanders hurrying to secure their belongings before the storm worsens. The voice sounds like it’s nearing you, getting louder but still indistinguishable over the siren and the swelling storm. Just as you hear the voice calling your name, a person pushes up beside you, grabbing you by the bicep before you lose your footing.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Tom yells to be heard over the wind, leaning in close to you for support.

“Boarding up the fucking window!” you respond.

“Leave it!”

“If it breaks, my equipment is fucked!”

“Goddamnit,” Tom responds, taking the board from your hands and holding it in place, nodding his head to direct you to hammer in the nails. “Quickly!” You hurry to hammer in as many nails as you can along the board, fastening it firmly in place just as the rain begins to pick up. “Get inside!” Tom shouts, grabbing your arm to pull you along with him into the entrance of the studio.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, pushing the door closed with your body and locking it, your foot slipping on the wooden floor. When you fall to your hands and knees, Tom hurries over, crouching beside you with a hand on your back.

“Are you okay?!” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you laugh, “Thank you for your help. I probably should have done that earlier in the day, before the sirens.”

“I waited too long to sound them,” Tom mutters, standing so he can remove his raincoat. You sit up onto your knees, slipping your own coat off to hand to him, watching him hang them on the coathook. “Jesus Christ,” he sighs, wiping his hand over his face to rid it of the rain.

“You just had to run for mayor, huh?” you joke, sitting with your back against the door. Tom laughs quietly, shrugging his shoulders as he sits on the floor against the wall diagonal from you.

“I was the best candidate,” he assures you.

“You were the only candidate,” you correct, laughing along with Tom. “You do a good job, though. You couldn’t have known it was going to kick off like this.”

“I’ve been watching the fucking radar all day,” he replies. “I was hoping it would break up.”

You spend a few moments reassuring Tom that he did what he could, and he can’t control the weather, but he continues to beat himself up. You wonder if something else is bothering him, but each time you try to direct the conversation elsewhere, he turns it back to the storm. Even when you attempt to discuss his successful radio debut earlier that morning, Tom waves his hand dismissively, his thoughts clearly preoccupied. His mood has changed drastically since you saw him earlier in the day, so you decide to pivot back to the storm, seeing it as your best option for a conversation.

“I’ve always hated storms,” you say, picking at the fray in the knee of your jeans. “When I was young, and I would visit the island, my mom would always make me decide what I would want to take with me if we needed to evacuate in a hurry.”

“That’s smart,” Tom says, nodding his head. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“I’m sure that’s what she thought,” you shrug, looking back to Tom with a faint smile. “Her and my dad always wanted me to be brave, but the prospect of having to pack in a rush gave me anxiety…” You laugh quietly, tipping your head back against the wall behind you. “It got to the point that the sound of thunder would make my heart race,” you add. “I don’t know why I moved to this fucking island knowing that the weather could change so quickly.”

“Hmm, this is different,” Tom mutters, angling his head as if to listen for the sound of the growing storm outside. He appears thoughtful, concerned, as though he’s keeping something to himself but a sudden rumble of thunder from outside pulls his attention back to you. “Let’s get you away from this window,” he says, carefully hoisting himself up from the ground.

You watch Tom mill about the room for a few moments, collecting a blanket from the back of your desk chair and pushing a nearby card table to the far corner of the room. As he drapes the blanket over the small table, he waves you over, and you abide, crossing towards him and awaiting your next instruction.

“After you,” Tom says, gesturing towards the table. You laugh quietly at the small fort that he built but you crawl beneath it nonetheless, affording Tom some space so he can squeeze beside you. “This table seemed bigger from up there,” he chuckles, relaxing when he realizes there’s not enough room to give more than an inch of space between your bodies. “Is this okay?”

The confined space of the table and the blanket dampening the sound make Tom’s words seem louder than a whisper, but you nod with a smile, thanking him for being thoughtful. You sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, finding your anxiety beginning to subside as the sound of the storm feels distant. When Tom shifts his body to get more comfortable, the inch of space is gone, leaving your sides pressed together, neither of you in a hurry to break apart. Unfortunately, the longer you sit beside him, the more anxious you become, searching for something to talk about.

“I broke into your house a few times.” You don’t know what drives you to bring it up at this exact moment, but admissions like this seem to be a new habit when you’re around Tom.

“What?” Tom asks.

“Your family’s summer house,” you clarify. “When I was a teenager.” You angle your head just enough to catch the change in Tom’s expression as you speak, the confusion giving way to incredulity. “I’d heard about you a lot when I would visit,” you say. “My dad could only afford to bring us here in the off-season to see my mom, so there weren’t a lot of people around, especially ones my age so I spent a lot of time hanging out at The Barnabus with all of the grown-ups…they taught me to play cards, so it wasn’t so bad.” You focus your attention on your frayed jeans again, feeling slightly embarrassed to continue. “Wyck and my dad were close, so my whole life I’ve heard him complain about the kids from the mainland,” you go on. “Especially you. Man, he hated you.”

“Of course he did,” Tom sighs.

“The novelty of being a kid in a bar wore off pretty quickly,” you continue. “I must have been fifteen by the time I started venturing out around the island by myself. Sneaking out at night was my favorite. We couldn’t stay with my mom when we visited…so, uh, we’d sometimes crash at Wyck’s if the Breakwater wasn’t in the budget…”

“Your mom was at The Home, wasn’t she?” Tom asks. You nod, pushing your fingers past the fray in your jeans and scraping your nails along your skin to ground yourself. “We don’t have to talk about that,” Tom assures you, his voice gentle. You nod and mutter your appreciation before you continue.

“I guess I started to get jealous that all of these other kids from the mainland could come into town with their families during the summer and ride their bikes, play games together,” you say. “I wasn’t having fun anymore, so I wanted to make my own fun.”

“By breaking into my family’s home?” Tom asks. You laugh, looking back at him for a moment to see his expression mixed between amusement and uncertainty.

“It wasn’t only your house,” you say. “Besides, everyone left their doors unlocked back then. Is it still considered ‘breaking in’ if you didn’t lock up?”

“Oh, definitely,” Tom replies, with a chuckle, nodding his head. “Did you take anything, or was being in a stranger’s house the fun of it?” You try to hide your smile at his question, but Tom catches the minute change in your expression, which causes him to scoff. “What did you take?” he asks.

“Your Johnny Damon rookie card,” you admit, scrunching your face into a wince as you await his response. Tom’s eyes widen, his lips parting as your words sink in; it’s as though he has all of his baseball cards cataloged in his mind and he was flipping through them to find anything missing. “I clocked the Tom Gordon rookie card,” you add. “But that would have gotten me caught…besides, I had a huge crush on Johnny Damon.”

“I can’t believe it,” Tom scoffs, shaking his head.

“Only with the beard, though,” you joke. “Once he shaved it, I didn’t care for him as much.”

“That’s not what–” Tom stops short, with a sigh.

“C’mon, Tom, I was a punk teenager,” you chuckle. “You were like, what, twenty-five? In college, your priorities were elsewhere…I didn’t think you’d miss it.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” Tom replies. “So, did you sell it? I doubt it would have gotten you much back then.”

“No, I still have it,” you say, gesturing idly. “I’ve got a few binders of trading cards on a bookshelf in my room. I wanted to keep it safe.”

“Trading cards you stole from other people?” Tom asks, and you shrug your shoulders, failing to stifle a laugh. Tom sighs, shaking his head, but you notice his expression is far less annoyed than you were expecting; he seems more amused. “Well,” he sighs. “I’ll have to stop by sometime to see my old card.”

“Oh, you just want to see my bedroom,” you quip, waving your hand dismissively. It takes a moment for the words you spoke to click on your head, but when you realize what you had implied, you can feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment. “That was weird,” you force a laugh. “Sorry, I was just…I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay,” Tom replies, his voice lower, and a hint of amusement clear in his tone. “Don’t apologize.”

You both remain quiet for a few moments, and you worry that you made him uncomfortable despite his assurance that everything was fine. You shift your position, pressing your palms against your thighs, letting your fingers dig into your jeans, twisting to calm yourself. Tom clears his throat, shifting ever-so slightly to close the bit of space between your bodies once again. The action surprises you, but not as much as the excited lurch in your chest at the contact.

“Why did you move to Widow’s Bay?” Tom asks. “You didn’t have anything here after your mom passed, and you know what this island does…what it is.” You notice that Tom’s hands are fidgeting, his fingers rubbing together before he clenches them into fists, then releasing. His sudden anxiety is as palpable as feel yours must be, but you think of his question, and the soft, concerning way he poses it.

“I had this place,” you say, gesturing around the room. “Which is more than what I have on the mainland. The island had been quiet for a while; I didn’t think anything of it.” You sigh heavily, resting your back against the wall and rolling your head to the side so you can peer directly at Tom. “This storm,” you begin. “This is part of it, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” Tom nods, mirroring your position of leaning back against the wall, but he doesn’t look at you immediately. “I’m afraid of what we have to do to stop it. I don’t think I can.” You study Tom’s microexpressions as he thinks of his own words: sadness, worry, a fleeting moment of clarity as if he comes to terms with things before immediately dropping back into his anxiety.

“Hey,” you whisper, catching Tom’s attention. He rolls his head to look at you, his gaze softening when he sees the smile on your face. “You’re braver than you think you are.”

“You might be the only one who believes that,” Tom whispers, smiling sympathetically.

“Who gives a shit what everyone ‘believes’?” you ask. “If it’s true, that’s all that matters.” Tom stares at you for a moment, allowing your words to sink in. His eyes scan your face, as if he’s searching for the truth, so you smile gently. “I just remembered, I also took your VHS copy of Fast Times,” you whisper. “You forgot to rewind it, so it was stopped at the pool scene–”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Mayor Loftis,”  you begin, trying your best to sound scandalized. “Were you jerking off to Phoebe Cates?”

“You just can’t help teasing me,” Tom mutters, a small tinge of pink visible on his cheeks.

Tom’s response is endearing, earnest, and you’re not sure if it’s the proximity or something that you’ve been carrying with you, but you’re hit with an urge you hadn’t experienced with Tom before. You cut off any excuse he may have by angling your body closer to him and pressing a kiss to his lips; Tom freezes, stiffening at the contact, which causes you to pull away immediately.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, finding it to be your turn to be flush with embarrassment once again as you look away from him. “I don’t know…what came over me…that was inappropriate.” You wiggle your body away from him, pressing yourself as close to the legs of the card table as you can so you’re no longer touching him.

“There’s no reason to keep apologizing,” Tom says, quietly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” His voice is still soft, but his tone shifted, deepening just enough that you can feel another jump in your bones as he speaks. “I’m not upset,” Tom continues. “It’s fine…nice, even.”

When you look back to Tom to gauge his expression, he leans in to kiss you this time. It’s soft, hesitant, like he’s trying to recall how to kiss, or that he’s worried you’ll push him away. You sigh gently, leaning into him to urge him onward; Tom’s response is still timid, only giving you a few tame, closed-mouth kisses. In an effort to get him to relax, you turn your body towards him and grasp the damp material of his sweatshirt to pull your body closer to his.

Tom hums quietly, but doesn’t change his actions, only carefully places his hand on your bicep to keep contact with you through his soft kisses. You make a move instead, kissing the corner of his mouth to his cheek, and down his jaw. The grip he has on your arm tightens, his breath coming heavier as you kiss along his neck. He nuzzles his head against yours, trying to get your attention, so you pull back to peer into his eyes; he only stays like that for a split-second before he brings you back towards him again.

The kisses are more forceful now, needier, but you can tell he’s still holding back. You want to give him a better indication that you want him to give in, because you want to give in, as well. You use your grip on his hoodie to pull yourself even closer to him in the small space, shifting your hips so you can hook your leg over his thighs. Tom’s hand moves to your thigh as you try to pull yourself onto his lap, but the small table hinders you, causing you to bump your head.

“Shit,” you mutter against his mouth, trying to keep your body slouched enough to get onto his lap, but you struggle with the space. Tom breaks from the kiss, both of his hands on your hips to help you, but you both find the space far too confined to get into the correct position. “Goddamnit,” you hiss, dropping back into your previous position on the floor but leaving your leg hooked over him. “We can…” You trail off, gesturing outside of the small fort, towards the floor. Tom glances from the floor to you, the hesitance returning to his face, which causes your stomach to drop. “Oh, fuck,” you say, flushing again. “You don’t…you’re not into…I’m sorry.”

“What? No!” Tom replies quickly. “I just…” He trails off rubbing his hand over his forehead as he scrunches his eyes shut. “This might not be a good time,” he says, looking at you. “I need to get back to town hall to make sure everyone made it safely…you need to be there, too.”

“Sure,” you nod. “Okay, I’ll pack up my stuff.”

“Please, it’s not–”

“I get it,” you reply, pulling your body away from him and crawling from beneath the table. Tom calls your name following close behind you so you’re both on your feet once again. “It’s okay!” you say, forcing a smile to your lips as you nod at Tom. “I got caught up for a second there…it won’t happen again.”

You keep your back to Tom as you begin to collect your things, the sounds of the storm just outside the building now coming back into focus. There’s a palpable tension in the room and you’re certain you can feel Tom’s attention still on you, but you’re far too embarrassed to look his way again. When you slip your raincoat on again, pulling the hood up, Tom brushes past you to grab his, taking a few steps back as he dons his coat.

“I forgot,” you begin, pulling the sleeve containing the disc you made him from your pocket. “Here’s that CD for you.”

“Oh, that was fast,” Tom says, appearing surprised as he accepts the gift. “Thank you. I can’t wait to listen to it.”

“Lead the way, Mr. Mayor,” you say before he has a chance to speak any further.

Once Tom slips the disc into his hoodie pocket, he yanks the door open, only to be met with an intense gust of wind that almost sends him tumbling to the floor. You stay close behind him, one hand gripping the back of his coat so you don’t lose him in the quick dash up the street to town hall. Tom ushers you into the building first, pausing to check that you’re unharmed, but the concern in his eyes brings you back to the moment at The Waterline. You can only flush, breaking eye contact with him and following Dale towards the storm shelter, not able to spare another glance at Tom as you depart.

—

Upon returning to the Waterline the next day, there’s minimal damage to the building, however you are unable to get a signal. You check the antennas and transmitters on the roof of the building, finding them to be working as expected. With a groan, you stare across the island to the radio tower, dreading what damage was done to the structure and how difficult it will be to repair. You get in contact with the radio affiliate on the mainland, explaining your situation, and he agrees to send the parts on the next ferry if you provide him with a list.

The walk to the tower brings you past town hall. You spot Tom’s Jeep in the lot, and despite your embarrassment from the night before, you’re hit with a need to see him. As you near the building, you try to plan what you’ll say to him, how to approach the topic without seeming as pathetic as you feel, but your mind fills with static instead the second you set foot over the threshold.

You duck past Patricia and Dale, hoping to avoid any conversations about the chaos that occurred in the storm shelter the night before, but are still trapped by Rosemary who insists on telling you about Ruth’s mishap. You nod along with the gossip, finding it unbelievable that she would ‘accidentally’ get shot, but you don’t ask questions in the hopes that Rosemary will finish her story sooner. When Tom walks past the office, he thankfully spots you, coming to a stop in the doorway and giving a small smile as he clears his throat, saying your name to interrupt Rosemary.

“There you are,” he says, stepping into the room. “We’ve got, uh, a meeting…to discuss some pressing…radio matters. About…” You notice Tom struggling to find a lie to break you away from Rosemary, so you jump in to assist.

“The parts I need to repair the tower,” you say. “The storm did some damage last night.”

“Right,” Tom nods. “Exactly, the tower. So, if you’ll excuse us, Rosemary.” Tom gestures for you to lead the way to his office and he falls in line closely behind you, shutting the door once you’re both inside. “Hey,” he smiles, taking a few steps closer to you. “Sorry about that. She didn’t have you too long, did she?”

“No, only a few minutes,” you answer. “She was saying something about Ruth getting shot?” The smile drops from Tom’s face and he swallows hard, breaking eye contact with you to look towards his desk.

“It was a graze,” Tom explains. “Dr. Morgan was able to patch her up, and she’s got a few days off to rest. She’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Though what he’s saying sounds sincere, he also sounds nervous. “So, the radio tower took some damage, huh?” he asks, rubbing his hands over the side of his slacks.

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “I haven’t gotten over there to check it out yet. I was on my way, actually, but I saw your Jeep outside and wanted to stop in to see you.” The smile returns to Tom’s face, his eyes lighting up at your words.

“I’m glad you did,” he says, quietly. “I planned on coming by the Waterline, I just haven’t had a moment yet this morning.” You both stay silent for a second, waiting for the other to continue the conversation as though neither of you are sure how to discuss the night before. “Uh, I was about to take a drive around the island,” Tom begins, gesturing behind him with his thumb. “I need to check out the damage from the storm…”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to slow you down,” you reply, prepared to turn and leave but Tom speaks again.

“No, not at all!” he hurries, taking a few steps closer to you. “I was going to ask if you’d want to join me. Patricia has a call with the shipyard on the mainland about the ferries, so I’m in need of a note-taker if you’re up for it. We can stop at the tower to see what’s going on.” Tom gives you a hopeful smile, awaiting your response, but before you can, Patricia enters the room carrying her purse and notepad.

“Ready, Tom?” she asks.

“What happened to your call?” he asks.

“They pushed it back until two,” Patricia says, noticing the disappointment spreading across Tom’s face. She glances between you and Tom, scoffing when she sets her eyes on the mayor once again. “Clearly, I’m interrupting something,” she says, gesturing in frustration with both of her hands.

“No, we were just talking about the radiator tower,” you explain. “I can’t get a signal out and the transmitters on the roof are fine. Tom was asking me to ride with him to the tower to check.”

“That’s a good idea,” Patricia says, nodding. “We can drive by there on the way to the docks.”

“Yep,” Tom nods, with a sigh. “We can.” He spares you a quick, apologetic look, before gesturing for you both to walk ahead of him out of the office.

In part, you’re glad that Patricia invites herself along for the ride, because the thought of being alone with Tom brings complicated feelings within you. After the botched attempt at romance the night before, you’re feeling wounded, and you fear that Tom will want to talk about it to explain why he rebuffed your advances. However, you replay the expressions on Tom’s face once you entered his office that morning: he seemed relieved and excited to see you. Not only that, but the disc you made for him is playing quietly over the speakers in his Jeep, several tracks into the mix already. With that, you wished that Patricia had stayed at the office.

During the drive around the island, you frequently catch Tom’s gaze on you in the rearview mirror. He’s clearly frustrated with Patricia, who returns the sentiment, and you feel like you’re trapped in a car with two bickering siblings. They argue over what constitutes ‘damage’, why Tom isn’t taking his time to assess everything properly, and why Patricia is so insistent that Tom stop the car so she can take pictures of everything (he’s sure that she can snap a clear enough picture as he drives thirty-five in a twenty).

By the end of the ride, you’re thankful to be away from the two, but before you can get too far, Patricia stops you to ask if you can DJ the next party she wants to host three days later. You notice the tense expression on her face when you make a quip about the previous party she put on, but you agree to help her out nonetheless. You notice that Tom is lingering around as you speak with Patricia, as if he’s awaiting his turn to talk with you, but the other woman drags him back towards town hall with talks of a meeting.

That was the last time you saw Tom until this moment, at Patricia’s party. From your position behind your DJ table, you spot the man entering the Barnabus as casually as he can muster. His eyes don’t find you immediately, but from the way he moves, stiff and rehearsed, you can tell he’s trying to play it cool. You can’t help but smile at the sight of him peering around the room at everything except you, nodding his head to the beat of the music. When he finally spots you, he feigns surprise, giving you a small wave; you only roll your eyes with an amused smirk on your lips.

Tom still does not approach you right away, instead continuing to act indifferent as he greets a few of the guests of the party. You decide to follow his lead, queuing up the next song from the playlist that Patricia curated along with your suggestions. It surprised you that she was even remotely susceptible to persuasion when it came to her party, but you decided not to ask questions, taking advantage of the moment. 

“Hey, do you take requests?” Looking up, you find Tom smiling at you from across the table, two drinks in his hand. You return the smile and shake your head.

“Sorry, regulations say that I cannot play anything that is not on the pre-determined playlist,” you reply, raising your voice to be heard over the music. “But you can pick something out from the list if you want.” You nod your head, gesturing for him to join you behind the table.

“Here,” Tom says, holding out one of the drinks as he slips into place beside you.

“I don’t drink anything at Patricia’s parties,” you wince, and Tom laughs.

“Straight from the tap,” he assures you. “I promise you that I watched them pour it myself.” You chuckle, accepting the glass from him and taking a sip as Tom leans in closer to get a view of your computer screen. “Patricia picked out all of these songs?” he asks.

“I helped her fine tune it,” you reply, as Tom leans even closer into your space.

“I can tell,” he grins, cutting his eyes to you for a moment before looking back to the screen. “Thanks again for the CD by the way. I can’t stop listening to it; it’s fucking great.” His admission catches you by surprise, and you’re thankful he looks back at the computer so he won’t see the expression on your face. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it,” he goes on. “But we haven't had many opportunities since the storm.”

“I know you’ve been busy. You’re the protector of the island, after all.”

“I still could have found time,” he says, turning so that his back is towards the dancing crowd. “I’ve been thinking about you.” His admission sets a flutter across your stomach, and you let out a small laugh.

“About how stupid I was that night?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “How stupid I was.”

“You had responsibilities to attend to.”

“I could have been clearer about why I was hesitant,” Tom explains. “You don’t–”

Tom is cut off by someone bumping into the table, nearly knocking down the laptop in the process. The woman mutters an apology, but you can see the frustrated look on Tom’s face as he glances around at how crowded the room is becoming. You quickly queue up a few songs onto the laptop before gesturing towards the kitchen in a silent question to Tom. He nods, moving ahead of you towards the back of the building where the entrance to the kitchen sets. Once you’re both out of earshot, Tom turns to face you, his hands fumbling nervously.

“It’s okay if you were nervous, Tom,” you assure him. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been with anyone, but–”

“No, it’s not that,” he interrupts. “I mean, it has been a while, but that’s easy enough to handle.”

“Oh,” you say, your shoulders dropping as your mind begins to come up with more disappointing reasons why he rejected you that night. “That’s cool; I understand not being interested–”

“Will you just let me tell you?” Tom interjects once again, a very vague hint of frustration in his tone as he tries to keep his expression focused. You feel an embarrassed flush overtake your body, so you nod your head and mutter a quick apology, allowing him to speak. “I was interested in you,” he says, before hurrying to continue. “I still am! It didn’t have anything to do with you…not really.” You furrow your brow, waiting for him to explain. “That night was…” Tom trails off, searching for a word to explain, but coming up empty. “That fucking storm…I wasn’t in the right state of mind that night.”

“Sure.”

“The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that if that was to turn into something more…passionate…” he continues. “I didn’t want our first time to be on the floor of the Waterline.” There’s silence for a moment as you think about his statement, but Tom adds, “You deserve more respect than that.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding. “I wouldn’t have thought you didn’t…respect me or anything. I really wanted it. I wanted you.” He chuckles, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck nervously. “I understand, though,” you add. “Thank you for wanting to be respectful.”

“I was thinking,” he begins. “You could come to my house next Friday after the Founder’s Day kickoff…Evan will be with his friends, I’m sure, and once the festivities begin, I’m free. I can cook dinner for you and we can–”

“We can fuck in a bed?” you quip, watching the playful yet shy grin spread on Tom’s lips.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Okay, deal.”

You extend your hand towards Tom to shake, but he looks between your face and your hand with a chuckle. Instead of accepting the handshake, he steps closer to you, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re alone, then grasps you by the forearm to pull your body into his. He kisses you softly, one of his hands pressed to the small of your back while your hands rest on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the soft material of his cardigan.

The kiss is soft at first but you feel his hand plant more firmly to your back, leading you to anticipate a more passionate kiss, however, someone quickly enters the kitchen, sending you both scrambling apart to avoid being caught. The bartender doesn’t notice either of you as he mutters under his breath about a drink request, so you and Tom both stay still to avoid catching his attention. After digging through the cabinets for a moment, the bartender finds what he’s searching for and quickly exits the room once again.

This time, you make the move, backing Tom into the fridge, your hands on either side of his face while his hands find your waist to pull you against him. Your head reels in excitement, soft moans rattling in your throat as Tom deepens the kiss, allowing the tips of his fingers to slip just beneath the hem of your shirt so he can make contact with your skin. You grind your hips against Tom on instinct and he breaks the kiss to let out a groan of your name, his fingers digging deeper into your skin.

“You’re going to…I’m going to get hard if you keep doing that,” he explains, his expression half shy, half turned on.

“If you do,” you begin, leaning in to kiss his neck. “I can take care of you…” You grind yourself forward again, sticking out your bottom lip in a pout to tease Tom when a strangled moan falls from his lips. “Oh, but you want to wait,” you whisper, gently pushing away from him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor.” Tom stays pressed against the fridge, as if he’s frozen in place. He swallows hard, peeling himself away from the appliance, adjusting the crotch of his slacks to hide the growing bulge.

“I’m looking forward to Friday,” Tom says, running his thumb along the corners of his lips to wipe away the saliva from your kiss. “No interruptions…no teasing.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” you laugh. A small, playful grin starts to spread on Tom’s lips, but he tries to hide it with a stern expression as he points at you, warning you.

“I am the mayor,” he says. “You should listen to what I say.” His cheeky tone makes you smile even though his words give you butterflies. You take a step back towards him to kiss him on the corner of his mouth.

“That was actually kinda hot,” you whisper. “I’ll try to listen better, Mr. Mayor.” You’re close enough to hear Tom’s breath hitch when you speak, but you don’t give him the opportunity to reply. You exit the kitchen to return to the party, leaving him to think of nothing but you.

—

The days leading up to Founder’s Day feel as though they drag on for eternity. Although you would have enjoyed teasing Tom as much as you could during that time, you find yourself on edge, riddled with excitement and nerves. Each time you catch a glimpse of Tom around town, your skin flushes, your hands trembling, thinking of what will happen when you finally have uninterrupted alone time with him.

When you arrive at Tom’s house for your date, Evan answers the door. You struggle for a moment to not appear disappointed, thinking it’s possible that he just hasn’t left for the night yet. That is until he invites you in, and you see Tom’s annoyed expression when he greets you. Evan excuses himself to return to watching television in the living room, and you follow Tom to the kitchen, where you see dinner is almost complete. To your surprise, you hear a song from your mix for Tom playing from the boombox on the counter; you wonder if Tom truly enjoys the music, or if he’s pretending so he can spare your feelings.

“I’m so sorry,” Tom says, quietly. “He doesn’t want to go to Founder’s Day. Usually I can’t keep him in the goddamn house, but when I need him to, he won’t get the fuck out.” The annoyance in Tom’s voice makes you laugh, so you step beside him placing your hand on his bicep to give a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay,” you assure him, with a smile. “Dinner smells great.” Tom lets out a heavy sigh, tipping his head to the side to be able to peer at you. He scans your face, studying you as though he’s unsure of how you really feel, and he wants to read your true emotions. “I bet it tastes great, too,” you add.

“I’m sure you do,” Tom responds, the soft dreaminess in his tone letting you know that he didn’t realize what he said. You bite your lip, stifling a laugh but still feeling a flush wash over you at the thought of his head between your thighs. “Fuck,” Tom says, closing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say. “I kinda like when you talk that way.” Tom chuckles, looking at you once again. This time, you notice a mischievous glint in his eyes, his pupils dilated more than before, so you lean in and give him a quick kiss on his lips. “Did you need any help cooking?” you whisper.

“No, I’m just finishing up,” Tom answers. “I have a feeling you’d distract me anyway. Go out in the other room with Evan.” You squeeze his bicep once again, opting not to respond with any of the teasing retorts that immediately came to mind. “Go,” Tom urges, pinching your side before gently pushing you towards the kitchen door. “And try not to steal anything.”

After dinner, you sit beside Tom on the sofa while Evan lounges on the floor several feet away, focused on his handheld game and ignoring the movie that plays on the television. Tom, who keeps a few inches of space between your bodies, keeps his hands on his lap, alternating from rubbing his hands over his knees to clenching his fingers. Even with the distance between your bodies, you can feel the tension radiating off of him, and you’re certain he can feel the same from you.

In an effort to get some contact with Tom to alleviate the taut feeling in your skin, you feign a shiver, hugging your arms around yourself. Tom notices, picking up the blanket from the arm of the sofa, and spreading it over both of your laps. He beckons you in, setting his arm on the back of the sofa around your shoulders to invite you even closer. You snuggle in beside him, slipping one of your hands beneath the blanket to set on top of his thigh, an action that gives Tom a noticeable smile.

A few minutes pass with you both staying in your new, comfortable position, and you can’t help but feel the need growing within you. You angle your head towards Tom, finding his eyes already on you, a very faint tinge of pink gracing his cheeks as you catch him. Closing the space between you, Tom kisses you softly, another one of the quick pecks you’re growing used to, but something that leaves you wanting more of him. Your hand on his thigh slips a little higher, your fingers pressing against the seam along the inner thigh of his slacks with just enough urgency that Tom breaks from the kiss to give you a look of panic.

You’re forced to steady yourselves when Evan suddenly gets up to leave the room, thankfully not even sparing a glance your way. Once Tom is sure that Evan is out of earshot, he looks back to you, inching himself closer and tightening his arm around your shoulders. You kiss him again, a little more forceful than before, enough to pull a small sigh from Tom. All you want is to feel his hands on you - the thought plagues your mind and you can’t help but grab for his free hand to drag it beneath the blanket covering your laps.

Tom hums almost indiscernibly, struggling to keep as quiet as possible when he breaks from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on your face for a moment, mouthing ‘what are you doing’ before checking that Evan hasn’t returned. This time, when he looks back to you, he lowers his focus to your lap, peeking beneath the blanket to watch as you slip his fingertips just beneath the hemline of your skirt. You release your grip on his hand once you rest his hand on your inner thigh, allowing him to make the next move.

Wasting no time, Tom pushes his hand higher, and you spread your thighs on instinct when you feel his fingers begin to stroke over the damp spot of your panties. It’s difficult to stifle the small gasp the contact pulls from you, but Tom’s attention snaps up to your face, giving you a warning glare. You nod quickly, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and not breaking eye contact with him. His fingers gently trace back and forth over the lace of your panties, not applying enough pressure to give you much pleasure, but enough to leave you edging your hips into his touch.

When he hooks his index finger into your panties, tugging them aside, you pull in a sharp breath, desperate to keep your composure, but Tom is quick to trace the tip of his middle finger through your folds before retracting his hand from beneath the blanket. The second your eyes lock onto his hand, fingers damp with your slick, you’re hit with an urge you hadn’t felt in some time. You grab his wrist to pull his hand towards you, your tongue slipping out to tease the pads of his index and middle fingers.

Keeping your eyes locked with Tom’s wasn’t a choice, but an instinct, unable to break away from his hypnotized gaze, blue eyes darkened with desire. You would be tempted to make a show of things, moaning and whining with an aching need for him, but with his son still home, you keep yourself together, opting to take your time instead. Once Tom slips his fingers into your mouth, however, you feel your willpower beginning to crumble and from the expression on Tom’s face, he’s struggling too.

Given Tom’s proximity, you can hear the hitch in his breath when you suck softly on his digits. You give him the most innocent eyes you can muster, using your gentle grip on his wrist to give shallow thrusts of his fingers into your mouth, dragging them across your tongue. His jaw clenches, his eyes cutting down for the briefest moment when he catches your hips rolling involuntarily against nothing.

There’s a second that you see a change in him, something snapping inside despite his best efforts to control it. He snatches his hand from you and adjusts your skirt, along with the blanket to ensure you’re both covered completely before he settles against the sofa again. You’re stunned at first, specifically when he inches himself away from you enough that you’re not pressed together anymore, his arm dropping from around your shoulders back into his lap. If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder if he suddenly became repulsed by you. After a few moments in silence, Evan reenters the room, and Tom clears his throat, glancing at his watch.

“The fireworks for Founder’s Day should be starting soon,” he says. “Evan, buddy, did you not want to check those out? With PJ and the guys, maybe?” He attempts to keep his tone casual so as not to give away his intentions to his son, but when the teenager stops in his tracks, you notice the confusion on his face.

“You’re telling me to hang out with PJ?” he asks.

“Well, he’s your friend,” Tom chuckles nervously. “You’re a teenager; go have some fun, ya’know?” Judging from Evan’s expression, he’s unconvinced by Tom’s words, and the older man looks to be on the verge of passing out from trying to maintain his composure, so you step in.

“I’ve been trying to get your old man to unclench a little,” you say to Evan, tossing the blanket from your lap and smoothing out your skirt as you stand from the sofa. “Cut you some slack, ya’know?”

“Okay…” Evan says, slowly. You cross to where you dropped your bag when you arrived and unhook your keys from the zipper, turning to face Evan again.

“You can take my car,” you say, walking towards him and holding your keys out to him. “Pick up the guys and head to the beach for the fireworks.” Evan looks back and forth between you and Tom, as though he thinks you’re trying to trick him. “I can trust you, right?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not going to do some illegal shit—”

“Language,” Tom interrupts.

“—Stuff,” you correct yourself, sending a glare to Tom before looking back to Evan. “In my car, are you?”

“No, no!” Evan hurries, reaching for the keys, but you pull them from his reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” you lower your voice. “Your dad has enough on his plate with this island; he shouldn’t have to worry that you and your dumba—your goofy friends are getting into trouble.” Evan nods as you continue. “If you work with me on this,” you begin. “And you don’t do anything stupid, your dad would maybe ease up on you and let you breathe a little. Cool?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Evan says quickly, nodding again. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” you say, handing him the keys and looking between Evan and Tom. “Do you have a curfew or something? Does he?”

“Fireworks should be done by eight,” Tom says, his voice still tight. “Bonfire is nine to eleven, so let’s say midnight, at the latest. How’s that?”

“Great!” Evan nods. “Thank you! Thanks!”

The young man scrambles out the front door letting it slam shut behind him, leaving you alone with Tom. For a moment, neither of you move, simply stare at one another as you listen to the sounds of Evan shutting the door of your car and the engine rumbling. Your heart begins to pound in your chest at the thought of finally having Tom to yourself, and from the way he’s tossed the blanket from his lap so his fingers can twist at the fabric of his khakis, you know he’s just as anxious as you.

“Is he gone?” Tom asks, his voice low as though he’s still afraid of getting caught. You hear the crunch of tires in the driveway, the hum of your engine growing faint as he departs. Still, you glance towards the window, ensuring that you don’t see the headlights shining through.

“He’s gone,” you nod, peering at Tom.

Time seems to stand still, both of you caught in this long awaited moment together, thoughts racing with the events of the last several days. Even from across the dimly lit room, you can see in Tom’s eyes that he’s trying to determine where he wants to start, but is immediately overwhelmed with options. It’s then that you notice the bulge in his pants, straining against the zipper of his khakis and stretching the thick material. You nearly salivate at the thought of tasting him, of touching him, finally feeling him inside you.

“Upstairs,” Tom says, suddenly, hoisting himself from the sofa and moving with purpose across the room. He catches you by the wrist, his grip firm so he can tug you along behind him while he ascends the stairs. “Careful,” he warns, when he feels you stumble on one of the steps.

“You must be really horny,” you joke.

“How could I not be?” Tom mutters, pushing you ahead of him into the doorway of his bedroom.

“I bet you wish we hooked up that night at the Waterline, huh?” you ask, looking at the decor of his room.

“It’ll be one of my lifelong regrets,” Tom replies with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” you say, sitting on the edge of his bed and peering towards him. “The station isn’t going anywhere and neither am I. We’ll find a time to make up for it.”

Tom stares at you for another moment, his hands clenching into fists and then releasing again so he can stretch out his fingers. The nervous tic has endeared you even before you started flirting with Tom, but now you can only focus on how his hands will feel when they’re on your skin. He makes his way towards you, each step careful as though he expects you to change your mind before he closes the distance, but instead you straighten your back and spread your knees, silently beckoning him closer.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles once he’s stood between your knees, his hands cradling your head so you can look up at him. “I don’t think I’ve told you that yet, but it’s true.”

“So are you,” you smile, setting your hands on his hips. Tom laughs quietly, an unconvinced, bashful laugh that brings a small tint of pink to his cheeks.

“Here…” he mumbles, dropping his hands to grab the hem of your shirt. He stoops slightly, bringing his face near yours, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your lips. “What?” Tom asks, tightening his fingers on your shirt.

“You haven’t shaved,” you whisper, noting the slightly surprised look on his face at your comment.

“Oh, I haven’t had—yeah, sorry, I guess that wouldn’t be appealing,” he stumbles over his words and attempts to pull away, likely to go to the bathroom, but you stop him.

“I’ve been dying to see how your stubble feels on my skin,” you reply, rubbing your hand over his cheek.

A devious grin cracks across Tom’s face just before he captures your lips in a kiss. It’s light, neat; nothing about the kiss feels like it’s right for the moment, but you attribute it to Tom’s lack of romantic activity in recent years. His fingers find their way beneath your shirt, gently making contact with your skin, gauging your response. Your only reaction is to break from the kiss and look up at him again.

“Tom,” you say, cupping his cheek again. “I’m not delicate or precious about this stuff.” Tom nods, soaking in your words. “I promise it’s okay,” you continue, tracing your thumb along his bottom lip. “If you’re being cautious for yourself, that’s one thing, but don’t take your time for my sake because I need you right now. Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

“Okay,” he nods, taking your hands away from him and once again grasping the hem of your shirt so he can finally tug it over your head.

This time, when Tom kisses you, the passion is there and the hesitance abandoned. His tongue slips into your mouth, meeting with yours and trying to touch everywhere he can. You whine quietly into his mouth, grabbing onto his shoulders so tight that you fist at the material of his shirt. Tom responds with a gentle hum, as if to let you know he hears you and he’s here with you, but the sensation of his hand cupping your breast pulls another whimper from your lips.

After a moment, Tom urges you onto your back, dropping one knee into the bed and bracing himself with his free hand onto the mattress. You stay locked into this kiss for more time that you can quantify; it feels like minutes stretching on into hours, but it still doesn’t feel like enough time. His thumb circles around your nipple, feeling it harden through the thin material of your bra until he can gently pinch it. The surprised yelp you release startles Tom, and he tips back so he can see you.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“What about this?” Tom asks, peppering a few kisses over your throat and collarbone as he travels down your body. You can feel his breath through the lace of your bra for a brief moment before his mouth captures your nipple. His tongue circles it, teeth gently teasing with a soft tug that makes your back arch against him “I was taking it slow,” he breathes, moving to your other breast to repeat his actions. “Because I didn’t want to come across as desperate.”

“I like desperate,” you whisper. “For you to show me how badly you need me?” You close your eyes and pull in a deep breath, savoring the thought, when you feel Tom moving again, lowering to his knees on the floor. You prop onto your elbows so you can watch his hands spread your thighs wider.

“You don’t like slow, though,” he says, keeping his eyes on you as he pushes your skirt up your thighs. “Do you?” You shake your head, too mesmerized with that playful glint that’s returned to his eyes when he glances down at your panties. “I’ve never seen you wear a skirt before,” Tom points out, pressing his hand flat against your pelvis so his thumb can brush against your panties. “Did you do that because you wanted to see me on my knees like this?”

“No,” you respond. “I thought I’d ride you on the sofa, but I like this view a lot better.”

“So do I,” Tom smiles, stroking his thumb over the damp material of your panties. “Your panties are so thin, I’m sure I can taste you through them.” He doesn’t wait for your response before he leans in to give you a few small kisses through your panties, making you gasp in surprise. “Have you been wet like this for me all night?” he asks, dragging his tongue over you this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you dripped onto the sofa…this is fucking beautiful.” You whine his name, reaching one hand towards him to cradle his head. “You can show me where you want me,” he whispers. “Go on.”

You guide his head towards you again until his mouth presses against your clit through your panties. Tom hums softly when you tug his hair, signaling to him that’s where you need him the most. Both of his hands press against your inner thighs to spread them wider, opening you up to he can toy with you through your underwear.

“Fuck,” you whine, watching him close his eyes as he focuses on his actions. He switches between gentle sucking and quick flicks of his tongue, having you edge yourself closer to his mouth when he gives the slightest bit of reprieve. “Tom, that feels so good,” you breathe out, watching his eyes flutter open so you can see the way his normally bright eyes have darkened over with desire. “Wait, wait.”

“Mmm,” Tom hums, breaking away but giving another quick kiss through your panties before he looks up again. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you okay?” You expected his tone to be teasing, but he’s concerned, the drastic difference between the two making you flush all over.

“I want to take them off,” you explain, shifting your hips so you can reach beneath your skirt to grab onto your panties. “I have to feel you.”

Tom nods, sitting back just enough to help you slip your panties from your feet. He quickly discards them to the side before he dives back between your thighs. You’re able to feel him completely now, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow against your sensitive skin as his mouth resumes its torture on your clit. When you grind your hips against his face, Tom moans, his eyes closing again, and that’s when you notice his hand is out of your sight past the end of the bed.

“Fuck, are you touching yourself?” you ask him, your voice weak, sounding entirely unlike your own. Tom’s eyes open again and he hums with a nod, breathing harder against you when he pauses.

“I’m really fucking hard,” he pants, his arm still moving at a slow pace. “Everything about you makes me feel like I’m losing control.”

Tom’s voice is tight, the desperation in his words almost too much to bear, so you gently nudge him away to give you room to sit up. For a moment, Tom looks confused, until you remove your bra so it can join your panties on the floor. His hand still slowly works over his length as he watches you, his eyes lingering on the newly exposed skin, but you urge him to stand up.

“No wonder you’re always so stressed,” you mutter, moving his hand away from his length so you can see him completely. “A dick this big…” You trail off, keeping your eyes angled up to watch his face as you slowly drag your tongue over his head to lick up the taste of him. Tom’s strangled groan makes your own composure harder to maintain, but you persist. “That tastes so good,” you add, swirling your tongue around to gather another taste. “Being neglected?” You take only his tip into your mouth, giving a soft suck while your tongue makes another swirl over him, and your hand holds him near the base. You listen to the way Tom fights back his moans as you tease him, so you pull away, leaving only your hand on him when you peer up at him. “If I’d known,” you begin. “I would have been under your desk every day to give you what you needed…Mayor Loftis.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tom grunts, his hand finding the back of your head, pressing firmly to bring you back towards him.

“It’s just me and you here,” you remind him, as you lean in again, carefully spitting to coat his length with a few strokes of your hand. “Be as loud as you want. I know I will be.”

This time you take him deeper into your mouth, your hand stroking over what remains. Each bob of your head, you take him ever-so-slightly deeper, your tongue dragging on the underside of his shaft. Tom keeps one of his hands on the back of your head, not enough pressure to push you to take him deeper but he does help you increase the speed of your movements.

“Goddamnit,” Tom hisses, his hips rocking in time with you. It’s easy to see from the restrained movements that he is struggling not to push himself deeper still, so you give him a moan to get his eyes on you again. “You’re doing good, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Your mouth feels…” He trails off, his eyes slipping closed to allow him to focus, but the sight gives you a chill, the sensation running through your whole body to end between your thighs.

You slip Tom from your mouth but keep your hand stroking the entirety of him. This catches his attention once again, his eyes boring through you, wondering what you’ll do next. Only for a moment, you stop touching him, just long enough to bring your hand between your thighs to collect some of your slick onto your fingers, using it to coat him once again. Tom mutters under his breath but you’re too focused to decipher his words, instead taking him back into your mouth to taste the combination of the two of you.

“Fuck,” Tom grinds out. “You’re…” He loses his words when you take him deeper, dropping your hand back between your thighs to touch yourself as you bob your head over his length. “That’s it,” Tom breathes, nodding. “You like how we taste together?”

“Mmmhmmm,” you drag out the hum intentionally, sending sensations through the man that makes his knees buckle and his grip on the back of your head to tighten.

“You love being a little tease,” Tom states, losing his breath as he speaks.

Tom’s voice is deeper, raspier than you’ve heard it, his slightly restrained dirty talk making your insides twist in excitement. You set your hands on his hips, leaning closer and getting more comfortable as you take him even deeper into your mouth so he touches the back of your throat. Tom moans, pressing your head harder and nudging his hips forward so he settles as deep as he can go before going still.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tom moans. “Stay just like that, sweetheart.” You give a small hum, just to toy with him while he’s stretching out your throat, and Tom body jerks involuntarily. “Fucking tease,” he mumbles. “Can’t help yourself.”

You struggle to keep him in place for a moment longer, your eyes watering from the intrusion, until you can’t take it anymore. You give a squeeze of his hips, signaling that you need to breathe; Tom is quick to pull out of your mouth, stroking his hand over your back as you gasp for breath.

“Get up on the bed,” Tom directs, his voice stern but still wavering. “All the way. On your back.”

Once you’re able to regain your composure, you listen to Tom’s instructions, crawling towards the pillows and dropping onto your back to get comfortable. When your eyes fall on Tom again, he’s removed his shirt, and is working on the rest of his clothes while he watches you. Following his lead, you remove your skirt, leaving you completely naked for him, so you spread your thighs, allowing him a better view.

“What a sight,” Tom chuckles when he sees you sprawled out on his bed, your fingers softly tracing through your slick folds. “If you’re not careful, I won’t let you leave this bed so I can keep you all to myself.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?” you ask, dragging your damp fingers along your stomach and between your breasts. Tom gives a few slow pumps of his fist over his length as he watches you, then climbs onto the bed with you.

“The way you’ve been dripping onto my sheets, you may as well,” he mumbles, kissing and licking along the path that your fingers trailed up to your collarbone. As he nuzzles against your cheek, kissing your jaw and your neck, his fingers play between your clit and your entrance, never staying in one place long enough to give you enough pleasure. “I made you this wet?” Tom asks, his voice soft, his tone mischievous with a hint of hopefulness. “This is all for me?”

“All yours,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his short curls to guide his mouth towards a tender spot on your neck. “I’ve been like this since I had that dream about you.”

“I knew you didn’t tell me all of it,” Tom smiles against your neck, pausing long enough to leave a mark on the spot you directed him to. “Is that why you wanted me to fuck you on the floor so badly? Is that what you dreamt I did to you?” Tom presses his forehead to yours, reaching between your bodies to grasp his length and dragging his tip along your folds. “As the mayor,” Tom begins, a look of uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s my job to look after my constituents.”

“I’ve never had anyone talk politics while trying to slide their dick into me,” you laugh breathlessly, noticing that faint blush return to Tom’s cheeks. “You’re gonna take care of me, Mayor Loftis? I’ve been aching for weeks, and I need your help to make it better.” Tom lets out a soft gasp as he works his tip inside of you, struggling to stay there as his eyes search your face. “Do you like it when I call you that?” you ask, cupping his face so you can rub your thumb along his cheekbone.

“Only when you’re teasing,” he mumbles, turning his head to kiss your palm. “Once I’m inside of you, it’s ‘Tom’.” He eases himself inside of you slowly, burying in to the hilt before stopping to pull in a deep breath. “Un-fucking-believable,” he groans, breathing your name against your cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head. “You?”

“You’re really…” Tom stops short when your walls clench around him, his words turning into a needy moan. “…tight,” he manages, his voice strained.

“You’re used to your hand,” you tease, your voice not confident enough to sound as playful as you wanted, but Tom chuckles against your neck.

“You’re right,” he agrees before planting a kiss on the mark he left on your throat. “Don’t think I’ll be able to go back after this.”

“Do it right and you won’t have to.”

Tom groans, adjusting his position so he’s on his knees, still buried inside of you. He runs his hand over his hair, pushing away some of the curls that have matted to his forehead from sweat, but his eyes never leave you. He looks over your body to commit it to memory, as though he’s worried this will be his only opportunity to do so. A brief feeling of shyness washes over you, laying vulnerable under his gaze, but Tom smiles at you, pulling your thighs around his body and grasping your hips.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

Tom’s thrusts begin slowly, shallow at first until you're accustomed to him. With each movement, his grip tightens on your hips, holding you impossibly harder with every passing second, to the point you worry of the marks he’ll leave. You take hold of his forearms, using him to help you rock against his thrusts. Tom moans your name softly, nudging himself closer to you to make sure he’s taking up every bit of space inside of you.

When his thrusts become more forceful, Tom gets deeper, stretching you in a way you’ve never felt before. His speed doesn’t change, still a slow, steady pace, but each motion of his hips feels like the first. The sensation makes your thighs pull together, tightening around Tom’s waist, which drives him to slide his hands down to grip the thickness. Your hands find their way to his stomach then his chest, stretching as much as you can to let your fingers trace over the hair that’s scattered across his skin.

“Tell me about your dream,” Tom breathes, nodding in encouragement. “I need to know.”

“After you kissed me,” you begin, closing your eyes to focus on your story and not the slapping of Tom’s skin with yours. “You bent me over the control board and fucked me.” Tom grins lazily, dragging his tongue out to wet his lips. “I love the idea of you bending me over…” you admit. “The idea of you in your fucking khakis and your cardigan, losing yourself while you fuck me from behind…” Tom loses his rhythm for a moment, but adjusts his grip on your thighs, pulling you along with each thrust so he can increase his pace. “We were facing the window,” you whine, your nails digging into his chest hard enough to make him suck in a breath through his clenched teeth. “Didn’t close the curtain, everyone could see us.”

“Fuck,” Tom hisses, losing his concentration so how thrusts fall out of time. “You love to tease so much…I bet you were showing off for your audience.” You laugh breathlessly, grabbing for Tom’s biceps to drag him down on top of you.

“You’re the only one that matters,” you mutter, pulling him in for a kiss.

With his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of you, he attempts to resume the pace he had set while he kisses you deeply. You moan into his mouth, a needy sound that would normally embarrass you, but you feel Tom thrust harder, as if he’s chasing more reactions from you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his arm, desperate to hear Tom moan your name. Tom mumbles something indiscernible under his breath when he breaks from the kiss, closing his eyes to focus on the timing of his thrusts. You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him deeper with each stroke, and when one of Tom’s hands finds its way to the back of your thigh, sliding down to your ass, your heart races in excitement. He lands a gentle spank on your skin, then grabs a handful of your ass immediately after. You’re overwhelmed with the urge to tease him again.

“You look like you’re barely keeping it together,” you tease, and Tom gives a particularly sharp thrust in reply, punctuating with a warning grumble of your name. “Are you losing control, Tom?” you push. “Are you gonna come already?”

Tom doesn’t answer, but gives you another slap on your ass, as if he’s warning you. He pries your legs from around his waist, pulling out of you and moving onto his knees again. You’re worried you upset him, but the expression on his face says otherwise. He maneuvers so he’s sitting with his back propped against the headboard, peering down at you expectantly. When you don’t move immediately, he beckons you in with a crook of his finger, so you hurry to oblige.

“Fuck, did you get tighter in the last thirty seconds?” Tom mutters once you settle on top of him, your hands resting on his shoulders for support. “I’ve been picturing you riding me this whole time. You look gorgeous.” You slowly begin to rock your hips, working up to match the pace he had set. Tom keeps one hand on your waist to assist while the other grips the sheets beneath him. “Make yourself come like this,” he begins. “You can use me to get off…I want to to see how bad you need me.”

“Tom, I want you to fuck me,” you whine, your face scrunching up prepared to plead with him, but he shakes his head. “Please, I want to feel you filling me up.”

“You whine so much for a tease,” he says, angling his head to follow your gaze though you refuse to make eye contact with him. “I know you’re trying to make me come first. You think I’m so desperate that I can’t keep my composure, don’t you?” You whimper, still avoiding eye contact as you ride him slowly. “Look at me, sweetheart.” Tom’s gentle tone drags you in, and you roll your head back towards him, peering into his eyes. “Once you come,” he begins, his eyelids heavy. “I’ll bend you over the foot of the bed and give you what you want.”

Tom remains mostly still while you follow his instructions, opting to grab the headboard to assist your movements as opposed to Tom’s shoulders. He keeps one hand on your thigh, the other cupping your jaw so he can gently pry your mouth open with his thumb. He touches your tongue and you watch the twinkle in his eye when you wrap your lips around his thumb. Tom remains transfixed on your mouth for a moment while you continue to roll your hips against him, so you decide to tease him one more time.

You moan loudly, the neediest, cheapest moan you can muster. It’s intended to be fake, but you find it feels good to let loose, so you do it again. Tom’s gaze immediately fixes with your, his lips parted with a slightly dumbfounded expression while he watches your face scrunch with desperation. He nods slowly, whispering your name in encouragement while his hand on your waist guides you along.

What initially was meant to tease Tom turned into something you needed, the intensity of your moans helping open you up to really feel your climax. You pull Tom’s hand from your face, dragging it down to your breast to urge him to touch you like he had before, and Tom is eager to please. He gropes your breast without much thought for a moment, before his fingers begin toying with your nipple again, this time tugging harder than before.

“Oh, fuck, Tom,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, baby. Please.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Tom nods, giving you a look that borders on sympathy. “Let go for me and I’ll fuck you like you need me to.”

You nod your head, bouncing in Tom’s lap, rocking your hips around to feel him as much as you’re able. When Tom’s hand suddenly moves from your breast to your clit, you gasp, watching between your bodies to see how he quickly rubs circles to get you closer to your orgasm. Your whimpers become more pathetic, moans of his name as you tell him how good he is; Tom nods along with you, showing more restraint than you expected him to be capable of.

When your climax hits, your body quakes, and you lean into Tom, burying your face against his neck. You ride it out, Tom’s fingers never leaving your clit, never slowing until you have to shove his hand away to stop the overstimulation. He hooks an arm around your body to pull you closer against him, helping you remain upright in his lap.

“Good, so good,” he breathes, kissing the top of your head. “Do you need a minute?” You shake your head, recalling his promise to you just minutes before.

As quickly as you’re able to, you pull from Tom’s arms, easing yourself from his lap and off of the bed. He watches each of your movements as though he’s unsure what comes next, but when you stand beside the bed and bend over, Tom lets out a shuddered breath. You plant your elbows onto the mattress, arching your back to stick your ass out as far as you can, inviting him in.

“Please, Mayor Loftis,” you beg, pouting. “I want you to come inside of me. I need it.”

“You…” Tom trails off, his words escaping him. He moves swiftly from the bed to stand behind you, one hand on your lower back while the other grips his length to give a few slow strokes. “It’s not going to take much,” Tom warns, pushing himself back inside of you with a groan. “You’re too tight…”

“Too tight?” you laugh breathlessly, your fingers gripping the bedsheets. “You can’t handle it?” You clench around him with intention and Tom lets out a stuttered plea of your name, both hands now finding your hips. “Show me how much you respect me, Tom,” you whisper, grinding yourself back against him. “Fill me up.”

Tom wastes no more time, knowing he won’t be able to keep himself together much longer. His fingers adjust on your hips, yanking your body back with each snap of his hips. Your knees feel weak beneath you thanks to the force Tom shows, your legs trembling as you fight to stay standing. Tom mutters under his breath, mixes of curse words and teasing threats directed at you, but your vision blurs, your thoughts clouding over as you feel your second orgasm rapidly approaching.

Tom slows only for a moment so he can position one of your knees onto the bed, effectively opening you even wider for him. Once returning to his previous pace, Tom softly mutters your name, then speaks through clenched teeth, warning you how close he is. You nod, encouraging him and winding your hips against his quick, forceful thrusts. All you’re able to do is put a deeper arch in your back, keeping your ass up for him while you stretch your torso onto the bed.

Feeling your climax nearing and knowing Tom isn’t far behind, you slip your hand beneath yourself, rubbing your clit in tight circles. You can’t help the way you moan Tom’s name, loud enough that you wonder if the neighbors will hear, needy enough you know there will be teasing from him later, but you squeeze your eyes shut, letting the orgasm wash over you. Tom continues his thrusts, getting more shallow, and quicker before he moans out your name, muddled with praises and more cursing.

Once Tom gives one final thrust, pushing in as deep as he can, his body presses against yours, the hair from his chest tickling your back. Once he braces his weight on the mattress with one hand, he trails kisses from your shoulder to your ear, staying still for a moment as he catches his breath. After a moment, he carefully pulls out of you, helping you lay across the width of the bed with him so you’re facing one another, still taking steady breaths to regulate.

“I want to avoid any cliche,” he mutters, reaching out to stroke his hand soothingly over your shoulder. “But I don’t think I can…” You laugh softly while you shift closer to him to let your fingers toy with his curls. “That was really fucking good,” he grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex like that before.”

“What, like from behind?”

“I’ve always been very simple,” he explains, that faint blush returning to his cheeks. “None of the women I’ve been with before have been like you.”

“Do you mean they never burglarized your house?”

“Not that I know of,” Tom laughs, cupping your face to angle your head towards him, stealing a quick kiss. “Maybe they weren’t as adventurous as you.”

“Tom,” you chuckle, twirling one of his curls between your fingertips. “That wasn’t adventurous. Who knows, though? Maybe next time you’re in your office, I can slip under your desk and we can start making you take some bigger risks.” Tom drops his head against yours, letting out a groan.

“Hi there,” he says with a smile, reaching up to slide his carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment. As he does so, the hem of his t-shirt lifts slightly, revealing a stripe of toned skin just above the band of his pants. 

“Hi,” you say back as he settles into the seat, quickly busying yourself with the self-soothing (and self-destructive) act of picking at your cuticles. 

As the plane takes off, you command yourself not to lose your marbles, summoning the strength of the arm rest you’re digging your fingers into. If you’re not careful, your nails might actually snap off. At least then, you’d be distracted from the fear bubbling in your gut, if only for a moment. 

By some miracle, the plane finds its path, the seatbelt light turns off, and smooth sailing is promised by the pilot over the intercom. You remind yourself to look at the flight attendants. If they aren’t panicking, all is well. Or maybe they’re all trained to hide it, saving face until the moment the plane breaks in half and they no longer have one because it’s torn from their skeleton–

“Drink?” 

You let out a breath that had been building in your lungs, the huff of air escaping through parted lips. It’s the voice of the man beside you, reiterating the question asked by the attendant pushing the beverage cart. 

“Nothing for me, thank you,” you reply sweetly, and the attendant moves on. You’re far too afraid that, if you fill your bladder (which may be impossible as you look at the size of the cups they hand out), you’ll have to stand up and use the restroom and you’ll tumble and fall right through the floor of the plane and into the sky by some defiance of nature’s laws. 

When the plane hits a rough patch of air, your hand races to the forearms of the man beside you, your fingertips digging into his brawn as your eyes screw shut. Thankfully, the turbulence passes just a moment later and your panic subsides.  

“Sorry about that,” you say with a nervous titter. 

“All good. Nervous flyer?” He asks, pivoting toward you. 

You nod. “Is it obvious?” 

His brow quirks slightly and he tilts his head back and forth an inch. “A little.” 

You’ve never liked planes. There’s something so unnatural about being suspended in the sky, held up by nothing but air, and you tell him exactly that, to which he responds with the science behind the laws of gravity that hold the plane in the sky, and how technically, there’s no way for the vehicle to just fall from the clouds. He likens it to an object submerged in jell-o. It’s stuck, unmovable. 

“Are you an engineer?” You inquire, impressed by his miniature lesson on airplane physics. 

He chuckles breathily, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m a doctor.” 

“Ah. That makes sense.” He arches a curious brow, begging you to elaborate. “You’re a very calming presence, and I’m sure that translates to your bedside manner. Let me guess. Pediatrics?”

“Emergency Department, actually,” he corrects. “But we do get our fair share of kiddos who need a teddy bear to squeeze. Didn’t bring one with me today. Sorry about that.” 

“Makes even more sense. Deal with a lot of crazy people in there? Crazier than a grown woman afraid of flying?”

“You have no idea,” he says, rolling his eyes, testing the next phrase on his tongue. His eyes glance down at the plastic cup sitting steadily on his try table. “None as beautiful as you, though.”

Your face burns, heat rising to your cheeks as the compliment settles in your belly, warmth blooming across your chest. 

“I’m Jack, by the way.” 

You give him your name with a smile, shaking the hand he’s extended toward you. The two of you share biographies, your respective reasons for flying to your shared destination, and you beg him for at least one emergency-room horror story to distract you from the wave of turbulence that rocks the plane. 

“That sounds awful,” you say with an exaggerated wince. “Tell me another one.” And so he does, and it works. The ball of tension between your shoulders loosens, and you’re able to stop bouncing your knee like a maniac. 

Maybe it’s his face, or the slightly rasp to his voice when he speaks softly to you, or perhaps it’s the freckles that dot those deliciously muscular arms. But it’s not long until you’re able to sink back into your seat and laugh heartily at his humor. That is, until the plane bounces and you convince yourself that a nosedive is impending. The turbulence lasts too long, the seatbelt light flickering back on, and an announcement from the pilot that the rest of the flight might be bumpy. 

“I am never flying again,” you promise aloud. “I wish someone would just hit me over the head and knock me out, put me out of my misery already.” 

That garners you a laugh that quickly dissipates into thick silence. He leans into your space, filling the air with the faint scent of his cologne, the clean musk of his skin. “I have a better idea.” 

You turn your head to face him. “Like what?” 

“You can tell me to stop, anytime.” His hand lands on your knee, palm caressing its say up the length of your leg. 

“Jack, we’re in public,” you say, quickly tossing your jacket over your lap, hiding the hand he has trailing between your thighs. And I just met you.

“It’s hardly public. We’re in the air.” 

“Same difference. Someone could see.” 

He shrugs. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Everyone’s sleeping anyway.” You glance around the plane. It’s dark–the lights off, every window shut–and quiet except for a gentle hum. Lots of eye masks and fallen heads. “Just focus on being quiet for me, alright?” 

You turn to him, nodding as you lock eyes, staring intently into a pair of warm, hazel irises. He’s so handsome, and that’s all it takes apparently–salt-streaked hair, fine lines that tell of a life well-lived, and a charming smile–for you to let his hand snake all the way up to the apex of your thighs. 

He uses his right hand, the one you share an armrest with, to discreetly travel to the button of your slacks, to the zipper below it. Undoing the blockades with only a surgeon’s precision, he gains access to the band of your panties, slowly trailing beneath them tauntingly trickling your pelvic bone with a fingernail as it traces up and down your skin. 

For the first time in your life, you’re grateful you went with the best deal and chose a seat in economy. The rows are close together, and the flight attendants have hardly ventured past first and business classes. It’s just you and Jack, and his hand down your pants.

“Shh,” he says, slanting into you. There’s a slight smile tugging at his lips as he whispers in your ear. “Feeling better?” 

The plane shakes with almost perfect timing. “No,” you say, leaning over slightly, giving him your cheek to bump the tip of his nose against. 

You nearly whimper when he slides his fingers, splitting them on either side of your clit, just slithering up and down the valleys between your lips. Thigh instinctively clenching, head tilting back, you let out a gasp. He draws a few lazy circles on the bud, pinching here, tapping there. Then, he inserts the pads of his fingers, stretching you out before thrusting the full length of middle and pointer into your pussy. 

“That’s it,” he rasps at your ear, his voice still low and hushed. “You like that?” 

You can only nod, the gift of speech being snatched from you, your voice completely out of commission with the exception of a few strangled gasps and muffled moans. 

“Just breathe,” he coaches, and you take his cues to inhale and exhale, letting the anxiety melt off your chest. You meet his eyes, pupils affixed to your mouth as he listens for the breaths leaving your lips. “In and out. Just like that. Good girl.” 

The praise has your vision blurring at the corners, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he works you open with them. With studied and practiced movements, he crooks his digits at the knuckles, pads finding the button behind your front wall. His hand stays in place, only bending at the hinges to keep pressing against the spot that has you grappling at his forearm, swallowing moans. 

“I’m so close, Jack,” you breathe, your abdomen tensing and releasing, your core squeezing his fingers like you’ll never let them go. 

“I know, I can feel you.” He continues his ministrations, though your body is aching for more of him. “Don’t chase it,” he says. “Let it happen.” 

And with that advice, you take in a cleansing breath, forcing the tension from your hips, letting your head fall back against the cushion rest behind it, and your pleasure continues to grow. The climb is violent, and if you weren’t confined to a seat and to the strictures of polite society, you’d be crying out like a dog, clawing at whatever could fit in your fists to help quell the heat rushing through your veins. All you can do now, is sink your fingers into Jack’s forearm, his thigh. 

“You’re so close, that’s it. Keep going,” he coos at the crook of your neck. “You can do it. I wanna feel you come around my fingers. Give it to me.” 

Overwhelmed by the pressure in your core, the lulling words dripping from Jack’s tongue, you reach your peak, thighs shaking as you right through your violent high. As you come down, one labored breath at a time, Jack removes his hand from your pants, taking with him the sticky evidence of your orgasm. The sheen coats his skin, and he brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking the moisture right off of them. 

He pushed the bedroom door open hard enough for it to rebound against the stopper. “What happened?”

His eyes swept the room automatically, searching for whatever had frightened you. There wasn’t any blood, nor was there anything overturned, and no signs of broken glass.

But then he saw you.

You were standing on the bed, barefoot, clutching a pillow tightly against your chest. Your breathing came in quick, uneven breaths, and your eyes were fixed on something across the room with the sort of panic that made his own pulse pick up.

He followed your line of sight, and he also had the instinct to do a double take at the sight of the spider in which was clung to the wall above the dresser. And it was a big one that’s for sure, bigger than most.

“Jesus honey, i thought something serious happened.” Jack really tried to be serious but he just couldn’t, especially with the way he saw you so terrified of such a thing.

Your widened gaze snapped at his in a second, bewilderment at what you had just heard come out of his mouth. “You cannot be serious! Does this not seem serious enough for you Jack, it’s massive, all i know is that it may bite me then i’ll have to be admitted to the hospital then—“

“Calm down, love.” His gaze drifted back towards the spider, watching it remain perfectly still against the wall before looking at you again, somewhere between amused and genuinely baffled. “I think he’s more scared of you.”

The words had barely left his mouth before he realised he’d chosen the worst possible thing to say.

Your eyes widened impossibly further, your grip tightening around the pillow until your fingers ached. “Excuse me?” you breathed, staring at him as though he’d completely lost his mind. “Jack, that thing has eight legs.”

“So?”

“So?” A disbelieving laugh escaped you as you pointed frantically towards the wall. “It has eight opportunities to sprint at me.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder, half expecting the spider to have grown fangs or doubled in size during the conversation, but in reality it hadn't moved.

When he looked back, you were still rooted to the mattress, refusing to let so much as a toe hang over the edge, your entire body tense like the floor itself had suddenly become lava.

“You know…” Folding his arms loosely across his chest, he tilted his head, his lips threatening to curl into a smile. “I’m having a hard time figuring out which one of you is more terrified.”

Your mouth dropped opyen. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“Jack.”

“I’m serious.” He nodded towards the wall. “He’s been there this whole time i’m assuming, and yet you’re the only one making all the noise.”

“I screamed because I wanted you.” The words slipped out before you had a chance to think about them.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. For a brief second, neither of you said anything. “Well…” The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself as he held your gaze. “Can’t really argue with that.”

You caught yourself almost smiling before you quickly schooled your expression. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed himself away from the doorframe, already crossing the room with the same calm confidence he carried through the emergency department. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“No,” you replied, watching him inch closer to the spider with growing horror, “you just happened to be the nearest pest control. Unfortunately.”

That drew a proper laugh from him. “Oh, unfortunately?” He looked back over his shoulder, feigning offence for all of two seconds. “That’s harsh. I’m willing to bet pest control aren’t nearly as handsome as I am.”

You stared at him, thoroughly unimpressed, “you’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And incredibly humble.”

“I’ve got my moments.” He shrugs without looking back at you.

You groaned into the pillow, though the sound was quickly swallowed by the fabric. Jack only shook his head, unable to stop smiling as he turned his attention back to the spider.

“Jack,” Your voice softened the closer he got to it, every ounce of confidence you’d managed to fake disappearing. “Seriously.”

“Hm?” His eyes remained fixed on the wall.

“It better not jump.”

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s a spider.”

“Exactly.” You bite back instantly.

He let out another laugh, one that sounded far more amused than he was willing to admit, before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned a moment later with a drinking glass in one hand and an unopened electricity bill in the other, absolutely nothing had changed. You were still standing exactly where he’d left you in the middle of the bed, the pillow hugged protectively against your chest as your eyes followed him across the room without blinking once.

“You planning on living up there permanently?” he asked, slowing beside the dresser.

“Seems like the safest option.”

“Yeah?” He spared you a glance before looking back at the spider. “Think we can fit a bathroom up there?”

You shot him a look.

“Mock me all you want, I’m not getting down until that thing’s gone.”

“I wasn’t mocking you.”

“Jack.” You say for the hundredth time this evening. His smile finally won. “Alright… maybe a little.”

Without another word, he stepped closer to the wall, placing the glass carefully over the spider in one smooth movement before sliding the electricity bill underneath. The whole thing took less than five seconds.

You blinked, confusion written all over your face. “That’s it?”

Jack held up the glass, the spider now safely trapped inside, nodding at you. “That’s it.”

Your shoulders visibly sagged in relief, though you still eyed the glass suspiciously. “Please don’t drop it.”

He looked at you as though you’d just insulted his entire career. “I’ve got you.” His voice was easy, reassuring. “I think I can manage one spider.”

“And if it escapes?”

“It won’t.”

“But if it does?”

Jack sighed dramatically, already heading towards the front door. “Then I’ll apologise to you…”

He reached for the handle, opening it with one hand while keeping the glass steady in the other, “and to him for having to listen to you scream a second time.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.”