M ᯓ★

the car was new. well, not new but unfamiliar. it was a station wagon, reminiscent of what your dad had driven around in the ‘80s, you didn’t even know they still made those. the puppy’s new too, sprinting out of the open car door before the engine had even turned off, all floppy ears and wagging tail. so was the man chasing her, with muttered curse words and failed grabs with veiny arms. the stubble, you noted, was definitely new and you swallowed, hard. 

the only familiar part of the chaotic scene was the two kids, penny and tanner, dashing out of the car and onto the soccer pitch, joining nora, your daughter in a flurry of giggles. 

the weary man had wrangled the overexcited puppy onto the leash and although the animal was still nipping at his ankles, he was too busy scanning the crowd of parents. following his eyeline, you recognised the judgemental looks and whispers behind hands, you knew what it felt like to be the social pariah. however, when his gaze falls on you, you make a point to look neutral, no indication of welcoming. shamefully, you’d worked hard to climb the ranks to a somewhat average position, break away from the single mother stereotype. 

for better or worse, the man chooses to stand next to you, puppy jumping up wildly. 

‘just ignore him.’ he says with a quick shake of his head, ‘apparently it’s just a phase.’ 

the puppy tilts it’s head as if to say this will definitely not be a phase. 

you nod politely but he merely takes it as signal to continue. 

‘it was supposed to be a surprise, you see?’ he clicks his tongue, ‘tanner was so insistent he’d take care of the poor animal.’ 

with a shake of your head, you reply wryly. ‘kids always say stuff like that, trick is not to give in.’ 

‘i’ll… remember that for next time.’ he laughs with a smirk, looking down at the puppy, who was now pushing it’s fluffy head against his shoes, begging for cuddles. 

you look down too, and your jaded heart melts at the adorable sight and with a nod from the man, you’re crouching down to pet him and the puppy immediately bumps his face into your hand, licking your fingers excitedly. 

it’s only when you stand back up, feeling weirdly warmed by the whole interaction that he introduces himself. 

‘i’m frank, by the way.’ he presses his hand to his chest, ‘frank langdon.’ 

you’re at a loss for words, trying to keep your expression polite whilst your brain fires at a million miles per minute. abby had talked at length about her husband, his time as a doctor, his time in rehab, his lack of time for his kids. by the end, you’d envisioned some sort of monster who was jacked up on pills and only appeared in the depths of nighttime. 

that is nothing like the fairly normal man stood beside you. he’s dressed a plain shirt that hugs his upper body, showing faint muscles and regular jeans that aren’t too baggy and aren’t too tight. his dark brown hair is flopping in his face slightly, obscuring his piercing blue eyes. his jawline is set but you’re drawn to the stubble covering it once again and the way his sturdy fingers stroke it as if it still needed some getting used to. 

your eyes betrayed you, widening impossibly as you made the connection. he’d never brought the kids to soccer practice before, he was no longer clean shaven and he had a demented puppy with him. abby had finally divorced him. 

thankfully, frank hadn’t seemed to take notice of your blatant shock so when you finally answered him, it was as casual as you could muster. 

‘oh! well it’s good to finally meet you.’ your smile is strained, not quite meeting your eyes as you try to quell your surprise. ‘i’ve heard so much about you!’ 

he seemed a little embarrassed by this, looking away slightly. ‘yeah… um… can’t’ve been good.’

you wave your hands rapidly, ‘no, no. trust me, all the moms here complain about their husbands, it’s standard.’ 

it’s a lie of course, and a bad one at that. there’s complaining about your husband not doing the dishes and there’s complaining about your husband almost losing his job for stealing painkillers. 

despite this, it seems to appease frank and he looks back at you with a soft expression. it’s real, almost too real and as you hold his warm gaze, you feel your heart rate slowly increase and the sound of a plastic ball being bounced across the grass and screaming children start to fade into the background. 

the moment is interrupted by three children running up to you. 

‘mom! mom! mommy! mom!’ came the repeated cry, you’d barely had time to swivel your head to look at nora.

you take a deep regulating breath, ‘yes, sweetheart?’ 

‘can i stay at tanner and penny’s new house? pleaseeee?’ she whined, making her eyes wide with a grin stretching across half her little face. 

‘well…’ you glance at frank’s kids, who were riling their new puppy up to no end and then to frank who was doing his best to keep it all under control. 

at your non reply, your daughter doubled down. ‘please, please, please, please, please, please.’ 

‘okay, okay!’ you hold your hands up in defeat, ‘i just have to ask their dad first.’ 

nora erupted into cheers and immediately dove into the throng of child and puppy at your feet. 

turning to frank with an apologetic face, you ask the question. ‘in case you hadn’t heard, nora wants to have a playdate at your house today.’ 

you’re half expecting him to say no, come up with some excuse about how there’s no space or he’s hardly unpacked but instead he brightens. 

‘oh sure! they’d love that. here…’ he fumbles around in his jean pocket to pull out his phone and you notice the friendship bracelets adorning his wrist, a children’s creation that makes your heart swell. ‘i’ll give you my number in case anything happens.’

you smile slightly, it’s the most considerate a dad has ever been around here. ‘great, thanks.’ you say as you type his digits into your phone. ‘does 6 sound good? i’ll give her dinner at home.’ 

‘6 is perfect.’ frank replies with a warm smile, and once again his gaze is lingering just a beat too long. 

you blink and look away first, ‘okay, nora. come say bye to your mom!’ you call. 

‘bye!’ she squeals into your legs, little arms wrapped around them in a hug. 

‘bye, honey. have fun.’ you whisper into her hair, pressing a kiss to her scalp before handing her her backpack. 

‘be good!’ comes your final cry as she tears off with penny and tanner towards frank’s car. 

as you trudged back to your own beat up sedan, you couldn’t help but stare at his contact open on your phone. even as you drove home, blasting music, you found yourself wishing that he’d call or even text. not that you wanted anything bad to happen to nora, far from it, you just wanted to hear his smooth voice again, read his words. 

this was wrong, you thought as the key turned in the lock and you came home to an empty house. you weren’t exactly abby’s friend but you were friendly, she was friendly and everyone knew what went down over the last couple of years between her and frank. 

and yet, you hadn’t been with someone since you’d given birth to nora, no time to balance a job, a kid and a man. nor did you have time for hookups either, lost track of how long it had been since you’d even had sex. 

you were just pent up, you concluded, you saw an attractive man out in the wild and didn’t know how to act. there was no way you could possibly be interested in your friend’s freshly ex husband. 

sitting down to watch tv to pass the endless hours, every channel was showing some sort of romance. whether it was cheesy romantic comedies or cringe reality dating shows, it didn’t matter. you were being haunted by your own conflicting feelings.

5:30 couldn’t come fast enough and you practically jumped in the car, surprised you didn’t get a speeding ticket as you pulled up outside frank’s address, your heart had skipped a beat when he’d texted it to you hours earlier. 

although you’d convinced yourself you couldn’t possibly be attracted to him, you did reapply your lipstick and check your mascara before getting out of the car. the house was modest, small in a series of ramshackle houses on a street just outside pittsburgh. he clearly wasn’t short of money, so the divorce must not have come as a surprise. 

even as you stood on his creaky wooden porch, you could hear the cacophony of chaos from behind the door. as you knocked, you heard shrill barking and the door opened just as golden fur dove at you only to be grabbed by the scruff of it’s neck and yanked back. 

‘sorry, sorry.’ frank mutters quickly as he shooed the poor creature away, ‘like i said, still a lot of training to go.’ 

you blink, bewildered. ‘no it’s fine, really.’ you smile politely, suddenly at a loss for words just from the sight of him. 

‘it’s um- nora!’ he shouts upstairs, ‘your mom’s here!’

there’s the sound of giggles and definitely no footsteps on the stairs. 

frank pulls a face and runs his fingers through his hair, ‘they might be a while, do you want to come in?’ he gestures behind him. 

before you can even think, you’re stepping past the threshold. 

‘sure, thanks.’ you smile. 

the interior is a mess, the furniture is simple, recent store items but it’s all draped in piles of laundry and children’s toys. everything has puppy height bites in it and you can barely see the living room rug, filled with torn up teddies. 

‘i apologise for the mess, my job doesn’t give me a whole lot of time for housekeeping.’ he shrugs, it’s an excuse but a genuine one. even so, nora didn’t make half as much mess as this. 

‘i understand, you’re a doctor right?’ comes your warm reply. 

he brightens, corner of his lips quirking up. ‘yeah. emergency medicine.’ 

‘brave.’ you say wryly. 

‘you said it not me.’ he joked as he opened the fridge door. ‘drink?’ 

you slide onto the dining table bench, flicking a transformers toy aside and adjust your outfit, which you admit was not your typical picking up your daughter get up but you couldn’t help yourself. 

‘well if you’re-’ you regret the words as soon as they came out of your mouth. 

his expressions hardens slightly, but it’s not directed at you, rather the portrayal of a million guilty memories. 

his response is blunt, ‘i don’t.’ 

‘right- of course-’ you say quickly, swallowing down your embarrassment. ‘me neither.’ 

frank doesn’t say any more and you don’t want to push so you’re now stuck in this agonising silence, sipping respective glasses of water. 

‘so-’ you both start at the same time, before he laughs and shakes his head. 

‘you go.’ he nods, earnest. 

you press your lips together, ‘it’s a nice house.’ you sidestep, not wanting to say what was actually on your mind when he was being so hospitable.

frank looked around, as if seeing it himself for the first time. ‘yeah… my parents helped me out a bit.’ 

‘that’s good.’ you reply, awkward and a little too fast and he eyes you slightly. 

with a sly smirk, he puts you on the spot. ‘why? what’s your house like then?’ 

almost choking on your water, ‘it’s not that much different if you must know. just a lot…’ your eyes twinkle with mischief as you add the last word, ‘cleaner.’ 

the laugh erupts from frank, a broad smile stretching across his face as he watches you with mock surprise. 

‘oh yeah? well i suppose you’ve got half the kids and…’ he tilts his head to the side, ‘what do you do? for work i mean.’ 

‘right. i’m a consultant, it’s boring, trust me.’ you shrug. 

‘so half the kids and half the hours then.’ frank jokes and you feel your cheeks grow hot. 

‘alright, alright.’ you shake your head, staring down into your glass. 

‘hey.’ he murmured quietly, ‘i was joking.’ 

‘i know.’ you retort but as you look up, you can see the way his piercing eyes had softened. 

his gaze was lingering again, that beat too long that made your breath quicken. you didn’t want to look away until your phone screen lit up and it jolted you out of the moment. 

‘shit is that the time already? it’s almost…’ 

frank was already standing, opening the fridge. ‘dinnertime?’ 

you move to follow immediately, ‘you don’t have to. i can take her home and feed her, honestly.’ 

he didn’t miss a beat, ‘stay. i want you to.’ 

his tone was gentle but authoritative, the words simple but they struck a chord anyway, your heart swelling as you leaned against the kitchen counter. 

‘god i can’t see why abby divorced you.’ you mutter under your breath, your tone is joking but his head snaps up regardless, he heard you. 

frank freezes, and you can see his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he processes what you just said. you can’t apologise, it’s too late, the words hanging in the air 

‘i messed up, bad.’ comes his stoic reply, though his voice was wavering. ‘i worked really hard to atone for what i did, but it wasn’t enough for her.’ 

‘i know i-’ you cut in, swallowing. 

he shakes his head, ‘and that’s okay. i’m just grateful she lets me see my kids.’ 

you sigh, following his sorrowful gaze upstairs, ‘frank i-’ 

he turns to look at you then, eyes hard but again, he’s not mad at you but rather himself. ‘i let a lot of people down, abby included and i’m not asking for forgiveness from anyone, i just want to prove that i can get better, be better.’ 

it was the most honest thing you’d heard about the whole situation and it made your heart ache. you couldn’t hate abby for how she felt, far from it but there was something in frank’s expression that meant you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him too, whether he wanted it or not. 

‘do you want a hug?’ comes your quiet sympathy. 

he doesn’t say anything so you step closer, arms enveloping him warmly. frank is broad, not outwardly muscular with bulging arms but his chest is rock solid, sinewy arms working their way around your waist. the hug stretches from seconds into minutes, neither of you want to pull away and his chin starts to rest atop your head. 

eventually, you step apart but his arms move to slide on top of yours, each of your hands gripping the others elbows. frank licks his lips and you think it’s going to happen, that he’ll lean in and- 

‘can you get the plates out of the cupboard, please? on the left above the microwave.’ he whispers, tone almost too casual and you nod, pulling away. 

you don’t notice how he watches you, ass bending over slightly to reach up and grab a stack of porcelain. 

as you start to lay the table, frank calls. ‘don’t worry about that, the kids can eat outside, it’s nice out. penny and tanner are always begging me to let them.’ 

your brow furrows, ‘you sure?’ 

he’s already piling fries on each plate, ‘yeah, i’m sure.’ 

doing your best to suppress your smile, you nod in agreement.

‘kids!’ frank bellows, ‘dinner!’ 

they all come barrelling down the stairs, crowding the kitchen like feral creatures, the puppy attempting to climb the counters to get to the chicken nuggets. 

‘come on, go eat outside please.’ he shooed them away. 

penny and tanner’s faces lit up before scrambling to open the backdoor and tumble into the fenced in grass, puppy running laps. nora hung back, holding her plate but looking at you expectantly. 

‘go on, honey. it’s okay, frank and i are having dinner too.’ comes your gentle confirmation and she brightens once more. 

‘sweet!’ she cheers before dashing out after them and plopping herself down with her plate. 

‘now…’ frank slides the door shut and the kitchen falls quiet again, a soft domestic quiet that you could certainly get used to. ‘where were we?’ 

you don’t miss the flirty undertones in his words, so your reply is equally salacious, ‘i believe we were about to have dinner… together.’ 

he smirks and sits down opposite you, fork stabbing a forlorn fry. ‘so, what’s your story?’ 

you tilt your head to the side, ‘oh i don’t have one.’ comes your quick, polite response. 

‘sure you don’t.’ frank retorts, staring at you so intently that you can’t avert your gaze. 

shrugging, you exhale. ‘i picked the wrong guy to be the father of my child.’ 

frank doesn’t push, but he doesn’t say anything either, just continuing to study you. 

‘he didn’t- he wasn’t… abusive like that.’ you shake your head quickly, focusing on cutting a chicken nugget into tinier and tinier bites. ‘he wasn’t ready, even though he told me it was what he wanted.’ 

‘so he ran? took off?’ frank prompted, though his words were barely audible. 

your neck snapped up then, ‘oh yeah, he was long gone before she was even born. ran off with the girl he’d been cheating on me with for the last nine months.’ your tone is wry, joking even but there’s an undercurrent of hurt that still lingers. 

he deflated slightly but his hand enclosed your own across the table.

‘i’m sorry.’ was all frank said but something inside you split open. 

‘it’s fine, he doesn’t deserve to know her anyway.’ you suck your teeth, gazing out the window at nora laughing with penny and tanner, that laugh where she snorts so loud it only makes her laugh harder and your eyes fill with tears all of a sudden. ‘although… sometimes i wonder if she knows what she doesn’t have, whether she misses having a father despite everything. i do my best to provide for her but- it’ll never be the same.’ 

he falls quiet, watching you watching her for what feels like an eternity. the tears are flowing now, irregular and small but there, so when frank finally does speak, the first thing he does is wipe a wobbling tear from your cheek with a calloused thumb. 

‘the fact that you think that tells me you’re better than two parents combined.’ he whispers sincerely, brow furrowing as he looks you over gently. 

‘you mean that?’ you whimper, it’s almost childish how your bottom lip starts to wobble. 

he seemed amused by that, ‘wouldn’t say it if i didn’t.’ 

swallowing down your tears, your answer is soft, broken. ‘thank you.’ 

maybe it was your heightened emotional state, or the childhood food in front of you both, but you found yourself leaning in. frank didn’t pull away and when your lips finally met, all your heartfelt confessions faded into the background. it was hard to get closer with the table in the way, but it didn’t matter, the kisses were rapid, barely time to breathe between lips crashing into each other. 

when you do break away, you giggle in embarrassment as frank’s whole face reddens, right to the tips of his ears. 

‘i’m sorry.’ frank grins as he repeats those two words, meaning so different from just a few moments ago. 

‘no you’re not.’ you retort with narrowed eyes and a chuckle. 

‘no i’m not.’ he concedes, grin only widening. 

his hand is still in yours, and now he turns it, so your palm is facing upwards. your fingers interlock with his own and you both just watch it, the connection forming between you. 

‘it’s been so long since i-’ you start, wide eyes finding his sure ones. 

‘i don’t care.’ frank shrugs, tone breathy and light. 

you press your lips together and slide out of your chair. ‘fuck it.’ 

frank follows you as you open the backdoor, curiosity written all over his expression. 

‘nora!’ you shout across the yard and her head swivels, ‘do you want to sleep over?’ 

she jumps up immediately, ‘yes please!’ 

none of the kids notice frank’s muscular arm snaking around your waist but you do. the unfamiliar warmth of his chest pressed against your back and his chin fitting perfectly into the crook of your shoulder. 

so?’ you whisper in his ear with raised eyebrows. 

frank shut the backdoor with ease, one handed so he didn’t have to be separated from you.  

sprinting up the stairs like children, you didn’t even make it to his bed before he was all over you. pressed up against the door, frank’s kisses were passionate and fast, hands roaming all over you. your hands slid down to his ass, resting there and your tongue prodded his bottom lip, encouraging him to go slow and savour this as his tongue slid over yours. 

as the kisses grow longer, stretching into minutes since you’d come up for air, your hands snake round from his ass to the zipper on his jeans, tugging it down and feeling the bulge hiding behind, spring forward. 

frank groans into your mouth, before pulling away to break for breathless panting. 

‘fuck.’ his face screws up as he tries to calm his body that’s thrumming with desire. 

without warning, he grips your hips and turns you around so your stomach is pressed against the door, back arched and he laughs deliciously. 

‘please… oh god.’ you whimper, grateful you wore your shortest and tightest skirt for the occasion. 

frank wastes no time in pulling it down over your ass till it falls to your ankles. you can hear the sound of his belt unbuckling and denim kicked across the floor. he plants his hands on either side of your head against the door frame and torturously starts to rub his clothed bulge against your clothed pussy. 

‘frank…’ you plead shakily, already aching with need. 

‘yeah? you want this?’ he growls, right in your ear and your whole body shivers. 

‘so bad. so- so bad.’ you reply with a sharp moan as he presses right against you. 

his fingers dip into your panty line, and the skin there comes up in goosebumps instantaneously, just from the briefest of touches. he slowly pulls them down to reveal your hungry pussy. 

‘holy…’ he breathes, running his finger along one of your folds teasingly, making you clench. 

‘frank!’ you gasp, as cold breeze hits your hole. 

‘okay… okay…’ he mutters, pulling down his own underwear. 

you feel his throbbing erection brush up against your cunt, but he doesn’t enter, not yet. the teasing is killing you and it’s hardly been that long. 

a large hand taps your inner thigh, ‘further apart, come on.’ 

you comply immediately, shuffling your legs out as far as they can go without you toppling over and that’s when his sensitive tip breaches you. 

it’s slow at first, barely inside before he’s pulling it out again, only to re-enter with an extra inch. your breath catches in your throat as he continues this game of in, out, in, out. 

‘for fuck’s sake!’ you groan, forehead slamming against the word. 

‘easy, i don’t want to hurt you.’ he mutters, kissing at your neck. 

‘i’ve pushed a whole child out of there, just fuck me already.’ you whine and frank’s startled by your forwardness. 

happy to oblige, he starts slamming into you like a mad man, balls slapping against your ass. frank’s hands are digging into your hips like he’s kneading dough, and you relish the thought of the bruises there in the morning. 

‘oh yes- yes- god-’ you moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

‘we gotta be- ngh.. quiet.’ frank grunts as his dick slides in and out of your soaked hole. 

you can barely hear him over the sloppy sounds your pussy is making, it’s obscene the way the spongy walls grip every vein of his girth, even when the tip brushes that sweet spot inside you that makes you see stars. 

‘fuck- please- please!’ you gasp and cry, trying to grind into his dick but you're sandwiched between him and the door so it’s near impossible to move, apart from your shaking legs. 

‘i said-’ frank panted, ‘quiet.’ 

as he speaks, his fingers slide into your open mouth and you almost finish on the spot. the combination of his digits inside your drooling mouth, pressing against your teeth and tongue and his cock plunging in and out of your pussy is too much, too overwhelming in the best way. 

‘ugh- close-’ you garble and frank doesn’t even pause, increasing his pace. 

your orgasm comes just seconds later, crashing over you like a tidal wave. everything is blurry, except his hand in your face and his length buried somewhere deep in your cunt. you’re certain your juices are soaking the carpeted floor, spraying out and lining his dick like a sheath. garbled moans and sordid cries, it’s just as you’re coming down from your high that frank reaches his pinnacle. 

perhaps it was the sight of you, shaking and writhing that made his load squirt directly into your pussy, or perhaps it was the feeling of you drooling over his fingers and coating his dick in your cum. regardless, frank was now shuddering just as intensely as you, forced to lean his whole body weight on you just so he could stay upright. his moans are filthy, whispered directly into your ear along with broken variations of your name. 

eventually, frank removes his cock from inside you and it falls flaccid between his legs. swallowing, you right yourself and dust yourself off, licking your lips. 

‘go pee.’ he urges, pushing his floppy brown hair out of his face in a way that is utterly endearing. ‘i’ll give you one of my shirts to sleep in. 

he stayed true to his word. even though you contemplated what on earth you were doing as you sat on the toilet, the moment you slipped on his shirt, everything felt right. sliding into the warmed sheets beside him, frank’s arm fell over yours and you dozed off almost immediately, feeling a sense of safety you hadn’t realised you’d missed with all those years alone in bed. 

the next morning, nora’s too sleep deprived to realise you stayed over too, and penny and tanner are also too exhausted to notice their dad looks a lot more chipper this morning, not scolding the puppy as much, rather sneaking a lot more glances at you as you sip coffee in his shirt. 

you could bathe in the domesticity of it all, the kids amicably chatting mixed with puppy chowing down on food as background noise to you and frank washing up together, talking about everything and nothing and kissing between each dried dish. 

You’d literally chased him down the halls just yesterday.

Which only made it even more devastating.

You quickly wiped your eyes as Frank hopped onto the brick wall next to you..

You hadn’t waited for him at your office.

You almost hadn’t waited for him outside.

You sighed as he gently kissed your cheek.

“He didn’t have anyone,” you muttered, staring at your hands.

A Spider-Man bandaid was wrapped tightly around your finger where you’d nervously picked at the dry skin around the nail.

“He had you,” Frank replied, staring straight ahead.

You huffed out a dry laugh.

“It wasn’t enough.”

“It was.”

You leaned forward, burying your head in your hands.

“I just want to get away from here.”

Frank nodded, already reaching for your bag.

“Are we going…”

You knew what he was asking. 

You’d spent more time in the last month at his apartment than yours. You never intended to stay longer than a few hours at a time.

You weren’t sure when Frank had added a second toothbrush to the cup.

Or started stocking the fridge with coffee creamer.

“I guess mine.”

You waited as he opened the door of his SUV for you. You didn’t have it in you to tease him.

He quickly jogged to the other side.

You didn’t look over as his hand came to rest over yours.

“Are you sure?”

No.

“I need to show up so they don’t try leasing my room out.”

You couldn’t afford the hit to your already questionable credit score.

“Okay.”

The ride home was silent. 

And then it wasn’t. 

You could hear the bass blaring before Frank had even turned at the light.

Cars you didn’t recognize lined the parking lot.

People clung to your front porch like they intended to start paying rent.

You sighed, hanging your head.

Before you asked, Frank was already turning down the road that led to the back of your apartment.

He’d learned when you’d rather enter your room through the window.

The light was on in your room. You could make out shadows through the blinds.

“Dammit,” you muttered.

You closed your eyes tightly as tears threatened to escape.

“Want me to walk you up?” Frank asked.

“I…”

You definitely did.

You also definitely didn’t.

You opened your eyes and turned to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

“Having you walk me to my window isn’t going to stop the fact that there are people probably fucking in my bed.”

You wanted to snap.

To yell.

To storm into your room and toss them out.

But you couldn’t.

“Come on,” Frank decided.

He squeezed your hand before shifting the car in reverse.

You sucked in a breath.

“Where are we going?”

You were fairly certain you already knew.

—

Not for the first time, you wondered if Frank’s rent included utilities. You hoped standing in the shower for as long as you’d been in there wouldn’t jack up the bill. 

“Babe…”

You wondered when Frank started calling you that. Not until recently.

The bathroom door slowly creaked open. 

“I’m just dropping off a t-shirt for you,” Frank explained as he shuffled inside.

You could tell from the foggy glass that he was doing his best not to watch you.

“Thank you,” you replied softly. “I’ll be out in a few seconds.”

Maybe you could skip buying coffee for a few weeks.

“Take your time.”

By the time you got out, you weren’t entirely sure you felt better. Just more tired.

Frank looked up from where he was laying on the bed. He smiled softly and held out his arms.

You didn’t hesitate to fall into them.

“You smell good,” he muttered. He pressed his lips to the side of your head, breathing you in.

“You have good shampoo,” you replied.

It was actually your favorite scent.

You sighed as he pulled you closer to him.

A chirp interrupted your thoughts as Cheeto jumped onto the bed.

He crawled over to you before insisting that you could in fact create space for him between you and Frank.

You smiled softly, reaching over to smooth out the fur on his head.

“You really shouldn’t let him sleep in here,” you said.

Frank shrugged.

“The medicine seems to be working.”

The tissue box on his bedside table would strongly disagree.

You glanced at Cheeto purring, Frank’s arm resting on your abdomen, the steam still billowing out of the shower. You could hear the soft wind chimes on his porch blowing through the breeze.

“Why are you crying?”

You blinked hard.

“Your allergies are contagious,” you tried. 

Frank reached over to brush his thumb over your cheek.

It only made you cry harder.

Frank quickly pulled you into him.

“Hey…” 

He whispered it so softly it almost disappeared into the wind chimes.

His hand rested on the back of your head as you cried into his chest.

Your tears slowly turned into sniffles. You blinked heavily. At some point he’d grabbed a tissue for you. You’d gripped it so tightly, the paper had torn.

You stared blankly at the pattern on Frank’s blankets.

“I don’t know what to do,” you muttered. “But I can’t do this anymore.”

“I know.”

Frank’s fingers combed through your hair as he kissed the top of your head.

You tilted your head to look up at him.

“What do I do?”

Frank shrugged.

“I can’t answer that for you,” he said quietly.

Right. 

“But I can give you options.”

You paused.

You’d heard through the grapevine at work that Santos and Whitaker needed a third. Or that one of the ICU nurses had a room available. 

“I don’t know if I can afford many other options.”

Actually you knew you couldn’t.

“I heard Cheeto could use a roommate.”

Your head snapped up.

“Frank…”

“He keeps going on and on about how his current roommate keeps hogging all the tissues,” Frank continued.

“Frank, we haven’t even established what this is.”

It was a weak argument.

“You have a toothbrush here,” he countered.

That might have been weaker.

“Don’t you need to talk to Abby first?” you tried again. “Or your kids?”

The last thing you would ever want to do is get in the way of them.

“Already did,” Frank said simply. “They’re down.”

“How long have you been thinking about this?" 

Frank looked at you.

You suddenly didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Frank promised.

You nodded, still unsure of your words.

 Suddenly, Cheeto meowed, his paw reaching up to swat you on the face.

You tried not to smile as he continued to paw at your face.

“He makes a compelling argument,” you finally said.

Frank grinned.

“He’s an excellent salesman.”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours.

It was quick. Simple. 

You decided it wasn’t enough.

You quickly pulled him back in.

His lips were warm and soft. His breath brushed your skin as he deepened the kiss.

A soft whine escaped you as you tangled your fingers through his hair.

His forehead rested against yours. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Cheeto meowed in protest, pulling a breathy laugh from both of you. He stretched lazily before settling in between the crooks of your legs.

He slowly blinked at you—which you knew was supposed to be affection, but coming from him? You were fairly certain he was regretting his life choices.

Frank's gaze never wavered from yours. You felt your cheeks begin to warm.

“That was…”

"Yeah.”

"Does that make us…”

"I think so.”

"Cool.”

You both giggled.

“So…”

It seemed neither of you knew what to say.

Maybe you didn't need to.

“Meow." 

“He's always gotta have the last word," Frank muttered.

You snorted.

“Very on brand for him.” 

Frank's eyes searched yours.

“I want to kiss you again," he whispered.

You grinned.

“Then do it." 

So he did.

—

You woke up well rested. Which was weird. Normally you woke up more tired than when you went to bed. 

For a moment you didn't know what was different. And then Frank shifted behind you.

Oh yeah.

“Hey," he whispered, pulling your back to his chest.

He peppered soft kisses to your bare shoulder and then the back of your neck.

"Hi,” you whispered back. 

You turned to face him. You reached up, your fingers brushing against the stubble along his jaw. You continued, tracing along the dimple in his chin, his cheek bone.

Frank watched you, his eyes crossing as he tried to follow your fingers.

“So I didn't dream it?" you breathed, brushing your thumb against his lip.

He let out breath before pressing his lips to yours.

You smiled into the kiss as he pulled you closer, your legs tangling with his.

When you pulled back, your eyes searched his.

“What are you thinking about?" Frank asked, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I'm not thinking about anything." 

That wasn't true.

And he knew that.

But you also didn't know how to ask.

You sighed, turning onto your back.

You fixed your gaze on the ceiling.

“I need you to convince me of something." 

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you better.

“That sounds ominous." 

Your lip twitched as his fingers traced patterns into your skin.

“I think I need to call out.”

Frank stilled.

His eyes met yours.

"Are you sure?" 

Definitely not.

You'd never missed a day of work. Even when you were sick, your boss usually had to insist you go back home.

“No," you admitted. “But I think I need to." 

You couldn't even express why.

Losing a patient had become an unfortunate part of your job. Your living situation had become an unfortunate part of your life.

But yesterday sucked. 

In the worst way. 

And then it didn't. 

In the best way.

"Yesterday was…”

You paused as Frank threaded his fingers with yours.

Your hands rested between you.

"A lot?”

"I don't think anyone would blame you,” Frank said. "Everyone knows how attached you got to Ryleigh.”

You felt something twist deep in your chest.

He smiled softly.

“That's not convincing enough is it?" 

You shook your head.

“A patient dying isn't new," you muttered. “We're not supposed to get attached." 

Frank sighed, squeezing your hand.

“Then what makes this time different?" 

“I don't know.”

Frank gently brushed the hair from your face.

“I think you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking me." 

Your eyes fluttered shut as he kissed your forehead.

“I think this is what makes it different," you finally said, lifting your conjoined hands. 

“You gave me the space to finally feel it." 

Frank's thumb brushed against your knuckles.

Silence settled between you. Your eyes stayed fixed on your joined hands.

The rise and fall with each breath.

The way Frank traced the grooves of your fingers.

The way he lingered at your fingertips.

Frank glanced down at you.

"Hmm?” he hummed.

You propped yourself up onto your elbows, bringing your body closer to his. You reached up to cradle his jaw.

You pressed your lips to his.

"Frank..."

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

"Thank you,” you whispered before kissing him again.

He immediately deepened the kiss, sliding his arm beneath you to pull you closer.

A soft whimper fell from your mouth as Frank pulled back.

“No…” you whined, chasing after him.

You managed to sneak one more kiss, making him chuckle.

“Don't worry," he reassured. “We have the entire day." 

You raised an eyebrow.

“Don't you work today too?" you questioned. 

Frank grinned widely, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“And miss a day like this?" 

Cheeto meowed loudly from his cat tower across the room.

“See?" Frank said. “Even Cheeto agrees." 

You laughed.

“Cheeto is traumatized," you countered.

 He'd gotten pretty upset over last night’s…activities.

Frank laughed.

The two of you watched as Cheeto jumped down from his perch. He meowed indignantly, only stopping once he'd gotten settled back on the bed.

"He'll get used to it,” Frank decided, kissing your cheek.

You watched Cheeto stare at the two of you.

“Maybe it makes him miss his balls?" 

—

You stared at the porch to your apartment. 

“Hey…”

You looked over at Frank. He smiled softly, brushing the hair out of your face.

"We don't have to do this today,” he promised.

You frowned.

"Except I do.”

Your roommates were blowing up your phone to get your stuff out. And then they started threatening to sell it.

You didn't care about your bed or your dresser. 

But your books? Your clothes? 

The Pokemon card from your first patient.

The last picture you took with your mom.

Frank couldn't replace those.

But that didn't mean you were ready to let Frank into this part of your life.

He'd been great about respecting your boundaries of not going inside.

Now you had no choice.

“Like ripping off a bandaid," you muttered.

You went to open the passenger door of Frank's car only to feel his large hand firmly pushing you back.

"I'm going to break this disgusting habit eventually,” he teased. 

You raised an eyebrow.

“Even in your dad's truck?" you whined.

“Especially in my dad's truck!" 

He sounded as if you'd actually offended him.

“It's high up!" he continued. “What if you fall?!" 

A giggle slipped out of your mouth. 

“You'd be there in time to catch me," you decided.

“In a heartbeat," Frank promised.

You blinked. It'd been a moment since Frank made your heart short-circuit. That didn't mean you couldn't tease him further.

You leaned in, a small smirk tugging on your lips as he closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

In his moment of weakness, you pushed the door open.

You cackled as you jumped down.

“Absolutely not!" Frank exclaimed, jumping out of his seat. 

You smiled innocently as he stomped over.

“What?" you asked sweetly. 

Suddenly you were airborne.

You squealed as Frank picked you up, forcing you back into the truck.

“Let's try this again." 

He waited a moment, whistling and looking up.

Then he opened the door for you.

“M’Lady." 

He grinned, sweeping his arm out.

“You're crazy, Franklin Langdon," you decided, letting him help you down.

"Crazy for you.”

Frank pressed his lips to yours.

You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.

For a moment, he let you deepen the kiss, even taking it a step further by pressing your back into the door of the truck.

"Quit screwing your boyfriend and get your shit!”

You winced as the screen door to your apartment slammed shut.

Frank's jaw tightened.

Then he looked at you.

The tension disappeared.

“C’mon." 

“Okay," you sighed, sliding your hands down his chest.

The dread weighed heavy on you. Even when Frank's hand slipped into yours.

You sighed when you got to the front door. How had you never noticed how bad the smell was? The porch reeked of marijuana, cigarette butts, and urine.

“Brace yourself," you muttered as you pushed the door open.

Frank squeezed your hand.

You both paused as soon as you stepped in.

It was the exact opposite of Frank's apartment.

Trash overflowed from both of the bins. A pile of cans sat in the sink. The fridge still hung crooked from the night your roommate's boyfriend kicked the door open.There was no jacket chair.

You couldn't look at Frank. Your face burned with shame.

"I…”

Frank squeezed your hand.

"Your room is that way, right?” he asked.

You let out a breath.

"Yeah,” you nodded.

You quickly guided him into the back. 

“Watch out," you warned, stepping over the dirty litter box in the hallway.

"I thought you didn't have cats,” Frank asked.

"I don't,” you muttered. You glanced at him.

"Please don't ask.”

How would you explain it was used whenever the water bill couldn't be paid?

And the water bill never got paid if you weren't there to pay it.

Your room felt miles away.

You only felt like you could breathe normally when you pushed the door open.

"Oh.”

You knew the look on Frank's face.

Whiplash.

Your room was clean. Almost clinically. 

The floor was vacuumed. 

Books stacked neatly on your dresser.

The Pokemon card still tucked into one of your favorites.

Your bed would have been neatly made.

Frank turned to look at you.

“Where do we start?" 

Packing your life away was surprisingly easy. Everything that mattered was still in boxes. You hadn't realized how little you'd unpacked since moving in almost five years ago. 

“Slut." 

You and Frank froze.

“That's unnecessary, Tawnee," you muttered.

You slowly turned to face your roommate.

“You're leaving us high and dry for your fuck buddy," Tawnee spat, stepping into the room.

“I'm leaving you high and dry for myself," you countered. 

You set the box down on the bed.

"And let's be real with each other.”

You squared your shoulders before stepping closer to Frank.

"You've been leaving me high and dry since you let Kyle move in." 

Tawnee’s face hardened.

"When was the last time you paid for anything, Tawnee?” 

"I buy groceries.”

You nod. 

"Yeah,” you agreed. "With my food stamps.”

The slap happened before you or Frank could react.

"You bitch!”

Frank immediately stepped between you as you clutched at your cheek.

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes.

He turned to face you.

You'd never seen his eyes so dark.

“Are you…" 

You quickly nodded.

His face softened.

"That's the last box, right?”

You nodded again.

He turned to face your roommate.

Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open.

“Then we're good?" 

He raised eyebrows.

Tawnee slowly nodded.

He turned back to you, grabbing the last box.

He smiled softly.

“Window or door?"

You looked at Tawnee and then at Frank. 

"Eh?”

You shrugged.

"Door it is.”

Before you knew it, you were back in the truck, your hand still clutching your cheek.

"Let me look,” Frank asked.

He reached over to the glove box, pulling out a first aid kit.

You slowly removed your hand.

"It's not the worst hit I've taken.”

Perk of the job.

Frank didn't say anything as he carefully looked at your cheek. He stuck the tip of his tongue out, his eyes narrowed.

He was thorough.

Gentle.

Efficient.

You could see why his patient satisfaction scores were so high.

It was clearly his looks.

You winced as his fingers brushed over the bruise.

"Sorry,” he muttered. 

He pulled his hand back.

“What's the differential?" you asked, using your best Dr. Robby voice.

Frank tilted his head.

“Hmm. Could be a periorbital hematoma," he decided.

You raised an eyebrow.

“A what?" 

You weren't a doctor.

“Black eye," he answered simply.

“What!" 

You quickly pulled down the visor mirror.

Sure enough, big nasty bruise and swelling that nearly had your eye closed.

“I couldn't even tell," you muttered, poking the bruise.

Frank quickly opened the first aid kit and popped the instant ice pack.

"Here.” 

He carefully pressed the ice to your cheek.

“That should help with the swelling." 

At Frank's insistence, you kept the ice on your cheek the entire ride home.

Then he insisted on buying pizza.

“I don't need sympathy pizza," you tried.

“It's celebratory pizza," he insisted.

He already add the app pulled up.

“Builds character." 

“Builds pounds," you argued.

Frank narrowed his eyes at you.

“So we'll get a salad too. Balances everything out." 

That's not how nutrition worked.

“Like how Benadryl balances out your allergies?" 

On cue, Cheeto jumped onto the kitchen island with a chirp.

“No, no." 

You carefully pick him up and place him back on his designated kitchen stool.

“This is where you sit. Not where we eat food." 

Cheeto meowed loudly as he stepped back onto the island.

You sighed loudly before pointing at Frank.

“This is your doing," you accused.

Frank smirked as he ruffled Cheeto’s head. 

“He likes to be where the people are.”

"That's why he has his own stool!” 

Frank's face scrunched up before sneezing loudly.

For a moment, nobody moved. Even Cheeto stayed still.

Then with one look at Frank, you snorted. 

Then he snorted.

Then Cheeto chirped.

the first was that everyone else already had.

patients adored him. nurses laughed a little harder when he walked by. med students followed him around like ducklings.

even on the worst shifts, when the er smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee and exhaustion, frank somehow managed to make everyone breathe easier.

you were no different, and that was the problem, you only learned him in small pieces.

you learned that he would always rub the bridge of his nose right before opening difficult charts.

how he’d steal a few pieces of your chips without asking, only to replace them with a granola bar from the vending machine.

how he’d absentmindedly reach for your wrist whenever the department became too crowded, holding you with just enough pressure to guide you through the sea of gurneys before letting go like he’d never touched you at all.

it meant nothing, and you told yourself that every single time, because you always knew frank was like that with everyone.

“you’re staring.” someone said and you blinked.

jack didn’t even bother looking up from his computer.

“i’m reading.” “you’ve been reading the same sentence for three minutes.”

“…” “he’s talking to the new resident.” jack muttered.

even with your mind screaming at you not to look, you did anyway.

frank stood across the station, smiling at someone who was laughing so hard she nearly dropped her clipboard.

he leaned against the counter with his head tilted, eyes soft, and he looked happy. something unpleasant settled in your chest.

“stop doing that,” jack muttered as he finished up his chart.

“doing what?”

“breaking your own heart.” he finally said as he stood up, ready to take another case.

you swallowed, you heart aching as you felt a lump forming in your throat.

people assumed the two of you were together, they always had and it made sense. you spent every shift together, you knew each other’s coffee orders, you’d memorized each other’s handwriting.

he texted you when he’d get home after pulling doubles.

you’d remind him to eat, and maybe it looked like love from the outside, maybe that’s why no one ever asked, maybe that’s why neither of you ever said anything.

⋆˚꩜｡

“movie tonight?”

frank asked the question so casually that your heart betrayed you all over again. “sure.” you said, “my place?” he asked as he wrote on his chart, “okay.” you agreed.

“you pick.” he said with a smile “that’s dangerous.” you replied back

“i trust you.” he muttered, and you almost laughed, because trusting someone and loving someone were apparently two completely different things.

halfway through the movie, frank fell asleep, his head rested against your shoulder, his breathing slowed.

the apartment was quiet except for the television neither of you had been watching. and yet, you stared straight ahead.

if you moved, he’d wake up, if you stayed still you’d remember this forever. so you stayed, your shoulder went numb but you didn’t care.

you wondered if this counted as loving someone, getting hurt by things they never intended.

“why don’t you ever date anyone?”

samira asked during a lull in the shift.

you shrugged. “i dunno, i guess im too busy.”you said and she looked unconvinced.

“that’s a lie.” she scoffed, “it’s not?” you retorted. “is it langdon?”

you laughed too quickly. “what?” “is it him?”

across the department, frank looked up and your eyes met for exactly one second.

he smiled, the same smile he gave everyone. and yet, you smiled back anyway. “no.”

samira sighed. “you’re an awful liar.” she chuckled. “shut up, what about abbot, huh?” you said playfully as you accentuated jack’s last name.

her eyes widened, “oh my god- don’t say it out loud!” she shouted, whispering and you simple laughed as she slapped her hand on your arm playfully.

⋆˚꩜｡

there was a party after one particularly brutal week.

everyone drank, laughed, and pretended they weren’t carrying the weight of every patient they couldn’t save.

frank found you standing on the balcony, scrolling on your phone. “too loud?” he said, startling you a bit. “a little.” he nodded and stood beside you.

shoulders almost touching. close enough to feel warm, not close enough to be held.

“you okay?” “yeah.” another lie, he looked at you for a long time. long enough that you thought— “good.” then he looked away.

there were always moments that almost became something, the ways his fingers lingering around yours after handing over a chart.

late-night drives home where the silence felt too comfortable to ruin, the way he’d say your name like it meant more than everyone else’s.

and you called yourself pathetic for it, but you collected those moments, held them carefully, turned them over in your mind whenever you couldn’t sleep.

they were all you had.

you heard about her from robby “langdon’s seeing someone.” you smiled before your brain had time to react.

“is he?” ”yeah.” “…that’s nice.” “i think so.” the rest of the conversation disappeared into static.

that night, frank texted you.

coffee tomorrow? you stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

you typed. deleted. typed again.

can’t. family stuff.

a lie. another one. he replied almost immediately.

okay. next time.

there wasn’t a next time, since you kept finding excuses. different shifts. busy weekends. headaches. anything.

because loving him had always hurt, but watching him love someone else would’ve destroyed you.

weeks later, he caught you leaving after your shift.

“did i do something?” your hand froze on the locker. “…what?”

“you’ve been avoiding me.” you chuckled awkwardly and said,“i haven’t.” “you have.” he sounded…hurt. you hated that.

“frank—” you started, “just tell me.” you looked at him. really looked, tired eyes, messy hair, concern written all over his face.

you wanted to tell him everything, that you loved him, that every almost had become unbearable, that you were tired of wondering if maybe he’d reached for your hand because he wanted to or because it was convenient.

instead you smiled, small— the kind that didn’t crack.

“you didn’t do anything.” you paused, not knowing what else to say “i’m just tired.”

he nodded slowly, like he knew you were lying, like he was too kind to make you admit it. “get some rest.” “i will.”

he waited. maybe expecting you to say something else, but you didn’t. he walked away first.

months later, life looked exactly the same, except now there was a distance neither of you knew how to cross.

sometimes you’d catch him looking at you. sometimes he’d catch you first.

neither of you smiled anymore. just looked away. there were still moments though, always moments. they simply belonged to no one now. and maybe that was the cruelest part.

not that you loved him, not that he might never love you back.

but that somewhere between silence and timing and fear, there had been something waiting to happen. and the two of you had let it become another thing neither of you would ever say out loud.

it wasn’t intentional at first, distance never is. it started with little things. you’d switch shifts with no hesitation if someone asked. you took your breaks five minutes later than usual.

leave through the ambulance entrance instead of the staff exit. none of it was obvious and none of it should’ve mattered.

except somehow frank always noticed, “you already ate?” he’d ask. “yeah.”you hadn’t.

“heading home?” “just remembered i have somewhere to be.” you didn’t.

he’d nod every time, accepting every excuse with a smile that grew smaller each week. it would’ve been easier if he’d gotten angry.

instead, he shrugged it off. that was always the problem.

“you two fight?” robby asked while stocking the trauma room. you glanced up. “what?” “you and langdon.” “no.”

“then why’s he walking around looking like someone kicked his dog?” you laughed despite how you felt. “that’s dramatic.”

“i’m serious.” robby lowered his voice.“he asked me if i’d said something to you.” “…” “i told him no.”

you swallowed. “good.” “you wanna tell me what’s going on?” “nothing.”

robby sighed. “everyone in this ED is terrible at feelings.”

three weeks passed before the universe trapped you together. power outage.

half the hospital running on backup generators, the elevators shut down, patients everywhere, everyone scrambling.

you were reorganizing medications when frank appeared beside you, holding two flashlights.

“here.” he handed you one, your fingers brushed yet he pulled away too quickly.

“…thanks.” you expected him to leave, but he didn’t. for a few seconds, the only sound was the humming generator somewhere below your feet.

“i miss you.” the words were so quiet you almost thought you’d imagined them.

you looked at him. he wasn’t smiling. his eyes stayed on the floor.

“we see each other every day,” you managed. “that’s not what i mean.”

your chest tightened. “frank…” “did i do something?” again. the same question.

only this time there wasn’t anywhere to hide. you wanted to answer. instead a trauma alert echoed through the hall.

every doctor around you started moving. frank looked toward the doors. then back at you. “later?”

your mouth was already saying yes before your brain could stop it. “…later.”

later never came. a six-car collision flooded the emergency department. two surgeries. one code blue. a family that needed someone to tell them their son wasn’t coming home.

by the time the shift ended, the sun was rising. frank had already left.

samira found you crying in the supply closet. not sobbing. just reorganizing stuff in the storage room.

she didn’t ask why, she simply sat beside you after a minute she offered you half a granola bar, you took it.

“he loves you.” your head snapped up.

“…don’t.” “i’m serious.” “don’t do that.”

“i’ve watched him look for you every single shift.” “he doesn’t—” “he does.”

your laugh sounded more like a broken breath. “if he loved me…” you couldn’t finish that sentence, because if he loved you… he would’ve said something, wouldn’t he?

sam looked at you for a long time “maybe he’s just as scared.” that night you couldn’t sleep. instead, you opened your phone.

your conversation with frank stretched back years. pictures of terrible vending machine dinners. memes sent at three in the morning. complaints about impossible attendings. birthday messages. inside jokes no one else would understand. thousands of words.

none of the ones you actually wanted. your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

i miss you too. you typed it. read it. deleted it. and locked your phone.

frank stood outside your apartment for almost ten minutes.

he’d bought your favorite takeout after remembering you hadn’t eaten lunch. it was getting cold. he almost knocked. almost. instead he left the bag outside your door with a sticky note.

eat something. no name. he didn’t need one.

you knew his handwriting better than your own. you opened the door just as he stepped into the elevator. for one impossible second, your eyes met across the hallway.

you wanted to call his name. you wanted to tell him to stay. the elevator doors slid shut before you made a sound. by the time you found your voice… he was already gone.

the next day was painful, body aching, hands hurting, and the hospital lights were making your head spin.

the patient was twenty-two, gunshot wound, BP dropping, and everyone moved on instinct.

“i need another unit of o-neg!” “coming!” “where’s anesthesia?” “two minutes out!”

frank’s voice cut through the room “compressions.” you hesitated. “we still have a pulse.” “barely.” “frank—”

“compressions.” “you’re going to lose what pressure he has left.” he looked at you. “do it.” “no.”

the room went still. not completely. monitors still screamed. people still moved. but everyone heard it.

you had never said no to frank. not like that. he stepped closer.

“i’m running this trauma.” “and i’m telling you that’s the wrong call.”

his jaw tightened. “do your job, Dr.” something inside you snapped. “i am doing my job!”

silence. the kind that only exists for a heartbeat before chaos returns.

jack stepped between the two of you “enough. langdon, reassess. now.” frank didn’t move.

his eyes never left yours. for the first time since you’d met him… they were angry. real anger.

“fine.” he turned away. “prepare for thoracotomy.” the room came back to life. everyone moved again. no one looked at either of you.

the patient survived. barely. the adrenaline faded. the exhaustion settled in. you washed your hands three times before realizing there wasn’t any blood left on them.

the sink shut off. someone cleared their throat behind you. frank.

“what the hell was that?” you kept staring at your hands. “i disagreed.”

“you challenged me in front of everyone.” “because you were wrong.”

“you don’t get to undermine me—” “i don’t get to undermine you?” you laughed. it sounded ugly.

“that’s funny.” “what’s that supposed to mean?” “nothing.”

“don’t.”

his voice cracked. “don’t do that.” “do what?” “say ‘nothing’ when it obviously isn’t.” you finally looked at him.

months. months of swallowed words. months of pretending. months of walking past each other like strangers. they all rushed up your throat at once.

“why do you care?” he blinked. “…what?” he asked, “why do you care if i’m avoiding you?” you blurted out, “because we’re friends.” friends. there it was. the word that had haunted you for years.

you smiled. small. tired. “right.” he frowned. “don’t.” “don’t what?” you muttered, “look at me like that.” he said persistently, “like what?” “like you’ve already decided i’m leaving.”

you laughed again. “you already did.”“what are you talking about?” “you chose someone else.”

confusion flashed across his face. “…who?” you stared at him. “the resident.”

he was surprised, “…what resident? “the one everyone said you were dating.” he was quiet for exactly two seconds.

then— “…audrey?” you didn’t answer. frank let out one disbelieving breath.

“what?- no. no no. i don’t like her—”

“thats no what i see.”

“hey, no i swear. shes not— shes married.”

“…what?” “she’s married.”

your mouth opened. closed. opened again.

“robby told me—” “robby assumed.” “…”

“he assumed.” the room suddenly felt too small.

too warm. too bright. “i…” you couldn’t breathe. months. you’d wasted months.

frank rubbed a hand over his face. “i kept asking myself what i’d done.” your eyes filled before you could stop them.

“i thought…” “i know.” “no, you don’t.” his voice broke. “i do.” you shook your head. “no, frank. you don’t.”

“then tell me.” the tears came anyway. “ i loved you.” the words echoed through the walls.

“i loved you so much that I couldn’t stand watching you love somebody else.” frank stared.

“you idiot.” you laughed through the tears. “yeah, okay i deserved that.”

“what? no, no. i was- so do i” he stepped closer. “…frank.” “i’ve loved you since your second week here.”

your breath caught.

“you kept stealing my chips.” “i was flirting.” “i thought you were hungry.” “i was terrified.” he laughed once. a wet, shaky laugh.

“i kept waiting for you to notice.” “i thought the movies meant something.”

“they did.” “I thought you fell asleep on my shoulder because you were tired.” “i stayed awake for almost an hour.” you blinked.

“are you kidding me? my shoulders went numb.” “my neck did too.” despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

frank laughed too. it lasted all of three seconds before the weight of what had happened settled over both of you.

“we lost so much time,” you whispered. his smile disappeared. “i know.” another silence. this one heavier.

filled with every shift you’d spent apart. every unanswered text. every almost.

“i don’t want to keep wondering anymore,” you said quietly. “i don’t either.” “you’ll have to tell me when you’re scared.”

“i will.” “you’ll have to let me argue with you in trauma.” he snorted. “you were right.” frank muttered.

“i know.” you said proudly, “i’m never admitting that again.” you smiled for the first time in months. “i’ll take today.”

frank looked at you like he was memorizing your face. slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand.

“you know,” he murmured fiddling with your hand gently, “for two people who spend every day telling strangers the truth…”

“…we were pretty terrible at telling each other.” his thumb brushed across your knuckles. “yeah.”

outside the room, another trauma pager blared. the ED was calling them back. people were still getting hurt. lives still needed saving.

the world, stubborn as it was, refused to pause. frank squeezed your hand once before letting go. “after shift?” you smiled. “no almosts this time.”

he smiled back. “no almosts.” and for the first time since the two of you met— neither of you walked away first.

Lizzie drove around Oceanside, not sure what to do with herself. She ended up at the pier, and she cursed herself for being so fucking predictable. She parked the car and walked along the pier until she found a bench at the end. She sat for a bit, watching the waves as the tears fell.

She pulled out her phone, quickly dialing Cary's number, and waited for her to answer. They exchanged pleasantries before the phone was passed. Hearing the heavy breathing that young kids always seemed to have over the phone. It made Lizzie's heart clench.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said. She tried to keep her voice steady. "I miss you so much already."

"I miss you." Josie's voice was so damn small. "I'm colouring!"

"Yeah," the guilt sat inside her. How did she explain to this sweet little girl that her father was never coming back? That she had lied. That he didn't care and that it was just them forever. Lizzie covered her mouth to cover a sob. "That's so nice," she managed to get out.

Lizzie listened as Josie chatted away excitedly. She looked around, feeling eyes on her. She turned to find that Deran was approaching down the way, clearly making a beeline towards her. She wiped her eyes. "Josie, I have to go. I love you so much, ok?"

"I love you too!" Josie's sweet voice rang out before Lizzie hung up and quickly shoved the phone back in her pocket as Deran approached.

"Hi," he said, sitting down on the bench beside her. He looked out towards the waves. "I heard you saw Pope." Lizzie turned her head quickly, but Deran shrugged. "He messaged me, freaking out."

Lizzie couldn't help the scoff that escaped her. The fucking nerve. Freaking about what? That she still existed? Did it ruin some new reality he had made up where she didn't exist? She looked at Deran, shaking her head.

"He got out, and he didn't even try to come find me." Lizzie felt that horrible feeling in her stomach. He had removed her entirely from his life. "I don't know if I should stay longer. If I should even try and talk to him again." The stupid tears returned. "I don't know what to do. He didn't even call."

But she turned, giving a punch as hard as she could to Deran's arm. "You fucker, you didn't even call me?" The stupid ass didn't even flinch. But his expression became guilty as they looked each other in the eye. "You didn't even give Andrew my number, did you?" She sent a second punch to his arm.

"I was going to, but you didn't see him, Liz. He was-" like he was lost for words, shaking his head like he was trying to clear the memories away. "He was crazy, and then the idea of dragging you back into all this shit. I asked him, and he said it was better that we let you live your life."

Lizzie wanted to fucking scream. Everyone was acting like they were protecting her; everyone was out here deciding shit for her. What about what she wanted? "He didn't even try to find me, Deran. He didn't want to. How do I get over that?"

"I don't know," he replied earnestly, shaking his head. "But he was freaked out about the idea of you leaving already."

"Yeah, but this isn't home anymore." But as much as she wanted to leave and planned to, something didn't feel right. Like if she left now, something would be unfinished forever. "It feels wrong to leave so soon, and it sounds so stupid to say."

"No, it doesn't sound stupid," he replied, shaking his head.

Shit. If she was going to stay longer than she anticipated, she would have to find a way to make money, especially if she was staying at the damn motel. "I'm gonna need to find a job if I stay."

"Then let me help, work for me," he said it so simply, Lizzie looked at him, confused. "The Drop, it's a bar. my bar."

"Smurf let you have a bar?"

"It's complicated."

Lizzie let out a small laugh. That was the Cody family, basically their family motto. "It's always complicated." Lizzie sighed as she turned to watch the waves. If she was going to be here, she had to do what she had come to do in the first place, before she had found that Andrew was here. Before she was crushed under the weight of reality. "Where's Julia buried? I want to visit her before I see Smurf."

Deran nodded, pulling out his phone and texting her the address. "I should have given Pope your number anyway. I should have called about Julia."

Lizzie couldn't help the nod. "Yeah," she moved her hand up to stroke his hair like she had when he was a little boy. "Probably."

"Lizzie-"

"I should have known when he turned me away that it wasn't some noble thing for protection, but it was confirmation. I was comfortable. I was the sure thing he could rely on. not the person he loved."

Deran's arm wrapped around her, holding her to him in silence as he continued to watch the waves. Finally, when she realized she had to move forward, she had to see Julia. Deran let her pull away.

"You know you will have to see Smurf."

"I know," she nodded. "I just can't yet." Deran let her go as she made her way to the car.

She followed the direction of her GPS. She pulled up to a cemetery; the gate popped open for day access. Lizzie left her car there and walked through the cemetery, searching for the spot Deran said she had been found. She found the grave eventually. She found the tombstone as she sat down beside it.

Fuck she was so tired of crying. She was so fucking over it. But she couldn't stop it as she read the name on the headstone.

"Hi, I'm so sorry, Julia." She let her hand run over the marble. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you, that I was selfish and didn't demand you come with me." Her whole body shook, the cool stone on her fingertips. "I'm so sorry, and Andrew doesn't even care I'm here. He doesn't want me, and I knew it." She traced Julia's name, feeling the groove in the stone. "I knew it, I did, but to see it and to feel it are so different. I should have left when you told me to. When you told me he wouldn't be there for me. I should have listened."

chapter 9 | andrew

A week passes before anything starts to feel familiar again.

Pope texts before he comes over now, not much and not in a way that crowds you. Just enough that you know where he is. Just enough that you don’t have to wonder if silence means he’s gone, waiting outside, or driving because sitting still has never been something he’s good at when there’s too much in his head.

Some nights, he doesn’t come by at all.

On those nights, your phone lights up once or twice.

home

you sleep yet

He doesn’t push when you answer late. He doesn’t ask why you didn’t answer sooner. If you say you’re tired, he tells you okay and leaves it there. That means more than pushing would have.

The nights he does stay, he keeps his boots by the door and his keys on the counter. He sleeps on his side of the bed until you make the first move. He doesn’t reach for you in the dark or pull you against him like the last few weeks didn’t happen. There are times you feel him wake beside you, feel the shift of the mattress and the restless way he settles again, but he waits until your fingers find his before he lets himself hold on.

You miss the old ease. You miss the weight of him behind you and his hand under your shirt, warm against your stomach, like he belonged there because you had both stopped pretending he didn’t. You miss all the little things that used to happen without asking.

You miss them, but you know why he waits.

On the seventh morning, you wake with gray light through the blinds and Pope beside you, already awake.

He’s always stayed long enough for you to wake up. Even before either of you called it anything real, he said goodbye before he left. He drove you to work when your shifts lined up. He waited while you locked the apartment door and walked you to his car like he didn’t trust the street between your door and his car. That part isn’t new.

What’s different is the way he lies there with space still between your bodies, one arm bent beneath the pillow and the other resting over his stomach, careful even in bed.

“Morning,” you say.

Pope turns his head on the pillow. “Morning.”

His voice is rough from sleep, and you look at him longer than you mean to. His hair is messy, stubble dark along his jaw, eyes tired but open on yours.

“You sleep?” you ask.

“Some.” His gaze moves over your face. “You?”

“Some.”

He nods once, like both answers make sense to him.

“Do you need to leave soon?” you ask.

Pope reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checks the screen, then sets it back down. “Not yet.”

You move closer before you can talk yourself out of it. Your knee touches his under the blanket, and his eyes drop to where the fabric shifts before coming back to your face. He doesn’t put his hand on you.

So you move the rest of the way, pressing your forehead near his shoulder. Pope exhales through his nose, and his mouth brushes your temple, barely there before he lets it stay.

“Missed this,” he says.

Your eyes close. “I missed it too.”

His hand moves then, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to. You don’t. He rests it at your waist over the blanket, palm warm and still, and the weight of it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

“You working today?” Pope asks.

“Yeah. Later.”

His thumb stays still against the blanket. “Can I pick you up?”

You lift your head enough to look at him.

Pope knows how to wait. He’s done it outside your work, outside your door, in his car with his hands tight on the wheel. This is different. This time, he asks first.

“Yeah,” you say.

His eyes stay on yours.

“I’d like that,” you add.

Pope nods. “Okay.”

You settle back against him, and when his hand tightens slightly at your waist, you let him keep it there. His mouth rests against your hair, his body warm beside yours, and you both let the touch stay where it is.

The Pig is quiet when you come in, early enough that the chairs are still stacked near the back tables. Deran is behind the bar with the register drawer open, counting bills with a pen tucked behind his ear.

“You’re early,” he says.

You drop your bag under the counter. “That a problem?”

“No.” He adds another bill to the stack. “Just weird.”

“You want me to leave and come back late?”

Deran shuts the drawer and turns the key. “Don’t start doing charity work on my account.”

You tie your apron and start helping him open. Deran checks the taps while you restock the clean glasses and make sure the bottles behind the bar are where they should be. The two of you move around each other without needing to talk through any of it.

He waits until you’re replacing a bottle near the register before he says, “So he done being a pain in the ass?”

“Mostly.”

“Good.”

“That’s all?”

Deran folds the towel over his shoulder. “What do you want me to say? He was being a pain in the ass. Now he’s being less of one.”

“Very supportive.”

“I’m being nice.”

“This is nice?”

“For me, yeah.”

You put the bottle back in its place. “He’s trying.”

Deran’s expression turns more serious. “He better.”

“He is.”

He nods and leaves it there.

“Is Adrian back from Hawaii?” you ask.

“In a few days.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah.”

You turn toward him. “You did?”

Deran gives you a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were.”

You let that go. “So what happens in a few days?”

“I’m picking him up.”

“From the airport?”

“Yeah.”

You keep your face still.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“How long is he staying?” you ask.

“Don’t know yet.”

Deran reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys across the bar. You catch them before they hit the floor.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“Second set.”

“To the bar?”

“I need you to open in a few days.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

You turn the keys over once before sliding them into your apron pocket. “I’ll open.”

Deran nods and reaches for the towel again.

“I’m glad you called him,” you say.

He looks toward the front windows. “Yeah.”

You don’t ask for more. Deran goes to unlock the front door while you finish checking the bottles behind the bar.

Your phone lights up a little after seven, while you’re wiping down the last few rings of condensation from the bar.

still okay if i pick you up?

You read it twice, even though there isn’t much to read. The words are plain, almost awkward, but Pope has never been careless about showing up for you. He used to wait outside because that was what he did, because he knew your shifts and your routes and the hours you hated walking home alone. Now he asks first.

You type back before you can make too much of it.

yeah

The reply comes a minute later.

be there soon

You slide your phone into your back pocket and finish closing with Deran, who doesn’t say anything about the smile you’re trying not to wear. He only takes the rag from your hand when you wipe the same part of the counter twice and tells you to go.

Pope’s car is outside when you step out of the bar, parked close to the curb with the engine running and the headlights low against the street. He’s behind the wheel, one hand resting at the top of it, his face turned toward the front doors before you reach the sidewalk. It’s close enough to the old routine that your chest tightens before you reach the curb.

He gets out before you reach the passenger side.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

Pope glances at your face, then at the bag on your shoulder. “Good shift?”

“Quiet. Deran complained about paperwork for half of it.”

“Sounds like him.”

“He also said you were being less of a pain in the ass.”

Pope’s mouth shifts, barely. “Sounds like him too.”

You almost smile, and this time you let yourself. Pope opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re settled before he shuts it.

When he gets back in, the car smells faintly like him and the cigarettes he hasn’t smoked with you in it, the air warm from the heater running low. He pulls away from the curb with both hands on the wheel. The old version of this drive had his palm on your thigh before the first light, heavy and familiar, his thumb moving over your jeans while the two of you talked about nothing or didn’t talk at all.

Tonight, his hand stays where it is.

“You hungry?” Pope asks.

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

“There’s a place still open near your place. We can grab something before I drop you off.”

You turn your head toward him. “Do you want to come up?”

His hands tighten once on the wheel, then ease. He doesn’t answer too fast. “If that’s okay.”

“It is.”

Pope keeps his attention on the road, but something in his shoulders settles. “Then yeah.”

You let your hand rest on your own thigh. The car moves through the dark streets toward your apartment, his hand still on the wheel and yours resting near the place his used to be.

By the time you get back to the apartment, the food has gone soft in the takeout bags. Pope carries everything upstairs without asking, waits while you unlock the door, then steps in after you and shuts it with his shoulder while you kick off your shoes. He leaves his boots beside yours by the door, keys going on the small table in the hall before he follows you into the living room.

The apartment still feels half-empty from Chrissy’s boxes. Pope being there takes some of the edge off it.

He puts the bags on the coffee table and sits beside you, close but not crowding. The TV plays low across the room, some old movie neither of you is watching, and you eat from the containers on the table with your knees angled toward each other. The blanket is folded over the arm of the couch now, the cushion underneath cleaned as much as it’s ever going to be, and you try not to think about Craig bleeding there or Baz’s voice in your apartment.

Pope sets his food down before he speaks. “Had a job today.”

Your fork pauses over the carton. You don’t lift your head right away because if you do, he might stop.

“Me, Craig, J,” he says. “Went to see Pete. He’s got a garage out nearby. Knows Smurf. Does shit for her sometimes.”

You set the carton down. “What kind of shit?”

“Cars. Plates. Parts he doesn’t ask about.” Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. “Smurf thinks somebody’s been taking from one of her storage places. She’s been losing it over that and Baz, Cath, Lena, all of it. Thinks maybe Baz is spiraling and grabbing whatever he can.”

“Do you think it was Baz?”

“No.” Pope shakes his head. “None of us knew about the storage place until a few days ago. Smurf hides shit, then gets pissed when nobody knows where she hid it.”

It isn’t the kind of thing he would’ve told you before. Maybe pieces, if someone else said too much first. Tonight, he tells you first.

“Where was Baz?” you ask.

Pope’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t shut down. “Following something the PI gave him.”

Your stomach turns. “About Cath and Lena?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think he’ll find them?”

“No.” His answer comes quickly, but not carelessly. He sits back against the couch, one hand dragging over his thigh before he lets it rest there. “Cath’s not that stupid. She got out because she planned it. Baz thinks wanting something bad enough means he gets to have it, but Cath knew him. She knew Smurf too.”

You look down before he can read too much relief on your face. You think of Cath’s hands on the wheel, Lena asleep in the back seat, and the warning not to ask anything you couldn’t lie about later. For the first time since they drove away, not knowing where they are doesn’t feel quite as close to panic.

“So he’s gone?” you ask.

“For now.” Pope looks toward the TV, though his attention isn’t on it. “Smurf let him go. Keeps him busy. Keeps him away from me.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” you ask.

Pope looks at you and takes his time with it. “Trying something different.”

You wait.

“Don’t need you knowing every part of it,” Pope says. “Some of it’s better if you don’t. But I can tell you where I am. Who I’m with. When I’m coming back.”

You nod, looking down at the carton in your hands. “Okay.”

Pope watches you. “That enough?”

“It’s a start.”

He takes that in with a small nod. “Okay.”

The TV keeps playing low across the room. You pick up your fork again, but you don’t eat. Pope stays angled toward you, waiting to see if you’ll ask for more.

“Pope,” you say.

He turns his head.

You don’t know what you meant to say after it. Maybe thank you. Maybe something else. His name comes out instead, soft enough that his eyes drop to his hands.

“Baz gave me that name,” he says.

You sit back. “What?”

“When we were kids.” He looks down at the space between his feet. “Thought it was funny. Everybody else started saying it, so it stuck.”

You think of Baz saying it. Craig. Deran. J. Men at the house. Men at jobs. Smurf when she isn’t using Andrew like a leash. You’ve said it too, over and over, never thinking about who put it on him first.

“You hate it?” you ask.

“Sometimes.” Pope’s jaw works before he keeps going. “Mostly depends who’s saying it.”

“When I say it?”

He looks at you then. “Don’t mind when you say it.”

“Why?”

Pope leans forward again, forearms on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. “People who don’t know me call me that. People who hear shit. People who need something done.”

You stay quiet.

His eyes move back to yours. “Don’t want you not knowing me.”

You place the carton on the coffee table and turn more fully toward him. “You ever think about asking me to call you Andrew?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

Pope looks down before he answers. “A while.”

He looks like he has more, so you wait. You don’t fill the quiet for him this time.

“A lot more lately,” he says.

Your chest aches at the way he says it. He wanted the name from you before he knew how to ask.

You say it carefully. “Andrew.”

His hand stills against his knee.

The name feels strange in your mouth, but not wrong. Softer than Pope, though not smaller. You’ve heard Smurf say it sweet enough to make your skin crawl, watched him answer even when he hated it.

This doesn’t feel like that.

Pope doesn’t look smaller when you say it. He looks like he heard you.

“That sounds different too,” he says.

“Bad different?”

“No.”

“Good different?”

His eyes stay on yours. “Good.”

You look down at your hand, then back at him. “It might take me a little while.”

“I know.”

“But I can try.”

Pope nods once. “Okay.”

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it, palm turning under yours, fingers closing around yours.

“Andrew,” you say again, quieter this time.

His grip tightens once.

The TV keeps playing, the food goes cold on the coffee table, and neither of you reaches for it again.

You get up first and start clearing the coffee table.

Pope follows after you, gathering the napkins and empty cartons while you carry the plates into the kitchen. He stays beside the counter while you rinse the forks, close enough that you know he’s there.

You shut off the tap and dry your hands on the towel. “Let’s go to bed.”

Pope looks at you. “You tired?”

“A little.”

He nods and follows you down the hall, turning off the lamp in the living room before he comes into the bedroom. You change in the bathroom with the door half-closed, then come back in an old shirt and sleep shorts while he stands by the dresser, folding his jeans over the chair instead of dropping them on the floor. It’s such a small thing, so like him, that it makes your chest hurt a little. Even here, even now, Pope keeps order where he can.

He gets into bed after you. You turn onto your side facing him, and he lies on his back at first, one arm bent over his stomach, eyes on the ceiling. He leaves a little room between you, enough that you can move first.

You move closer.

Pope turns his head toward you, and his hand shifts against the blanket but doesn’t reach. You slide your fingers over the sheet until they touch his. His palm opens right away, rough and warm beneath yours, but he waits until you curl your fingers around him before he holds on.

“Good night, Andrew,” you say.

Pope doesn’t answer right away, but his hand tightens around yours. Then he turns onto his side, facing you.

“Good night,” he says.

You close your eyes with his hand still in yours. He doesn’t pull you closer. You keep your hand in his, and he holds on until you fall asleep.

A few days later, Smurf comes into The Pig while Deran is still out.

It’s early enough that the bar hasn’t filled, but late enough that the lunch crowd has cleared and left rings on the counter you’ve wiped twice already. You’re restocking the little tray of cherries behind the bar when the front door opens and Smurf steps in wearing white slacks and sunglasses pushed into her hair, too clean for the bar.

She smiles when she finds you behind the counter.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

You set the cherry jar down and wipe your fingers on a towel. “Deran’s not in yet.”

“I know. I can still look in on the place.” Smurf walks farther in, taking in the tables, the bottles behind the bar, the stack of clean glasses near the sink. “Besides, I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m working.”

“So you are.” Her smile widens, but nothing about her softens. “Andrew seems better.”

Your hand closes around the towel, but you keep your face even. “Does he?”

“He does. Little steadier.” Smurf reaches the bar and rests her purse on top of it. “Hard to get ahold of, though.”

“Maybe he had somewhere to be.”

“Maybe.” Smurf watches you with that patient, sweet look she uses when she’s waiting for someone to step wrong. “I stopped by the house yesterday.”

You keep the towel in your hand. “Oh?”

“Let myself in and everything.” Her smile doesn’t move. “He wasn’t there.”

The words sit wrong. She meant them to. You turn and take a clean glass from the rack, setting it near the sink. “You want something to drink?”

“No, baby. I’m fine.” She tilts her head. “You always do that.”

You look back at her. “Do what?”

“Make yourself busy when you don’t want to answer me.”

The door opens again before you have to decide whether to answer at all.

Pope comes in with his keys still in his hand. He stops near the entrance long enough to take in where Smurf is standing, where you are behind the bar, the purse set on the counter like she plans to stay. Then he starts toward you, shoulders set and attention fixed on his mother.

Smurf turns first. “There you are, baby.”

Pope comes to the bar and stands at the opening near the service side, close enough to you that you can feel him there without him touching you.

“Need something?” he asks.

“I came by the house yesterday,” Smurf says. “You weren’t there.”

“I was out.”

“I gathered that.”

Pope looks at her. “You let yourself in?”

“It’s my house.”

“It’s where I sleep.”

Smurf gives a small laugh, almost fond. “You’ve never cared before.”

“I care now.”

Her smile slips at the edge, but she keeps it. “Well. I just worry about you, baby.”

“Don’t.”

“That’s not really how mothers work.”

Pope goes still, his voice staying low. “What the hell would you know about that?”

Smurf’s eyes sharpen. “Andrew,” she says.

Pope doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t look away either.

Smurf puts the concern back on. “See? This is what I mean. He gets himself worked up, and then everybody has to—”

“Don’t put it on her,” Pope says.

Smurf stops.

Pope’s hand curls around the edge of the bar, fingers pressing into the wood before he lets them loosen. “You got something to say, say it to me.”

“I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice stays controlled. “You came here because Deran’s not here and you thought she’d be easier.”

Smurf looks at you, hurt surprise already waiting on her face. “Is that what he tells you?”

Pope steps into the opening at the bar, not touching you, not touching her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You came here to.”

Smurf looks at him for a long time. Then she reaches for her purse, slow enough to make sure both of you know she’s leaving because she chose to. “I just came to check on the bar,” she says.

“Then check on the bar.”

Her mouth curves, but there’s no warmth left in it. “You look tired, Andrew.”

Pope doesn’t answer.

Smurf turns to you. “You take care now.”

You nod once. “You too.”

She walks out calmly. The door closes softly behind her. 

Pope stays where he is, one hand still on the bar, attention on the door until her car pulls away from the curb outside.

Only then does he turn toward you. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“She doesn’t need to come here and bother you.”

“I’m used to Smurf.”

Pope’s mouth tightens. “Doesn’t make it okay.”

You let the towel fall onto the counter and take a step closer to him. “You handled it.”

“Wanted to do something else.”

“I know.”

You reach for his hand where it rests on the bar. He lets you turn it over, lets your fingers slide into his palm.

“Deran’s gonna be pissed he missed her,” you say.

Pope looks at you. “No, he’s not.”

“He likes having something to complain about.”

“He’s got Craig.”

That pulls a small laugh out of you before you can stop it. Pope’s hand closes around yours, careful but sure.

Smurf’s car is gone. Pope stays beside you at the bar, his hand still around yours.

Chrissy comes by the apartment the next afternoon for the last of her things.

She lets herself in with the key she still hasn’t given back, calling your name from the hallway before she appears with her hair pulled up and an empty tote bag hanging from one shoulder. There isn’t much left for her to take anymore: a few books from the shelf near the kitchen, the sweater she kept forgetting in the hall closet, and a chipped mug she swears is hers even though you’re pretty sure you bought it at the thrift store down the street.

“I’m taking this,” Chrissy says, holding it up.

“You always do.”

“Then it’s basically mine.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, folding laundry into uneven piles. You started doing it to keep your hands busy and lost the system somewhere after the first load. Chrissy steps around the basket and lowers herself onto the couch, the tote bag dropping beside her.

“You look better,” she says.

You smooth the shirt over your knee. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” She leans back against the couch. “Less like you’re waiting for something bad to come through the door.”

“That bad?”

“You looked like shit.”

You throw a shirt her way before she tosses it back to you.

“Pope been coming around?” she asks.

“Some nights.”

“Good some nights?”

You nod, setting the shirt in the pile near your knee. “Good. Careful.”

“Careful’s probably not the worst thing.”

“No,” you say. “It’s not.”

Chrissy picks at a loose thread on her sleeve, then looks toward the blanket folded over the couch arm. She doesn’t say anything about it. You’re grateful for that.

You reach for another shirt from the basket. “Things with Andrew feel different this time.”

“Andrew?” Chrissy asks.

Your hands slow over the fabric. “Yeah.”

“That’s new.”

“Feels new.”

“Good new?”

You smooth the shirt over your knee. “I think so.”

Chrissy nods and lets that be enough. She moves around the apartment, picking up the last things she left behind without meaning to. You helped her pack most of it already, but this feels different. This feels final.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

Chrissy looks at it before you reach for it. “Him?”

You pick it up and read the text.

can you come to the house?

Then another one.

beach house

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

everything okay?

The reply comes less than a minute later.

yeah

want to show you something

You read it twice, then type back.

be there soon

Chrissy is already reaching for her keys from the couch. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to.”

She grabs the tote bag with one hand and the mug with the other. “Fine. I’m nosy, and I want to know if he’s showing you something sweet or something weird he fixed.”

“It’s Pope.”

“Exactly.”

You laugh, and Chrissy looks pleased enough that you know she was aiming for it. She walks to the kitchen and sets the mug carefully into her tote instead of tossing it in with the books.

You text Pope that you’re leaving soon, then glance toward the hallway. Chrissy’s room is almost empty now, the door half-open, the last of her things gathered into one bag and one stolen mug. She follows your gaze and gives you a small shrug.

“I’ll still come by,” she says.

“I know.”

“And you’re still coming over for dinner. Simon bought too much food again.”

“Again?”

“He thinks two people eat like six.”

“You kinda do.”

“Rude.” She points the mug at you from inside the bag. “Accurate, but rude.”

You stand and push the laundry basket closer to the couch with your foot. Chrissy waits by the door while you grab your bag, and when you step into the hallway, she locks up behind both of you like she still lives there enough to know the deadbolt by heart.

On the way to her car, Chrissy bumps her shoulder lightly against yours. “Andrew, huh?”

You look down at the keys in your hand. “Yeah.”

Chrissy drives you to the beach house with the windows cracked and the radio low. She doesn’t ask too much on the way, and you’re grateful for that. She lets the quiet sit until the houses thin out and the ocean appears between buildings, gray-blue under the afternoon light.

When she pulls up outside the beach house, she leaves the engine running.

Pope’s car is in the driveway. The porch is empty. You look at the door, then down at your phone, even though there’s nothing new on the screen.

Chrissy follows your eyes. “I’m not coming in.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. I’m saying it before you get polite and weird about it.”

You reach for the door handle. “Thank you for driving me.”

“Text me later.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

You turn back to her. “I know you do.”

Chrissy’s face softens, but she keeps one hand on the wheel and doesn’t make it a whole thing. “This is good, right?”

You look at the beach house again, at Pope’s car, at the door he asked you to come through.

“I hope so.”

Chrissy nods once. “Go find out.”

Chrissy waits at the curb until you reach the porch.

The front door opens before you knock. Pope stands inside with one hand on the edge of the door, his hair a little messy, his T-shirt pulled close across his shoulders, his eyes on you before you’ve finished climbing the last step.

You turn and lift your hand toward Chrissy. She gives you one small wave from behind the wheel, then pulls away once you’re inside. Pope closes the door behind you.

“Andrew,” you say.

His hand stays on the knob before he turns back to you. The name is still new enough that you feel it after it leaves your mouth. Not wrong. Just close.

He looks at you for another beat. “Hey.”

“You said you wanted to show me something,” you say.

“Kitchen.”

You follow him down the short hall and stop when you reach the counter.

The old deadbolt is sitting near the sink with the screws and scratched metal plate, the pieces laid out in a neat row because Pope would never leave them scattered. A toolbox is open on the floor by the back door, and there are faint marks near the frame where he must have worked the old piece loose.

You look from the counter to him. “What happened to the door?”

“Changed the locks.”

“Why?”

Pope wipes his hands on a rag and sets it beside the hardware. “Smurf had keys.”

You look toward the front hall, then back at the metal on the counter.

“She doesn’t anymore?” you ask.

“No.”

Pope reaches into his pocket and takes out a key on a plain silver ring.

He holds it out to you. “This one’s yours.”

You stare at it before taking it. The key is warm from his pocket, the teeth pressing lightly into your palm when your fingers close around it.

“Mine?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Pope leans back against the counter, arms loose at his sides. “Chrissy’s gone more now. I know that.”

Your grip tightens around the key.

“But that’s not why,” he says.

His gaze drops to the key in your hand. “Want you to have it. Not just when I bring you here. Not just when I’m here. If you want to be here.”

He isn’t trying to fill the space Chrissy left. He’s giving you access to a place Smurf can’t unlock anymore, and for Pope, that says more than almost anything else could.

You turn the key in your hand. “You sure you want me able to show up whenever I want?”

“Yeah.”

“You say that now.”

The corner of his mouth pulls a little. “Said what I said.”

You look down before your face gives too much away. “That’s dangerous.”

“What is?”

“Giving me a key.”

Pope’s eyes stay on you. “I know what I’m doing.”

You set your bag on the counter and slide the key into the inside pocket, careful with it. When you look back at him, he hasn’t moved.

You walk over to him and stop close enough that your knees almost touch his.

Pope’s hands stay where they are, resting against the counter behind him, but his gaze drops to your mouth and comes back up. He holds himself still, and it makes something low in your stomach pull tight.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say.

“What thing?”

“Waiting for me.”

His jaw works once. “Trying to.”

You step between his knees and take his right hand from the edge of the counter. His fingers are rough around yours, his palm warm and still when you place it at your waist.

“You can touch me,” you say.

Pope’s hand closes slowly, just enough to make the shape of you real under his palm. His other hand comes up when you lean in, settling at your other side as your arms slide around his neck.

His forehead lowers to yours.

“I missed you,” he says.

“You’ve said that a lot.”

“It’s true.”

You kiss him before he can say anything else.

Pope answers slow at first, his mouth firm, his grip tight at your waist. You press closer, fingers tightening in his hair, and that’s when he starts to give. He opens for you. His body comes in harder. The kiss turns slower, hotter, until you can’t stand the space between you.

He walks you backward out of the kitchen, one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your neck, not rushing, not letting you get far enough away to cool off. Your shoulder brushes the hallway wall, and he shifts with you, keeping his body between you and the harder edge before kissing you again.

By the time you reach the bedroom, your shirt is already pulled loose from your jeans and his hands are under it, warm against your skin. You get his shirt off first. He lets you tug it over his head, lets you put both hands on his chest after, and the feel of him under your palms makes the wanting in you turn heavy and familiar. You missed this. Missed the heat of him, the solid weight of him, the way your body wakes up under his hands.

Pope watches you while your fingers move to his belt. His palms stay at your waist.

You undo the buckle, then the button, and drag the zipper down. His cock is already hard when your hand slides over him through his briefs, and the groan he gives against your mouth makes your legs press together.

He pulls back just enough to get your shirt over your head. Your bra follows, then your jeans, and Pope lowers with you as you step out of them, his mouth moving over your shoulder, your collarbone, the top of your breast. He takes his time even when his fingers dig in like he’s close to losing patience. Your underwear goes down your legs with the rest of your clothes, and when he touches between your thighs, you have to hold onto his shoulders.

It feels too good too fast.

He kisses you again while his fingers work over your clit, steady and sure, his other arm low around your back to keep you against him. You rock into his hand, chasing the pressure, and he follows the movement without making you ask. The first sound you make into his mouth pulls him closer. His fingers slow just enough to make it sharper, then circle again until your hips move on their own and your grip digs into his shoulders.

He lowers his mouth to your neck, then your chest, then keeps going, guiding you back until your legs meet the edge of the mattress. You sit when he guides you down, and he drops to his knees between yours. Your hand goes into his hair.

The first pass of his mouth has you gripping his hair harder, pleasure spreading hot through your stomach and down your legs. Pope holds your hips and keeps you where he wants you, his mouth working against your clit with the same focus he brings to everything that matters. You missed this too, missed the blunt devotion of him between your legs, the way he gives like it matters and still makes you take it.

His fingers press into you while his mouth stays on your clit, and the stretch makes your grip tighten in his hair.

“Andrew,” you say.

His fingers slow inside you. You look down at him, his mouth still close enough that the next touch pulls a sound from you.

Pope groans against you. “Fuck—”

The word is rough against your skin, almost lost before his mouth is on you again. He goes back to it harder, holding your hip firm when your body tries to move.

“Say it again,” he says.

“Andrew.”

His breath comes hot against you. “Again.”

“Andrew…”

“Fuck.” His voice comes out low, wrecked. “Don’t stop saying it.”

He presses in harder, and the pressure builds until your legs draw tight around his shoulders.

“Fuck—Andrew, I’m gonna come.”

He groans into you, fingers working deeper, mouth staying exactly where you need it.

“Come for me…”

You do, his name breaking in your mouth as pleasure takes you hard, your body tightening around his fingers.

He works you through it, slower after the first rush, his mouth still moving until your hand loosens in his hair and your legs shake against him.

When he rises over you, his face is flushed, his mouth slick from you, and there’s so much want in him that you reach for him before he can decide to hold back again. He pushes his briefs down and steps out of them, and then he’s over you on the bed, skin hot against yours, his cock pressing between your thighs while your hands move over his back.

“Baby…”

The word comes out rough against your mouth, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

Your fingers slide into his hair. “Say it again.”

Pope lifts his head enough to look at you, breathing hard, his hand braced beside your ribs.

His voice drops. “Baby.”

You kiss him for it, open and deep, pulling him down until his weight settles over you.

“Fuck,” he says against your mouth. “Missed you… missed this.”

His arm hooks under your thigh, lifting it higher along his hip, and when he pushes into you, the pressure makes your mouth open against his. He goes slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough that the ache of missing him and the feel of having him again tangle together until your eyes burn.

He pushes all the way in and stops there, forehead near yours, his body tight with the effort of not moving before you’re ready.

You move first.

Pope makes a low sound and starts to thrust, deep and controlled at first, but the control doesn’t last the way it did before. He’s fucking you now, not holding himself away from you anymore, his mouth brushing yours every time your hips lift to meet him. Every drag of his cock reminds you exactly what the last week made you wait for. It feels good enough to make you angry with how much you missed it, good enough that your nails press into his back and your hips lift to meet him again.

His rhythm falters, and you use the break to push at his shoulder. Pope follows you when you guide him onto his back. He lets you climb over him, lets you take his cock in your hand and sink down onto him with both of his hands hovering near your hips until you grab them and place them where you want them.

One at your waist.

One at your breast.

His fingers close carefully at first, then harder when your body moves over his.

“Fuck,” he says, low and strained. “You feel…”

He doesn’t finish. His head tips back against the pillow, jaw tight, chest rising hard under your palm.

You move over him slowly. “Say it.”

His eyes come back to yours.

“You feel so fucking good…”

You take him deeper, and his grip tightens at your waist.

“Andrew…”

“Keep saying it,” he says. “Fuck—keep saying it.”

You fuck him slowly at first, letting yourself feel the stretch, the heat, the sound caught in his throat every time you take him deeper. His thumb drags over your nipple while his other arm holds you steady, helping you find the rhythm that makes your thighs burn. It feels good. So good your thoughts scatter into the places his hands touch and the place where he fills you again and again.

Pope sits up without pulling out of you. The shift brings your chest against his, your arms sliding around his neck as he holds you close and starts thrusting up into you. You grip his shoulders as the angle changes, your knees tight on either side of his hips. His lips are at your throat, his palms spread over your back, and each drive of his hips pushes against the place still sensitive from his mouth.

You make a sound you can’t hold back. “Right there,” you say.

Pope’s grip tightens. “There?”

“Yes… fuck, right there—”

He moves harder while he kisses you again. The kiss is messy now, too much teeth and heat, both of you breathing hard through it as his fingers slide between you. The first touch to your clit makes you fold closer, forehead pressing to his shoulder.

“Come for me…” he says against your ear.

You try to answer, but the pleasure is already too close. Pope keeps moving, keeps touching you, holding you there when it gets too much. Your nails scrape over his shoulder, and then you come around him, hard enough that your legs pull him in and a sound tears out of you before you can stop it.

He holds you through it, one arm tight around your back while his fingers keep working until you’re shaking against him.

“Baby…” he says, strained now.

You lift your head. His face is close, wrecked with it, his mouth parted, eyes fixed on yours because he wants you there with him when it happens.

Pope’s hips drive up into you again, harder, less even now. “I’m gonna come.”

You kiss him, too far gone to hide what that does to you, how close he is, how close you still are because his fingers are still on your clit and his cock keeps hitting every sensitive place inside you.

“Come for me…” you say against his mouth.

Pope’s arms close around you, and the last of his control goes with a harsh sound that spills into your kiss. He comes deep inside you, hips pressing up as he holds you hard against him, and the feel of him letting go pulls you with him again. Your next orgasm comes slower, heavier, while he keeps you against his chest.

His arms stay around you, one hand spread between your shoulder blades and the other low on your back, holding you through the tremors until your body settles against his. Your face is tucked into the side of his neck, your skin damp against his, your thighs still around his hips while he softens inside you.

Pope turns his head and presses his mouth to your hair.

You close your eyes and let yourself stay there, with him still inside you, the new key tucked away in your bag and Smurf’s old lock left on the kitchen counter.

You lie beside him after, one leg still tangled with his under the sheet, your body warm and heavy in a way you haven’t let yourself think about too much this week.

Pope is on his side facing you, close enough that his knee brushes yours when either of you shifts. His hand rests between your shoulder blades, moving slowly over your skin. Your fingers drift against his chest while his breathing settles under your palm. He’s quiet, but he keeps looking at you.

“What?” you ask.

Pope shakes his head.

“You keep looking at me.”

His thumb moves once near your spine. “I know.”

“That’s all?”

He takes his time answering. You let him. The lamp beside the bed is still on, low and yellow, catching the edge of his cheekbone and the dark line of his jaw. He looks tired now that the hunger has gone softer, but he doesn’t look closed off.

“Didn’t know if I’d get this back,” he says. He doesn’t say it like he wants you to comfort him. He says it because it’s true.

You slide your hand up to his neck, thumb resting below his jaw. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.”

You lean in and kiss him. Pope kisses you back, slow and warm, his hand flattening against your back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t go far. His mouth brushes your temple, and the words come out quiet and rough.

“I love you.”

You stop moving against him.

Pope keeps his hand on your back. He can’t take it back now. The words don’t sound planned. They sound like they got out before he could stop them.

You lift your head.

“Don’t say it because I did,” he says.

Your throat tightens.

“Not saying it so you forget what happened,” Pope adds. “I know you won’t. Don’t want you to.” He looks away once, then back. “Just don’t wanna keep going like you don’t already have it.”

You touch his face, letting your thumb move over the rough line of his cheek. He turns into it just enough that you almost lose the words.

“I love you too, Andrew.”

His eyes close, and his hand tightens at your back. When he looks at you again, he can’t hide what it did to him.

You kiss him before he has to answer.

Pope meets you halfway, one hand sliding into your hair while the other keeps you close. The kiss is slow, his mouth warm against yours, and he doesn’t let go when it ends.

After, you turn onto your side with your back to his chest, and Pope follows only when you bring his arm over your waist. His palm settles against your stomach, warm through the sheet, and this time, you’re the one who put him there.

Pope’s mouth rests near your hair, his breathing evening out behind you, and you let your eyes close with his arm around you. 

You fall asleep in the house he made harder for her to enter, with his hand on you and his love still warm against your skin.

your hands stay locked around the steering wheel. 

your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.

the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.

his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.

the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.

your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.

the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.

you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.

soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”

“sit down!”

“keep the car on the road!”

“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!” 

you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.

then he says, “pull over.”

you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”

“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.

you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”

you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.

your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you. 

“where are we?” he asks.

“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.

his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”

“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”

he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.

“even maeve?” he asks.

your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”

his jaw works once. “homelander?”

“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does. 

his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.

“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”

he steps closer. “you took it.”

“i did.”

his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”

“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”

“to keep you alive.”

“that wasn’t your choice.”

he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.

“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”

rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”

“do you?”

his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”

that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.

you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.

for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”

“not on you.” the answer's immediate.

his jaw tightens.

you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”

he looks away.

“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”

his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.

“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”

his eyes return to you.

“they were going to take you back.”

his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”

“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”

for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.

“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”

his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”

you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.

“i told them to stay back,” you say.

he watches you. “and they did?”

“yes.”

“all of them?”

“yes.”

“butcher?”

“especially butcher.”

something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.

“you carried me out?”

“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.

his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.

slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."

“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”

“with your driving, i don't doubt it."

it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.

his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you. 

his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."

your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”

his face tightens. “i know.”

it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“i might be mad for a while.”

“figured.”

“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”

his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

“you promised not to use it on me.”

“tempt me.”

the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.

his gaze drops to your mouth. 

the rain keeps falling.

“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.

“sioux falls.”

his brows draw together. “why?”

“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”

“where we go next?”

your throat tightens.

there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.

“unless you have somewhere better to be.”

his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”

his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.

“you stole me,” he says.

your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”

“stole.”

“fine. i stole you.”

“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”

there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.

you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”

his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.

you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.

when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.

then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”

you pull back. “absolutely not.”

“you almost put us in a ditch.”

“because you scared me.”

“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious. 

you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.

his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."

“i'm withdrawing.”

“explains the driving.”

you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”

“too late.”

you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”

“you’d come back.”

“unfortunately.”

he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.

you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.

“piece of shit,” he mutters.

“free piece of shit.”

he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.

for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.

terrorist attack. supe disaster. vought tragedy.

they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.

they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.

sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.

but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.

the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.

the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.

liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂‍↕️ i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way. but this was different. tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy. and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say. mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter. i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all. this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment. so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive. i’m gonna stop crying now. here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷

You giggle.

“That was my intention.”

Then you put your arms on his chest, on those pecs and slowly rub circles with your thumbs, feeling the warmth and slightly sweaty skin.

He stills above you, arms locked on either side. A bead of sweat trails down the side of his head, down his neck.

“You’re so sweaty, honey,” you begin, trailing your hands up and up the planes of his chest, until they meet at the back of his neck. You pull him down slightly, and he lets you, surprisingly, curious for your next move.

You smirk before you lean up slightly, neck tilting up. Then you take your tongue out, and trail it up the side his throat, tasting the slight musk and tanginess.

His jaw clenches, lips pressing together.

Andrew wraps one beefy arm around your waist, the other holding him up. Then he turns you over with an ease that leaves you stunned.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, now on top of him. You reach out and place your hands on either side of his head, your knees on the ground, straddling him to keep your balance.

“Holy fucking shit. I cannot believe you just flipped us over like that.”

Andrew just stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fights back a smile.

“S’nothing,” he mumbles.

“No it’s not nothing,” you say as you run a hand through his curls. “You’re my strong boy.”

He blushes then, cheeks warming as he leans in again.

“Yeah? M’ good?

You nod, brushing your nose against his.

Then he presses your lips together, hard. You kiss, your tongue in his mouth, fighting for dominance.

Feeling his cock underneath you, hardening under his boxer shorts, your clit rubbing against him, hard, as you grind your hops against his, once.

“Fuck,” he grits out, grabbing your waist with both hands.

“Please Andrew, let me make you feel good.”

He nods, whimpering into your mouth.

“Keep goin’, pretty girl.”

And you do, rocking your hips back and forth, the friction of your clothes between you creating the perfect friction on your clit.

“Andrew, fuck! You feel- feel so good baby,”

He groans in reply, moaning into your mouth as he moves you back and forth, holding your waist.

You move faster, gripping the sides of his neck, mouth hovers above his.

“Andrew, fuck- m’gonna come,” you whine into his mouth.

He nods against you, egging you on. Not a man of many words, he just grips your waist tighter in his palms, rocking you against him faster.

“Just like that baby, m’gonna come too,” he groans.

As his tip slides against your clit under your shorts, pressing against you on the perfect way, the wave of pleasure breaks and you come - hard. Back arching, hips grinding, moaning his name.

Andrew just stares, all sweaty and lost in your body moving against him as you work through your peak.

“Fuck- fuck can feel you pulsing baby,” Andrew groans out lowly.

His hips jerk up once, then twice, jerkily, before he spills in his boxers, moaning against your mouth.

You both pant against each other, feeling your release in your underwear.

“Did so- so good for me, honey,” you praise against his lips, kissing him softly.

He only moans in reply, hips still slightly grinding up into you.

“Thank you,” he whimpers.

Yeah. There’s nowhere you’d rather be.

you're five months along and sitting on the edge of the bed with your arms crossed and andrew pope cody has made a lot of mistakes in his life but the look on your face right now might be the thing that finally does him in.

"i'm carrying your baby," you say. very calmly. "and you're not being very nice to me."

he blinks. "what— i'm not— i've been—" he gestures at the apartment, at himself, at everything. "i've been very nice to you."

"andrew."

"i bought you those crackers you like. the specific ones. i drove to three stores—"

"andrew."

"what." he sits down beside you, genuinely panicked now, hands finding yours. "what did i do. tell me what i did."

you look at him. "it's been four months, andy. since we found out."

he opens his mouth. closes it. the tips of his ears go pink.

"i just don't want to—"

"your doctor said it was fine," you say. "my doctor said it was fine. i am telling you it is fine and i am five months pregnant and i am asking you nicely." a pause. "please, andy."

he looks at you for a long moment. at your face, at the round curve of your stomach, at the way you're looking at him like he's the most frustrating person you've ever loved.

"okay," he says quietly. "okay. i just— if anything feels—"

"it won't."

"but if—"

"andrew." you take his face in your hands. "i love you. please."

he is gentle about it. almost unbearably so. his hands careful on your hips, mindful of the bump, taking his time finding an angle that works, his eyes on your face the whole time checking, checking, always checking.

"andy," you breathe when he finally pushes in slow, and the sound that leaves him is quiet and a little wrecked.

"okay?" he murmurs.

"so okay," you manage. "please don't stop."

he doesn't stop. moves slow and deep, one hand splayed warm over your belly like he's protecting you both, pressing his lips to your temple, your cheek, murmuring against your skin. his breathing uneven, being so careful when you can feel exactly what it's doing to him.

his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow easy circles, and your whole body arches into it.

"andy—" your voice comes out wrecked. "i want to last—"

"yeahh," he murmurs. "i know, just—"

but then his hips stutter. just once, just slightly, the careful rhythm slipping, his cock pressing deep against that soft spot inside you and oh. oh you've missed that. your walls clench around him involuntarily and he makes a sound into your neck that's completely undone.

"sorry—" he breathes. "sorry, i just—"

"don't apologize," you manage. "please don't stop—"

but his hips are moving now, less careful, chasing it, four months of holding back dissolving all at once, and he's murmuring something against your skin that sounds like your name and sorry and god you feel so good all tangled together. he doesn't last long. a few more strokes and he's shuddering, hips stuttering to a stop, coming with a low broken groan pressed into your shoulder.

the room goes quiet.

"i'm sorry," he says immediately. "i'm so sorry, i didn't—"

"andy."

"i was supposed to—"

"andrew." you take his face in your hands. "it's okay. just fix it."

he nods, earnest and a little frantic, and his thumb finds your clit immediately, rubbing tight circles while he pulls you into a kiss. his tongue slides in, kissing you languidly, his hips rolling just slightly, cock still buried inside you, pressing against that spot with every small movement. the combination of his thumb and the slow drag of him has your walls fluttering, and you moan into his mouth and he swallows it like he needed it, hips nudging deeper, until you're clenching around him and coming apart against his lips.

he pulls back and looks at you.

"better?" he asks.

"getting there," you say. "i'll really forgive you if you make me come one more time."

he slides down without another word.

his mouth finds your clit and he suckles at it soft and slow, lips closing around it and drawing it in, tongue circling steady and devoted like he has nowhere else to be. your thighs press against his shoulders, fingers twisting in his hair, hips rolling up against his mouth until you're shaking and coming apart properly, his name spilling out of you.

he presses one last kiss there and climbs back up.

"forgiven?" he asks quietly.

he looks up and catches you staring.                                      

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“probably,” you say.

he almost smiles. almost.

---

you see him twice more before the dinner.

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

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

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

it makes you want to push.

---

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

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

you know that’s not entirely true.

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

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

which somehow makes it worse.

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

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

your pulse does something it has no business doing.

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

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

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

“i know,” you say softly.

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

“lovely to meet you properly,” he says.

“you too,” you say.

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

---

a week passes.

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

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

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

your phone stays quiet.

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

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

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

you put the phone face down and open another email.

---

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

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

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

you look straight ahead and keep walking.

you hear him pause then fall into step beside you.

“hey,” he tries.

nothing.

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

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

“you walked right past me.”

“i didn’t see you.”

“you saw me,” he says simply.

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

he holds your gaze. “i know.”

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

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

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

“i’m aware of my own age,” you say.

“i know that.”

“and i’m aware of yours.”

“that’s not what i—”

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

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

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

you look at him.

“no,” you say.

he blinks. looks back at you. “no?”

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

a beat.

“you’re negotiating.”

“i’m clarifying,” you say pleasantly.

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

“dinner,” he says. “and a drink.”

“and you’re paying,” you add.

he exhales through his nose. “obviously.”

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

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

good.

---

he texts friday morning.

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

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

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

you put your phone face down on the bed.

get it together, you tell yourself.

you pick it up again.

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

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

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

you: i’ll meet you there.

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

you smile at yourself in the mirror a little bit.

---

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

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

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

“and now you’re here,” he says.

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

“doesn’t sound like much of a rest.”

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

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

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

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

“and the army?”

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

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

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

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

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

“you say that like it’s an insult.”

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

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

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

you and jack don’t notice any of it.

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

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

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

he comes back and picks up his jacket.

“ready?” he says simply.

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

---

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

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

“you’ve gone somewhere,” he says.

you blink. look up at him. “what?”

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

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

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

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

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

he definitely notices. doesn’t say anything.

---

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

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

you stop walking.

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

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

he shakes his head slightly and follows.

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

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

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

“that’s actually good,” he says.

“i know,” you say smugly.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

you lean up and kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he pulls back just enough to speak, voice low.

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

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

“okay,” you say.

he takes your hand and you go.

---

the door barely shuts behind you.

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

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

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

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

“jack—”

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

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

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

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

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

a groan tears out of him.

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

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

he does.

---

you wake up to the smell of coffee.

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

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

you stare at the glass of water for a moment.

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

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

he glances over when you appear in the doorway.

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

“you made breakfast,” you say.

he just smiles in return.

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

you mostly fail.

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

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

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

---

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

your insides melt.

“i’ll see you later,” he says.

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

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

---

it becomes a pattern after that.

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

---

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

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

you go inside for ice an hour in.

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

you don’t turn around. you already know.

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

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

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

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

“jack,” you warn softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re unbelievable,” you manage.

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

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

---

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

you don’t get the underwear back.

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

you’re quiet about it. mostly.

---

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

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

mostly.

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

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

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

you smile. “thanks, jack.”

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

you watch the road for a while.

then you reach across the console.

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

you do it anyway.

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

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

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

“okay?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, move—”

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

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

“jack—”

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

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

neither of you are in any hurry.

---

you end up staying the night.

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

so you do.

---

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

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

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

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

“and you listened?”

“he’s very persuasive.”

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

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

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

“i’ll see you later,” he murmurs.

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

you are not completely poised.

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

you’re still in the doorframe.

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

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

---

the phone starts buzzing an hour later.

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

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

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

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

“i can see that,” he says.

“interesting shorts,” he says.

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“i know,” you say, and smile.

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

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

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

“go sort your merger,” jack says.

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

he looks at you.

you look back.

“get a hole in one,” you say.

he stares at you. “i’m sorry?”

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

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

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

it drops clean.

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

you burst out laughing.

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

“hole in one,” he says simply.

---

things fall in his entryway.

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

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

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

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

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

“i have a few ideas,” you say.

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

you take a moment to just. look at him.

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

his eyes are already on you.

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

“touch yourself for me,” he says quietly.

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

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

then he steps forward.

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

he pushes you back onto the bed.

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

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

“jack— jack i need—”

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

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

you groan. “jack.”

“sorry?” the corner of his mouth twitches.

“you know what i need—”

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

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

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

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

---

the bed creaks.

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

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

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

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

“jack—”

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

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

for a moment neither of you move.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” you say, not moving.

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

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

you groan when you see the title screen.

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

“i’ve seen enough of it.”

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

you watch the movie.

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

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

“we missed it,” you say.

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

you laugh softly and settle back into his side.

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

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

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

then you slip carefully out from under his arm.

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

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

he stirs. opens one eye.

“i’m heading home,” you say softly.

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

“okay,” you say.

you let yourself out.

---

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

“that you?”

you pause. “yeah, it’s me.”

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

“out,” you say.

“with?”

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

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

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

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

“i know,” you say softly. “i am.”

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

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

---

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

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

you: i think dad knows

jack: how?

you type out the whole interaction. 

jack: okay. let’s lay low for a bit.

you stare at the screen.

you: :(

jack: be good and i’ll reward you.

you smile at your phone in the dark.

you: tie me up?

jack: i just said be good.

you laugh to yourself, quietly. 

you: fine. deal.

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

“no way.”

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

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

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

you don’t notice jack until you feel it.

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

he looks away the second you catch him.

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

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

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

come over.

two words. no context.

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

---

he opens the door before you’ve knocked.

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

“jack,” you start.

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

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

you go upstairs.

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

“i said strip,” he says quietly.

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

a beat.

“nothing’s going on,” he says.

“jack.”

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

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

oh.

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

his jaw tightens. “is that his name.”

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

his face stays still. but his eyes shift.

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

this time you do.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

his jaw ticks.

“once,” he repeats.

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

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

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

there’s a mirror.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks down at you.

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

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

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

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

“jack—”

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

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

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

you’re too far gone to notice.

silence settles over the room.

---

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

you’re smiling. you can’t help it.

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

“what,” he says.

“i like this side of you,” you say.

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

“go to sleep,” he says.

you keep smiling.

“goodnight jack,” you hum.

---

he doesn’t sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he’d stopped saying it entirely.

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

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

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

he makes the decision somewhere around four in the morning.

he lies there until six feeling terrible about it.

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

then he goes to the kitchen and makes breakfast.

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

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

“morning,” he says.

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

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

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

“i’ll see you later,” you say.

“yeah,” he says.

he watches you go.

---

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

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

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

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

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

5:04 pm.

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

the smile fades before you’ve finished reading.

jack: hey.

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

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

jack: take care of yourself.

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

they don’t.

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

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

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

but you told yourself it was enough. you could learn to live with it. if you couldn't have all of jack, you would greedily indulge in whatever small piece of his heart he was willing to give.

at first the sneaking around made you feel like a teenager again.

there was something so thrilling about catching his eye across the emergency department during shift changes, pretending not to know why the corner of his mouth twitched into the smallest smile before he focussed back in on whatever conversation he was having with robby. sometimes if you were covering a night shift, you'd hang back at the end, making small talk with ellis or shen while you waited for jack to text you a simple ok. you'd politely excuse yourself before climbing into the passenger seat of his black truck that he'd parked around the corner.

for an hour or two, you could pretend. pretend that the way jack looked at you behind closed doors meant he felt the same way as you, that he just couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. each time he'd tell you "this is the last time" in that rough voice of his, you'd roll your eyes — because it never was the last time.

somewhere along the line, it stopped being exciting.

it wasn't one specific moment that did you in. it was countless little ones. jack abbot was a man of gestures; the way he'd stand near you as he oversaw procedures, how he'd remember little things you mentioned in passing.

you tried to be cool about it, but you were weak. somewhere in those quiet gestures you'd made the mistake of falling for him.

by the day he had rushed into the ED with his swat team, you were already too far gone to pretend what you felt for him wasn't love.

you had noticed the stiffness in his shoulder immediately, not enough for anyone else to notice it. enough for you. but you didn't call it out, you waited. jack hated being fussed over, the last thing he needed was you questioning him in front of half the department.

after his friend was wheeled up to the OR, you found jack alone in trauma three struggling to take off his tactical vest.

"what happened to your shoulder"

he didn't even look up.

"nothing"

"just let me take a look"

you stepped closer tentatively, as if approaching a startled deer, like one wrong move could send him scattering away.

"jack"

his jaw tightened, finally having gotten off the vest and now tackled with the task of removing his shirt.

without thinking, you reach for the shears on the cabinet beside you.

"hold still", you murmured, already slipping the shears beneath the torn fabric. "i'll grab you a clean shirt from your locker in a second."

"it's just a graze"

you huff at his dismissive tone, "it still needs cleaning."

as you cut the final piece of fabric his shirt falls away. removing it carefully, you get a look at the damage.

relief washes over you. it's only a graze — not too deep. thank God.

you reach for a pack of saline wipes.

"this is going to sting a little.

the first touch makes him flinch a little, you barely restrain yourself from placing a soothing touch to his uninjured shoulder.

you catch his eyes flickering behind you to get a look at the busy trauma bay. you hear voices drift past. then he looks back at you.

"would you stop fussing over me?"

you blink at him.

"i'm only cleaning it."

"you always this persistent with your patients?" he asks with his staple smirk.

"only the stubborn ones."

you finish cleaning up the wound, patching it up with some gauze, your fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. clearing your throat, you turn away throw away the wipes you used, missing the way jack's eyes drift over to the corridor again.

everyone was too busy to pay either of you any attention.

but they could. they could look in and see the way you hovered over him, how familiar your hands had become with his body. and jack had put in so many precautions with you to make sure it would never happen.

when you turn back to jack, his expression has hardened. a look in his eyes you can't quite place, one that makes your heart race with nerves.

"you can't keep doing this."

"doing what?"

"looking after me like..." he scrubs a hand over his face, searching for a different way to say it.

he can't find one.

"...like you're my wife."

you don't speak yet. you can't. you stand there processing his words, knowing they don't come from a place of malice, but it doesn't make them hurt any less.

"you're all set," you whisper, your voice coming out steadier than expected

"try not to lift anything too heavy for a day or two."

it's easier to sound like his doctor than whatever else you were.

jack opens his mouth — whether to apologise or to explain, you'll never know. you don't give him the chance.

"i'll see you around, dr. abbot."

the title tasted foreign after months of him being just jack.

you walk back into the noise of the emergency department without looking over your shoulder. you'd always known this was how it would end, with single sentence that finally forced you to see the relationship for what it had always been.

he would never love you the way you loved him.

the cruelest part was that tomorrow, if his name lit up your phone after another late shift with a simple come over, you already knew what your answer would be.

you hated yourself for it.

but loving jack abbot had never made you stronger.

only weaker.