"My mercy prevails over my wrath."

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

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Morning comes in slowly.

Not gentle, exactly. Gentle would imply the world is considerate enough to knock before entering. Morning doesn't knock. It spills through the blinds in thin gold stripes, lays itself across the bed, catches on the curve of John's bare shoulder, and announces that time has continued without anyone asking your permission.

You wake with your cheek pressed to his chest.

For a moment, you don't move. You don't even open your eyes. You let yourself exist inside the warm, heavy quiet of him. His skin beneath your cheek. His heartbeat steady under your ear. His arm around your waist, hand spread at the small of your back like it found you in sleep and decided to keep you.

Your legs are tangled with his. The sheets are a disaster. One pillow is on the floor. Your body feels loose and tender in places that make your face heat before you're fully awake.

Last night comes back in pieces.

His mouth at your throat. His hands asking before they took. The wolf charm on the nightstand. His voice, wrecked and soft, saying, I love you. Your own voice saying it back.

You inhale carefully.

John smells like sleep and skin and the soap from his shower, faint now beneath something warmer, something that belongs only to the bed and the dark and the fact that you let him know you all the way down to the parts of yourself you still don't have names for.

His fingers move slowly against your back.

You still.

A low sound rumbles in his chest. Not quite a word, not quite awake.

You lift your head.

John's eyes are still closed, lashes casting pale shadows over his cheeks. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other, which should not be as endearing as it is. His mouth is slightly parted. He looks younger in sleep. Softer. Like the world hasn't put its hands on him yet today.

You hate that it will.

The thought arrives like a draft under a door. The military with its sterile rooms and its hungry little files.

John is going in later today. Not early, at least. Not ripped from bed by a phone call before sunrise, not summoned while your skin still remembers him. He told you that last night with his hand in your hair and his mouth against your temple.

Not until later, love.

As if later is mercy.

You lower your forehead to his chest and close your eyes again.

His hand tightens lightly at your back.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs.

His voice is rough with sleep. It moves through you in a slow, warm ache.

You keep your eyes closed. "I'm not thinking."

"Mm."

"I'm a peaceful person."

His chest shifts beneath you with the beginning of a laugh. "Since when?"

"Since this morning."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

His hand drifts up your spine, slow and lazy. You try very hard not to make a sound, you fail quietly.

John's fingers pause. You feel his smile before you see it.

"Morning," he says.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His eyes are open now, soft blue and still sleep-heavy, fixed on you like waking up to your face is something he plans to be insufferable about.

"Morning," you whisper.

His gaze moves over you. Not in the hungry way from last night. This is slower, tender. His eyes trace your face, your hair, your bare shoulder, the sheet caught beneath your arm. The kind of looking that feels more intimate than touching because it doesn't ask for anything.

You shift self-consciously.

John notices immediately.

His hand comes up and brushes hair away from your cheek. "Hey."

"What?"

"Don't disappear on me."

Your throat tightens. "I'm right here."

"I know." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Stay."

The word is too soft. Too dangerous.

You look down at his chest, at the faint marks your nails left near his ribs. Heat curls low in your stomach, tangled with embarrassment, pride, and something embarrassingly close to wonder.

John follows your gaze. His ears go pink.

You lift one brow. "You bruise easy?"

"Apparently I get mauled easy."

You gasp. "Mauled?"

"Attacked."

"You loved it."

His mouth twitches. "I survived."

"Barely?"

His eyes warm. "Barely."

The room shifts.

It's ridiculous how quickly it happens. One second you're teasing him. The next, his hand is at your waist beneath the sheet, and your breath catches because his touch is still new there. Familiar from last night, yes, but new in the daylight. New with the sun finding you. New with no darkness to hide inside.

John stills. "Okay?" he asks.

You nod. "Yes."

His hand relaxes but does not move away. "Sore?"

Your face heats instantly. "John."

"I'm asking."

"I noticed."

"You don't have to answer like I'm personally attacking you."

"You asked if I was sore while looking very serious."

"I am very serious."

"That's the problem."

His mouth curves, but his eyes stay careful. "Are you?"

You sigh and let your forehead drop to his chest again. "A little."

His hand stops at your waist. "Bad?"

"No." You turn your face and press your lips to his skin. "Not bad."

The tension in him eases by degrees. His hand resumes its slow path over your back.

"You should've told me."

"I just did."

"Last night."

"You asked me fourteen times last night."

"Fifteen."

"You were counting?"

"I had a system."

You laugh against his chest, and his arm tightens around you like he can't help it.

The sound fades, leaving something softer behind.

You lift your head again. "I hate that you have to leave."

John's face changes. He knew it was coming, you both did. The base is already sitting in the corner of the bedroom, polishing its boots, waiting to ruin the air.

"I don't have to go in until later," he says.

"That does not help as much as you think it does."

"It's something."

"It's scraps."

His thumb moves once against your waist. "I know."

That disarms you. You were prepared for reassurance. For him to tell you it would be fine, to put on that soldier voice again and try to build a wall out of confidence. You were prepared to be angry at him for it.

Instead, he just looks at you and admits the morning is already borrowed.

Your chest aches. You reach up and touch his face. "I don't want them to have you today."

John's eyes soften. "Love."

"I know." You trace the line of his jaw. "Duty. Review. Base. Very official. Very boring. Very capable of ruining my morning."

His smile appears, small and tired. "Your morning?"

"Yes. I had plans."

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Should I be worried?"

You let your fingers drift from his jaw to his ear.

John goes very still.

Your thumb brushes the tiny freckle on his earlobe.

His eyes close, a low breath leaves him.

You smile. "Maybe."

"Mara."

Your name sounds different now. It sounded different last night too, but this morning, with his body warm under yours and sunlight slipping across his ribs, it feels like something you could climb inside.

You brush the freckle again.

John catches your wrist, but not with much conviction. His fingers wrap around you gently, thumb pressed to your pulse.

"You're dangerous before coffee," he says.

"I'm dangerous after coffee too."

"I know."

"You knew the risks."

"I did not receive a full briefing."

"You should've read the file."

His eyes open. "There is no file."

The joke lands close to the bruise. For half a second, something shadows his face. You see the thought cross through him. The review. The questions. The ghost in the reports.

You don't let it take the room.

You lean down and kiss him.

John exhales against your mouth like he was waiting for permission to stop thinking. His hand slides from your wrist to your neck, warm palm cradling you as he kisses you back.

Soft at first, morning-soft. The kind of kiss that tastes like sleep and relief.

Then your knee shifts over his hip, and his hand tightens at your waist.

The kiss changes.

Heat moves between you slowly, then all at once. John's mouth opens under yours, and the sound he makes when your fingers slide into his hair sends a bright rush through you. You press closer, skin to skin beneath the sheet, and both of you inhale sharply.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

"We have time," you whisper.

His eyes darken.

"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "We do."

You kiss him again before the base can steal another thought.

John rolls carefully, bringing you beneath him with one hand behind your back and the other braced beside your head. The sheet tangles around both of you. You laugh softly against his mouth when he has to kick it loose, and he grins into the kiss, breathless and warm and yours for these hours.

Then his mouth finds your throat, and laughter leaves you entirely.

Your head tips back into the pillow. His lips move slowly over your skin, learning what daylight changes and what it doesn't. Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his back, finding the places you learned last night.

John shudders when your nails scrape lightly over his ribs.

You smile. "Still there?"

His mouth pauses against your neck. "Don't get smug."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"A little."

His teeth graze your shoulder, gentle and deliberate.

Your breath breaks.

Now he smiles. You feel it against your skin.

"Problem," you whisper.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

His hand moves down your side, careful over every place you are tender. He doesn't rush. He kisses you like the morning belongs to him only because you let it. He touches you like he remembers every promise he made in the dark.

When his fingers slip between your thighs, your hand flies to his wrist.

He stops instantly. "Too much?"

You shake your head, breath already uneven. "No."

His eyes search your face.

You loosen your grip and guide his hand back.

The first touch pulls a soft gasp from you. John watches you with that focused tenderness that makes your chest ache and your body burn at the same time.

"There?" he asks.

You nod. "There."

His mouth lowers to yours as his fingers move, slow and sure, drawing heat out of you with terrifying patience. Your hips lift into his hand. His breath changes when he feels it, when he realizes your body is asking even before your mouth does.

You reach for him too.

John groans into your kiss, deep and helpless, the sound vibrating through both of you. His control frays beautifully under your hands. You love that. You love learning that he can be undone. You love that he lets you see it.

The room fills with soft sounds. Breath. Sheets. His name on your lips. Yours against your throat.

When he reaches for the nightstand, he pauses.

You nod.

He still waits until you say it.

"Yes," you whisper.

Something in his face settles.

He prepares himself, then comes back to you, warm and solid between your thighs. His forehead rests against yours. For one suspended second, neither of you moves.

"Tell me if anything hurts," he says.

"I will."

He kisses you as he enters you, slow enough that the stretch blooms through you instead of startling. Your fingers grip his shoulders. His breath shakes against your mouth.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You open your eyes.

He's right there. Morning caught in his hair. Worry and want tangled all over his face.

You lift your hips slightly.

John's eyes close, and a rough sound breaks from his chest.

"I'm okay," you say. "Move."

His laugh is breathless and ruined. "Bossy."

He moves before you answer.

The first slow thrust steals the air from your lungs. The second makes your nails dig into his back. John sets a careful rhythm, watching you, listening, adjusting until the pleasure begins to gather low and bright.

You wrap your legs around him. "John."

"I'm here." His mouth brushes your jaw. "I've got you."

You believe him more easily this morning. Maybe that should scare you.

It does.

It also makes you pull him closer.

He moves deeper, the rhythm building, his hand sliding beneath your thigh to tilt you into a better angle. The change makes you gasp, sharp and helpless.

John stills for half a second.

You cling to him. "Again."

His control flickers.

He does it again.

Pleasure rolls through you, warm and insistent, turning your thoughts to sparks. His mouth finds your shoulder, the same place he worshipped last night, and you hold him there while his body moves into yours, while the morning burns down around the edges of the room.

This time, when your release takes you, it's softer. Slower. It pulls you under like warm water instead of lightning. Your breath breaks against his neck. Your body trembles around him, and John groans as if feeling you fall apart has become the final thread holding him together.

"Love," he whispers.

You kiss the side of his face. "Stay with me."

His rhythm falters. His hand finds yours on the pillow and laces your fingers together.

"I'm with you," he says.

Then he lets go.

You hold him through it, through the shudder of his body, the low sound of your name buried against your skin, the way he collapses carefully afterward as if even in pleasure he refuses to forget your weight beneath him.

For a while, there is only breathing.

Morning stays.

The base waits.

You hate it for that.

Eventually, John lifts his head, flushed and soft-eyed, hair worse than before.

"Okay?" he asks.

You smile despite yourself. "You're going to keep asking that forever, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Fine." You touch his mouth. "I'm okay."

He kisses your fingers. "Good."

A little later, after he cleans you with the same grave focus as last night and you accuse him of running a post-encore inspection, you end up in one of his shirts again, sitting on the kitchen counter while he makes coffee.

He's shirtless because apparently the universe has decided you are being tested.

You watch him move through the kitchen, bare feet, sleep-wrecked hair, a faint red mark near his ribs where your mouth had been.

He catches you staring. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That was not nothing."

You lift your mug. "I'm appreciating the domestic view."

His ears go pink. "Domestic view?"

"You. Coffee. No shirt. Mild emotional damage."

He smiles into his mug. "Sounds like your type."

"Unfortunately."

He steps between your knees and sets his coffee down beside you. His hands come to rest on your thighs, warm over the bare skin beneath the hem of his shirt.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then his phone buzzes on the counter. The sound cuts through the kitchen like a blade.

John's eyes flick to it.

Your stomach tightens.

He doesn't pick it up right away. Instead, he looks at you, and somehow that makes it worse. Because he knows. He knows the world's already reaching for him.

You look down at your mug. "You should answer."

"I still have time."

"Do you?"

His jaw tightens.

You hate that question. You hate asking it. You hate that he doesn't have an easy answer.

He picks up the phone.

You don't read the message. You don't need to. His face does enough.

Base.

Later has become sooner.

John sets the phone down and reaches for you.

You let him pull you against his chest. For a minute, you sit there on the kitchen counter with your face tucked into his neck, trying not to be angry at a machine too big to bleed.

"I'll come back," he says quietly.

You close your eyes. "You better."

His hand moves over your back. "I will."

You want to say it again.

I love you.

The words rise to the back of your throat, warm and terrifying. You feel them there. You know they belong to him now, at least some of them. But the morning is too bright, and the phone is too close, and the charm is still on the nightstand waiting to be put back on or left behind.

So you turn your face and kiss his shoulder instead.

John holds you a little tighter.

He doesn't ask.

That becomes the shape of the week.

John doesn't ask.

Not when he says it before hanging up the phone, voice low and tired from base.

"I'll call you after, love. I love you."

And you close your eyes on your side of the line and whisper, "Be safe."

Not when he kisses you outside the support group building, one hand at your waist, and murmurs it against your hair like a secret he no longer knows how to keep.

"Love you."

And you press your face into his chest until the words stop shaking inside you.

Not when you spend the night at the compound because grief has crawled under your ribs and made a home there again, and you text him at midnight that you're okay, you just need space for Bucky tonight.

John answers almost immediately.

John: Take all the space you need. I'm here.

Then, a few seconds later,

John: I love you.

You stare at the message for so long the screen dims.

Natasha finds you in the kitchen with your phone in one hand and untouched tea in the other.

She looks at your face. Then at the phone.

"John?" she asks.

You don't answer. She doesn't need you to.

Natasha opens the cabinet, takes down a mug, and pours herself tea like this is not an emotional crime scene.

"You know," she says, "you are allowed to be happy and sad in the same week."

You look at her. "That sounds illegal."

"A lot of useful things are."

You almost smile.

She leans back against the counter, watching you with that infuriating calm of hers. "Support group bad tonight?"

"No." You rub your thumb along the side of your mug. "It was fine."

"Fine is a suspicious word."

"It was... good, actually." You look down. "I talked."

Natasha's brows lift slightly.

"Not about everything," you add quickly.

"Didn't think you performed a full autopsy."

You huff. "I talked about grief changing. How sometimes it feels like a room I keep adding furniture to. Like I don't leave Bucky behind when I leave the room. I just..." Your voice thins. "I just don't have to sleep on the floor in there anymore."

Natasha's expression softens in a way she will deny under oath.

You look away first.

Your fingers drift to your chest. No charm. The absence still startles you.

You wore it to group earlier. You needed it there, needed the small weight of the wolf against your sternum while strangers said the names of their dead out loud and survived the sound. But when you came back to the compound, you took it off and laid it on the nightstand in your old room beside the lamp, the way you had laid it beside John's bed.

Not gone, just not always around your neck. It feels like betrayal some days. Other days, it feels like breathing.

Natasha notices your hand. "You don't have it on."

Your mouth tightens. "I know."

"That's not an accusation."

"It feels like one."

"From me?"

"From me."

Natasha sets her mug down. "You still love him."

Your eyes burn instantly. "Yes." You swallow hard.

"And you're making room for John."

The words move through the kitchen and settle over you with unbearable gentleness.

You close your eyes.

Natasha waits.

"That sounds simple when you say it."

"It isn't."

"No."

"But it's true."

You open your eyes. "I don't know how to love someone alive without feeling like I'm killing someone dead."

Natasha's face doesn't change, but something in her eyes does. A small wound recognizing another.

"You're not killing Bucky by living," she says.

Your throat closes.

She picks up her tea again. "Also, for what it's worth, Barnes would haunt the hell out of you for thinking that."

A laugh breaks out of you, wet and startled.

Natasha smiles into her mug. "Very judgmental ghost. Terrible hair in the forties."

"Don't insult his hair."

"It had opinions."

You laugh again, and this time it hurts less.

Steve notices too.

It happens at the compound two days later, when John comes by after base with exhaustion in his shoulders and still smiles the moment he sees you coming down the stairs.

Steve is in the kitchen slicing apples with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.

He looks up when John says your name.

His whole face changes.

You cross the room before you can think better of it, and John catches you with one arm around your waist. The kiss is quick because Steve is standing there being wholesome and inconvenient, but it's not cautious, not anymore.

When you pull back, John looks lighter.

So do you.

Steve's eyes move between you.

You narrow yours. "Don't."

Steve blinks. "I didn't say anything."

"You looked Midwestern."

"I'm from Brooklyn."

"You looked spiritually Midwestern."

John laughs under his breath.

Steve points a slice of apple at him. "Careful. If you encourage her, she gets worse."

John's smile widens. "I'm starting to realize that."

"Traitor," you mutter.

John looks down at you, still smiling. "I said starting to."

Steve hums. "No, he's right."

You turn on him. "Steven."

"Oh, full name." Steve sets down the knife, amused. "Must be serious."

John's hand rests warm at your waist. "Should I be worried?"

"Always," Steve says at the same time you say, "No."

John glances between you both. "Helpful."

Steve reaches for another apple. "You'll get used to it."

The ease in his voice makes something in your chest loosen. There's no interrogation in his face. No warning. No careful measuring of John's intentions across the kitchen island.

Just Steve, watching you with that quiet, knowing softness that always makes you feel seen in ways you never asked to be.

"You both seem happy," he says.

The room goes quiet.

It should not be a devastating thing to say. It's just an observation, a kind one. But happiness still feels like a skittish animal in your hands. Name it too loudly and it might bolt.

John's hand finds yours. Not performative. Not for Steve.

For you.

You squeeze back.

"We're okay," you say.

Steve looks at you for a long moment, then nods. "Good."

He slides the plate of apple slices toward the two of you. "That's good."

You stare at him. "That's it?"

He glances up. "Do you want me to give a speech?"

"No."

"Then yes. That's it."

John leans down near your ear. "He absolutely has a speech."

Steve points the knife in your general direction without looking up. "I can hear you."

John clears his throat. "Sorry, Steve."

Steve's mouth twitches. "No, you're right. I have at least three."

You groan. "Absolutely not."

"They're short."

"They're never short."

John reaches for an apple slice, trying and failing not to look entertained. "I kind of want to hear one."

You gasp. "Do not encourage Captain Apple Slices."

Steve looks pleased with himself. "Captain Apple Slices?"

"It's not catching on."

John takes a bite. "It might."

Steve finally smiles then, small but unmistakable.

You look between them, suspicious. "I hate that you two are getting along."

John squeezes your hand. "No, you don't."

Steve goes back to cutting apples, still smiling. "She really doesn't."

You roll your eyes, but there is no heat in it.

Lemar notices in the least subtle way possible. He shows up at the church near the end of your volunteer shift and catches you smiling at your phone.

Not a big smile. Not even a real one.

Just the small, private curve of your mouth that happens before you can stop it because John sent you a picture of the dinner he absolutely butchered at base with the message: This chicken is a cry for help.

Lemar sees the smile and stops dead in the aisle between canned beans and donated winter coats.

"Oh no," he says.

You lock your phone. "What?"

He points at your face. "That."

"My face?"

"That face."

"I have one face."

"You have several. That was a John face."

You grab a box of pasta. "You're making things up."

"I have known that man for years. I have seen women smile at him."

Your eyes snap to him.

Lemar freezes. Then he grins slowly. "Oh, that's new."

"Finish that sentence and I will put you in the donation bin."

"Jealousy looks good on you, Trouble."

"I am not jealous."

"Sure."

"I simply think you should stop talking forever."

"Impossible."

You turn away, but your face is hot.

Lemar's teasing softens after a minute. He takes a box from your hands and sets it on the shelf. "You're lighter."

You go still.

He doesn't look at you when he says it. He gives you the kindness of pretending the shelf is fascinating.

"You both are."

Your throat tightens.

"I didn't say fixed," he adds. "Don't make that face."

"What face?"

"The one where you prepare to argue with a compliment."

You huff. "I hate that everyone knows my faces."

"We formed a committee."

"Disband it."

"No."

You glance at him.

Lemar smiles, but his voice is gentle when he says, "It's good to see."

You look down at your hands.

Your wolf charm is not there today. It is in your bag, wrapped in a soft cloth, because you wanted it near but not on your skin. You don't know if that's progress or cowardice. Maybe grief is mostly learning that two things can be true and both can bruise.

"I still miss him," you say quietly.

Lemar doesn't ask who.

"I know," he says.

"And I still..."

"Love him?"

You nod once.

Lemar leans against the shelf. "No one who knows you thinks that stopped."

You swallow.

His eyes meet yours now. Warm. Certain. "Making room doesn't mean clearing him out."

The words hit too close.

You look away. "You and Nat are getting dangerously good at emotional competence."

"I've been practicing."

"It's upsetting."

"I contain multitudes."

"You need new material."

He grins. "Never."

So the week passes.

Not cleanly. Nothing in your life has ever had the decency to be clean.

There are mornings you wake in John's bed with his arm around you and feel so full of warmth it terrifies you. There are nights you sleep at the compound with the wolf charm in your fist and cry quietly into a pillow because you miss Bucky so much it feels like your bones are trying to remember another life.

John never makes you choose.

He picks you up from support group when you ask. He stays away when you say you need the compound. He texts you dumb pictures from base. Bad coffee. A broken vending machine. A blurry shot of Lemar looking directly into the camera with deep suspicion because John tried to take the picture secretly and failed.

He says I love you. Not constantly, but enough.

At your door. Into your hair. Against your shoulder before sleep. Over the phone before the line goes dead. He gives the words without turning them into a debt.

That almost makes it harder.

Because every time he says it and you don't, some part of you aches to reach for him. To give it back. To stop letting fear sit between your teeth.

But John doesn't ask. He just loves you and lets you arrive at your own door.

Then one night, you do.

It starts on the couch. Which is probably where most of your problems with John Walker start.

He's sitting with his back against the cushions, one arm stretched along the top of the couch, a half-finished report abandoned on the coffee table. You're supposed to be watching a movie. Supposed to is doing a lot of unpaid labor in this apartment.

The movie is still playing but neither of you has looked at it in twenty minutes.

You are in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, your hands buried in his hair while his mouth moves against yours with increasing disregard for cinema.

John's hands land on your waist beneath your shirt.

Your shirt, this time. He complained about that earlier. You told him he was spoiled. He said yes too quickly.

Now his fingers are warm on your skin, thumbs stroking slow circles that keep dragging little sounds out of you before you can stop them.

He kisses you like he has nowhere else to be.

For once, he doesn't.

No base tonight. No early call, allegedly. No review room waiting under fluorescent lights. Just the apartment, the low flicker of the television, the couch protesting quietly beneath you, and John's mouth doing ruinous things to your ability to form thoughts.

You nip at his lower lip.

John's hands tighten. "Love."

The word comes out rough.

You smile against him. "What?"

"Don't start."

"I think I already did."

"Yeah," he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. "I noticed."

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

John's head tips back against the couch. His eyes close. His jaw clenches, and that low sound leaves him, the one you have started collecting like contraband.

You kiss down the side of his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your mouth.

"Problem," he breathes.

"You keep calling me that."

"You keep proving me right."

Your laugh turns into a gasp when his hands slide lower, guiding you against him again. Heat coils low in your stomach. The kiss turns messy when you find his mouth again, all breath and teeth and want sharpened by the fact that you know him now. Not all of him. Not enough, maybe never enough.

But you know how he sounds when he wants. You know how he tries to hold back. You know where to touch him when you want that restraint to crack.

Your fingers move to his left ear.

John catches your wrist instantly.

You grin. "Scared?"

"Reasonably cautious."

"Of me?"

"Especially of you."

You lean closer until your mouth brushes his ear. You feel his whole body go still beneath you.

"Good," you whisper.

His breath leaves him unevenly.

You could kiss the freckle. You could make him groan. You could turn the moment into teasing, into heat, into something easier than the thing rising in your chest.

Instead, with your lips close to his ear and your heart beating so hard it feels reckless, you whisper, "I love you."

Everything freezes.

The movie keeps playing, some distant burst of dramatic music from a plot neither of you remembers, but the room has gone utterly still.

Your mouth stays near his ear. Your hands are in his hair. His hands are at your waist. You feel the breath stop in his chest. Then his fingers tighten against you. Just enough to prove he heard you.

You close your eyes. "John."

He turns his face slowly toward yours, the look in his eyes nearly takes you apart.

Not surprise exactly. It's relief and hunger and tenderness and something almost wounded by wanting too much. Like he has been standing outside a locked room all week, pretending the cold didn't bother him, and you just opened the door.

"Say it again," he whispers.

Your throat tightens.

Not demanding. Please, underneath it. Always the please that ruins you.

You touch his face. "I love you."

John's breath breaks. He kisses you before the last word is fully gone from your mouth.

There's nothing careful about it at first. His hands pull you closer, and your body folds into his, heat meeting heat. You gasp against him when his hips lift under yours, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him.

Maybe it does.

His mouth leaves yours only to move along your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear. You grip his shoulders, your body already aching, already lit through with the terrible sweetness of having said the thing you were afraid of and discovering it didn't kill you.

John's voice is low against your skin. "Love."

You answer by pulling at his shirt.

He laughs once, breathless. "Here?"

You look toward the hallway. The bedroom is several miles away, possibly in another nation.

You look back at him. "Here."

His eyes darken. "The couch?" he asks.

"Do you have a moral objection?"

"No."

"Then stop asking questions."

His mouth curves, but the smile disappears when you kiss him again and rock against him with a sound you make no attempt to hide.

John's hands slide beneath your shirt and push it higher. You lift your arms just long enough for him to pull it over your head, and then his mouth is on your chest, hot and eager, his arms wrapping around your back to hold you to him.

His tongue traces slow, wet circles around one nipple before he sucks it into his mouth with gentle pressure, then a little firmer. The pull goes straight between your legs. You arch into him with a broken moan, fingers tightening in his hair.

Your head tips back.

"John."

He groans against your skin. "I love when you say my name like that."

You drag your fingers through his hair. "I love you."

He stops breathing again, you feel it. This time, you smile.

John lifts his head, eyes dark and bright and almost helpless. "You're doing that on purpose now."

"Maybe."

"Mean."

"Do you want me to stop?"

His hands tighten at your back. "No."

You kiss him hard.

The rest becomes hands and heat and clothing pushed aside with far less patience than either of you had last time. His shirt lands somewhere near the coffee table. Your shorts follow badly, one leg catching at your ankle until you both laugh against each other's mouths, breathless and ridiculous and too desperate to care.

John's hand covers the back of your head when he kisses you again. The laughter dissolves.

He shifts beneath you, reaching for the side table drawer. You blink down at him.

"You keep protection in the living room?"

His ears go red. "Recent development."

You stare.

He looks mortified. "I was trying to be prepared."

You bite your lip.

"Don't laugh," he says.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I am deeply moved by your tactical couch planning."

He groans and drops his head back. "I'm never living this down."

"No." You kiss his jaw. "Absolutely not."

His embarrassment lasts until your hand slides down his stomach and wraps around him. He's already hard, thick and hot and heavy in your palm, the skin velvet-soft over steel. You stroke him slowly from base to tip, feeling him twitch and throb against your fingers. A bead of moisture gathers at the head; you smear it with your thumb and watch his stomach muscles jump.

Then his eyes close and every clever thought abandons him.

Good, you like him like this. Flushed. Breathing hard. Looking at you like you are both mercy and catastrophe.

He reaches for the condom with hands that are not as steady as he probably wants them to be. You take it from him, tear the packet open, and roll it down his length with deliberate care, watching his face as your fingers glide over every inch. His jaw clenches. A low, helpless sound escapes him.

His hands settle at your hips, guiding but not pulling. Letting you decide the pace.

You rise slightly over him, reaching down to guide the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds. You rub him against your clit once, twice, coating him in your wetness, teasing yourself as much as him. His breath hitches sharply, fingers flexing hard against your hips.

Then you sink down slowly.

The stretch is intense and perfect. The thick head pushes inside, and your body yields around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and deep as he fills you. Your walls flutter and clench involuntarily at the intrusion, drawing a ragged, broken groan from John's chest. When you finally take him all the way, seated fully in his lap with his cock buried to the hilt inside you, you both go still.

The fullness is overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every throb of him pulsing deep within you. Your breath shakes out of you.

John's forehead drops to your shoulder. "God... Mara."

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding him there while your body adjusts to the thick stretch of him. His breathing is rough and hot against your skin. Yours is no better.

The couch beneath you creaks.

You both go still.

Then you start laughing.

John lifts his head, eyes wide with horror. "Did my couch just threaten us?"

"I think it filed a complaint."

"I'm buying a new couch."

"You are not."

"I absolutely am."

You roll your hips experimentally.

His mouth falls open on a silent curse.

The couch is forgotten.

John's eyes snap to yours, dark and heated. "You are a menace."

"You need new words."

"I know," he says, and pulls you down to kiss him. "I have others."

"Like what?"

His hands guide your hips, helping you move again. The slow drag of him sliding almost all the way out and then sinking back in makes your words scatter.

"Love," he murmurs against your mouth.

You shiver.

"Mine," he says, softer, testing the shape of it.

Your whole body tightens around him.

John's breath punches out of him. His eyes lift to yours, careful even now. "Okay?"

You nod, breathless. "Again."

His hands tighten.

"Mine," he whispers.

You kiss him with a sound that answers before language can.

The rhythm builds from there. You rise and fall on him, the wet, slick sound of your bodies meeting filling the space between you. Every time you sink down he meets you with a small thrust upward, the head of his cock nudging that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision spark.

His hands roam, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, cupping your breasts, thumb brushing over your nipples until they're tight and aching.

One of his hands slips between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, swollen and sensitive from the way you're stretched around him, and begins to circle it in slow, firm strokes that match the rhythm of your hips.

The dual sensation is devastating. You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, and ride him harder. The couch creaks steadily beneath you now, but neither of you cares.

Pleasure coils tighter and tighter low in your belly, your thighs burning, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around his thick length with every roll of your hips.

John watches you with open hunger and something even deeper. His thumb keeps working your clit, steady and relentless. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down into a messy, desperate kiss.

"Come for me," he breathes against your mouth. "I want to feel you. Let go, love."

The words, the touch, the deep, perfect drag of him inside you, it all breaks at once.

Your orgasm crashes over you in hot, pulsing waves. Your body locks up around him, inner walls clenching and fluttering in rhythmic spasms that milk his cock as pleasure rips through you.

You cry out against his mouth, trembling violently in his lap, hips jerking erratically as you ride it out. John groans like he's in pain and pleasure at the same time, his arms locking around you, holding you through every shake and pulse.

He doesn't last much longer.

The tight, rhythmic squeeze of your body around him drags him over the edge. His hips jerk up into yours, once, twice, and then he's coming with a deep, wrecked moan of your name, his cock pulsing hard inside the condom as he spills into it. His face is buried against your neck, breath hot and ragged, body shuddering beneath you in long, powerful waves.

For a while, neither of you moves.

The movie is still playing. The couch has survived, but only barely.

Your forehead rests on John's shoulder. His hands move slowly over your back, soothing little circles into damp skin. His breathing steadies under your cheek.

After a long moment, he says, voice hoarse and fond, "I really am buying a new couch."

You laugh, weak and breathless, the sound muffled against his skin. "John."

"It made a sound."

"So did you."

His hand pauses.

You lift your head and look at him.

His face is flushed. His mouth is swollen. His hair is an absolute scandal. He looks happy in a way that still frightens you, because happiness has always felt like something the universe notices and comes to collect.

But he's looking at you.

Just you.

You touch his cheek.

His eyes soften immediately. "What?"

You could make a joke. Instead, you lean in and kiss him, slow and sure. When you pull back, you whisper, "I love you."

John closes his eyes. His hand comes up to cover yours against his face. This time, he doesn't ask you to say it again. He just holds onto you like the words are already living inside him.

For one fragile second, neither of you moves.

You stay in John's lap, he's still inside you, softening slowly in the aftermath, the intimate connection unbroken, your bodies still joined exactly where the heat of everything you'd just done lingers. The apartment is dim around you. The movie has finally gone quiet, rolling into credits neither of you earned the right to understand. The couch has survived its ordeal with only mild structural trauma.

And then John's phone rings.

The sound cuts through the room cleanly.

His eyes open.

You feel the change before you see it. The subtle shift under your hands. His body remembering the shape of duty before his face has time to catch up. His jaw tightens. His fingers still at your back. But he doesn't pull out. Not yet. The phone keeps ringing.

You glance toward the coffee table. His phone vibrates against the wood, bright screen flashing in the dark.

Unknown number.

Your stomach drops anyway.

John looks at it, then back at you. His eyes are still soft at the edges, still a little wrecked from what you'd just shared, but duty is already pulling at him.

"Don't," you murmur. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to, because you're still full of him and the word feels too fragile to survive the air.

His mouth tightens.

You already know.

He reaches for the phone with one hand, the other staying on your hip like an anchor, yours or his, it doesn't matter. He answers without moving you off him.

"Walker."

His voice is still rough. Not fully back in soldier shape yet. A little too warm at the edges. A little too yours. Still inside you, you feel the subtle twitch of him as the tone on the other end registers.

Then the person on the other end says something, and the rest of him locks into place.

You watch it happen.

The spine straightening. The shoulders squaring. The softness leaving his mouth. John Walker still buried inside you in his living room, somehow becoming Captain Walker in the space between one breath and the next.

Your chest tightens. You feel him tense within you, a reflexive response to the voice on the line, and your body answers with a small, involuntary clench. John's eyes flick to yours for half a second, something dark and unreadable flashing through them, before he looks away.

"Yes, sir," he says.

You don't move off him. You pull the blanket from the back of the couch around yourself instead, the fabric dragging across your bare skin.

He listens.

At first, his expression is merely guarded. Then his brow furrows.

"Olivia?" he asks.

The name lands in the apartment like something dropped from a height.

You go still. Inside, your body reacts before your mind catches up, a slow, tight clench around him that makes his breath hitch almost imperceptibly. John's hand flexes on your hip.

Your stomach does something very unpleasant.

"No, sir," he says slowly. "I haven't been in contact with her."

A pause.

His eyes flick to you for half a second, then away.

Your stomach twists harder.

"No. She was an old friend." Another pause. His jaw tightens. "High school. She was close with me and Hoskins."

You sit up a little straighter on him, the movement shifting him inside you. The blanket slips off one shoulder. You don't fix it.

John's eyes harden as he listens. "With all due respect, sir, I don't understand what she has to do with the review."

Silence.

Whatever answer he gets does not help. His hand curls tighter around the phone. "Yes, sir," he says, colder now. "Understood."

Another pause.

"I said I haven't spoken to her in years."

The room goes quiet around his voice. Not peaceful quiet. The kind of quiet that crouches. You can feel every inch of him still inside you, the contrast between the warmth of your bodies and the ice in his tone almost unbearable.

John's gaze drops to the floor. His mouth presses into a line.

"Yes, sir. I'll be there."

He hangs up.

For a moment, he just holds the phone in his hand. The screen goes dark.

Neither of you speaks.

You're still in his lap. Still joined. The silence is heavy with everything that was just said and everything still sitting between your bodies.

Your pulse is beating too hard under your skin. The name sits between you now. Olivia. Soft-sounding. Pretty. Dangerous because it has no shape yet.

John exhales through his nose.

You look at him, still seated on him, still full of him, and ask quietly, "Who's Olivia?"

He doesn't answer immediately. That's the wrong choice.

Your whole body goes alert. You feel it in the way he hardens just slightly inside you again, tension coiling through him.

John seems to realize it at the same time, because he turns to you quickly, the soldier slipping just enough for the man to come through. His free hand comes up to your waist.

"She's not..." He stops.

Your brows lift.

His mouth tightens as if he hates the fact that the first words out of his mouth were already defensive.

He sets the phone down on the coffee table. "Olivia was an old friend," he says carefully.

You stare at him.

He rubs a hand over his face. "From high school. She was close with me and Lemar. The three of us were always together back then."

You shift slightly on him, and he sucks in a quiet breath at the drag of your body around his. "Close," you repeat.

John hears the edge in it. His eyes flick to yours.

For one second, you see the calculation. Not dishonest. Never that. But careful. The kind of careful men use when they realize they have wandered barefoot into a room full of emotional thumbtacks.

You almost enjoy it.

"Yes," he says. "Close."

You tilt your head. "Old girlfriend?"

John's throat works.

There it is. The tiny, damning pause.

Your stomach twists.

He sits forward a little, the motion pressing him deeper inside you for one last moment. "Yeah."

The word is quiet. Honest. You hate it anyway.

At that, you lift off him. Slowly. Deliberately.

John's hands tighten on your hips instinctively, a low, rough sound escaping him, half protest, half surrender.

"Mara..." His voice is wrecked. His fingers linger like they want to pull you back down, but he doesn't stop you. He lets you rise, lets the connection break with a wet, intimate sound that feels too loud in the quiet room.

You feel the loss immediately, the slow slide of him slipping out, the sudden emptiness, the cool air against skin that had been pressed to his.

The condom is still on him, full and messy with both of you. You settle beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket around your body as you go. The air is colder away from his skin. Annoyingly so. Rudely so. Personally offensive.

John exhales shakily, his head tipping back against the couch for a moment like he needs to gather himself. Then he stands, movements reluctant, like every inch of distance costs him something. He tugs his sweatpants on awkwardly with one hand while holding the base of the condom with the other, heading toward the bathroom.

"I'll be right back," he mutters, voice low and apologetic.

You watch him go, the blanket clutched to your chest, the space where he'd been inside you now throbbing with absence and the sharp, ugly edge of jealousy.

When he returns a moment later he looks at you like he's not sure if you'll let him close again. He sits beside you, not quite touching yet, the distance between you feeling larger than it should.

You look at him. "How old were you?"

He studies your profile. "Seventeen when it started. Eighteen when it ended."

You nod once. Very mature. Very reasonable. Absolutely not bothered. Inside, something small and ugly is putting on tap shoes.

John sighs softly. "Love."

You look at him. "Don't love me right now."

His mouth closes.

That makes you feel worse. You pull the blanket around you more tightly. "Sorry."

"No." His voice softens. "Don't be sorry."

"I'm not jealous."

John says nothing.

You glare at him.

His brows lift just a little.

"I'm not," you insist.

"Okay."

"That was a very married okay."

His face changes, startled enough to knock the tension sideways. "A what?"

"You heard me."

"I have no idea what that means."

"It means you said okay like you value your life."

Despite himself, his mouth twitches.

You point at him from inside the blanket. "Do not smile."

"I'm not."

"You were about to."

His almost-smile fades. He reaches toward you, then stops himself before touching you. That matters. You notice. Your chest hurts because of course you notice.

"She broke it off," he says.

You blink.

John looks down at his hands. "When Lemar and I enlisted."

The words settle differently than you expect.

Not cleaner. Just heavier.

You look at him.

"She didn't want that life," he continues. "The waiting. The deployments. The not knowing if we were coming back. She said she couldn't do it." His jaw shifts. "She was probably right to know herself well enough to say it."

You stare at his profile.

There's no bitterness in his voice. Not exactly. Something old, maybe. A bruise pressed so many times it no longer flinches the way it used to.

"You loved her?" you ask. The question escapes before you can decide whether you want the answer.

John is quiet.

Your stomach clenches.

Then he looks at you. "I thought I did."

That should help. It doesn't. It also does. Very annoying.

You glance away again. "That's a terrible answer."

"It's the true one."

"I hate true answers."

"I know."

You huff once, humorless.

John shifts closer but still doesn't touch you. "It was a long time ago."

"That is what people say when it was not nothing."

His expression tightens slightly, not with anger. With recognition.

"No," he says. "It wasn't nothing."

Your chest goes hot and cold at once.

"But it was before," he adds.

"Before what?"

"Everything." His eyes stay on yours. "The army. The war. The person I became. The person I stopped being. You."

The last word changes the air.

You hate that he can do that, take your jealousy and your fear and your little snarling animal of insecurity, then set something honest beside it until it doesn't know where to bite.

Your grip on the blanket loosens.

John watches your hands. "I haven't spoken to her in years."

"Why are they asking about her?"

His face hardens.

There it is again. The real wound under the jealousy. You both turn toward it.

John reaches for his phone, then stops, fingers hovering over it.

"I don't know."

You stare at him. "That is becoming my least favorite sentence."

"Mine too."

"They asked about me first."

"Yeah."

"Now they're asking about an old girlfriend."

"Old friend," he says, then winces when your eyes narrow. "Former girlfriend. Old friend. Both things can be true."

"Brave correction."

He lets out a quiet breath. Then he finally reaches for you slowly. Giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

His hand settles over your knee beneath the blanket, warm and careful.

"I didn't hide her from you," he says. "I just didn't think she mattered anymore."

You look down at his hand. Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. "Does she?"

"No."

The answer is immediate. Certain.

You look at him.

John's eyes hold yours. "Not to me. Not like that."

Your throat tightens. The jealousy is still there. Small and green and embarrassing, chewing on the furniture inside your chest. But beneath it, something colder is opening its eyes.

"Then why does she matter to them?"

John's hand tightens gently over your knee.

"I don't know," he says again.

You close your eyes.

He moves closer, and this time when his arm comes around you, you let yourself lean into him.

The blanket shifts between you. His skin is still warm. His chest is still bare. Your body remembers him so vividly it feels almost cruel that fear can sit in the same room as desire. But of course it can. Fear has always been rude like that.

John presses his mouth to your temple. "I'll figure out what they're doing," he murmurs.

You open your eyes and look at the dark phone on the table.

The military has reached into his past now. Not just his reports. Not just you... Olivia. A name you didn't know yesterday and already dislike on principle.

You swallow. "You should tell Lemar."

"I will."

"He knew her too."

"Yeah."

You rest your cheek against his shoulder.

His hand moves slowly up and down your arm.

You want to make another joke. Something about Olivia having a stupidly pretty name. Something about high school John probably being insufferable. Something about Lemar absolutely having embarrassing stories and you deserving every single one.

But the phone sits there. Silent now. That makes it worse.

John's voice drops. "Are you okay?"

You almost laugh. Instead, you lift your head and look at him. "No," you say honestly. "But I'm not going to run."

His eyes soften. "Good," he whispers.

You touch his face. "You don't get to run either."

"I won't."

"Even if they bring up old ghosts."

His expression shifts.

You both hear it.

Ghosts.

The word belongs to you as much as it belongs to him now.

John covers your hand with his.

"Even then," he says.

You nod.

The room settles into a fragile quiet.

Then, because you are apparently incapable of letting tenderness live unbothered for more than seven seconds, you narrow your eyes. "Was she pretty?"

John freezes.

Perfectly.

Beautifully.

Catastrophically.

You sit up straighter. "That was hesitation."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was."

"I was processing the question."

"You were preparing a legal defense."

"Mara."

"Was she?"

John looks at the ceiling like he's seeking divine assistance from a God who has wisely left him on read.

You gasp. "She was."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"Love."

"Do not love me through this."

His mouth twitches.

You hit his shoulder with the edge of the blanket.

He catches it, pulls you closer, and kisses your forehead.

"You're prettier," he says.

You pull back slowly. "That was the worst possible answer."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"That is exactly what guilty men say."

"I'm not guilty."

"You answered like a man hiding in a bunker."

"I'm doing my best."

"Do better."

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face, and you can see the precise moment he decides honesty is safer than flattery. "Yes," he says. "She was pretty."

You make a sound of deep betrayal.

John points at you. "You asked."

"I asked so you could lie beautifully."

"I thought we were practicing honesty."

"Not recreationally."

His laugh breaks out of him before he can stop it.

You try to glare. You really do.

Unfortunately, John laughing in the dim light with his hair ruined and your marks still faint on his skin is a very unfair visual argument.

Your mouth twitches.

He sees it.

"Come here," he says.

"No."

"Mara."

"I'm wounded."

"You're jealous."

"I'm gathering information."

"On my high school girlfriend?"

"Former girlfriend," you correct.

His smile softens. "Former girlfriend."

You hold his gaze, and the teasing thins into something more delicate. "She left when you enlisted," you say.

"Yeah."

"And you never talked again?"

"A few times after. Less and less. Then not at all."

"Did it hurt?"

John looks at you for a long moment. The answer is in his face before he says it. "Yeah," he admits. "At the time."

Your jealousy quiets. Not gone. Just chastened. You reach for his hand and lace your fingers with his. "I'm sorry."

He looks down at your joined hands. "It was a long time ago."

"I know." You squeeze once. "Still."

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

The room feels different now, changed. The warmth is still there, tangled in the blanket around your shoulders, in John's hand holding yours, in the faint ache in your body from loving him too hard on a couch that deserves retirement.

But something has entered the apartment with Olivia's name. A thread. A warning. A door opening somewhere you cannot see yet.

John seems to feel it too. His gaze returns to the phone. "They're pulling at anything connected to me," he says quietly.

You look at him. "People."

His jaw tightens.

"Not anything," you say. "People."

His eyes meet yours.

"Me," you continue. "Lemar. Olivia."

John's face grows still.

You hate the list as soon as you say it. Because it makes sense. Because it sounds like leverage. Because the military has teeth, and now you can hear them clicking behind every official question.

John pulls you into his arms. This time, there's no heat in it. No teasing. Just a hard, protective hold, his cheek pressed to your hair.

"I won't let them use you," he says.

You close your eyes. "You said that already."

"I'll keep saying it."

"What about Olivia?"

He goes quiet.

That answers more than either of you wants it to.

You pull back enough to look at him. "If they're asking about her, they may already be using her."

John's expression hardens into something cold. Soldier. Protector. A man already standing between someone and a blade.

"Then I need to find out why."

You nod slowly.

The night doesn't feel over anymore. The couch, the movie, your whispered confession, his hands on your skin. All of it is still here, glowing faintly beneath the dread.

But the world has found the door again and this time, it brought a name.

The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.

It had taken years to get there.

Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.

It was exhausting.

Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.

You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.

You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.

You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.

Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.

You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.

Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.

It gave you perspective.

After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.

Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.

There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.

Six months.

You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.

Not heartbreak.

Clarity.

Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.

You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.

Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.

Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.

Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.

And the data had led you here.

To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.

Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.

You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.

The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.

You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.

Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.

Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.

And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.

The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.

It was that he remembered things.

Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.

You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.

Jack had smiled.

"That's a huge accomplishment."

Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.

Jack apparently didn't.

You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.

He slowed slightly.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How'd the graduation go?"

You stopped walking.

Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.

"What?"

"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.

"You remembered that?"

Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"

The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.

The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.

You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.

At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

Because maybe caring looked like this.

Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.

You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.

Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.

The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.

You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.

The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.

By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.

You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.

You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.

A granola bar.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Jack didn't even look up.

"You haven't eaten."

For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.

"What?"

"I saw you skip lunch."

His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.

"Eat."

Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You got me food?"

That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.

"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."

A beat passed.

"Which isn't sustainable."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.

You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"

"Someone has to."

"You say that like I'm a child."

"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."

You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.

"How did you even notice?"

He looked up again.

"Notice what?"

"That I hadn't eaten."

The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.

"You always eat lunch."

You blinked. "What?"

"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."

He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.

"Today you didn't."

Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.

To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.

Not because he wanted credit.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

Not because he expected anything in return.

Simply because he cared.

As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.

No grand gesture.

Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.

A simple act of care.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.

"You like him."

Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't even look up from her computer.

"You like him."

You stared at her.

"Who?"

That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.

"Abbot."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

"Come again?"

"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."

A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.

"I don't have a crush on him."

"Sure."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"Santos."

"What?"

"I do not have a crush on Jack."

The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.

"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."

"I do not get weird."

"You do."

"I don't."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.

"Don't you have patients?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject."

"You are."

You pointed at her dramatically.

"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"

"Partially."

At least she was honest.

Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.

"There."

"Oh, shut up."

"There!"

Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.

And yet you found yourself watching.

Not because he was handsome.

Although he was.

Not because he was charming.

Although he could be.

It was something far more annoying than that.

Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.

Not perfect.

Good.

There was a difference.

You'd seen him struggle too.

Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.

A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.

Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.

Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.

Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.

In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.

And somehow that made him even more competent.

That was the problem.

Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.

You respected him.

You respected the way he treated people.

You respected the way he worked.

You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.

And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.

Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.

Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.

"You done staring?"

You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"

You sighed. "What?"

Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.

"I get it."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.

"He makes people feel safe."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.

And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.

The realization happened at a bar.

Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.

Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.

The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.

People were simply existing.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Living.

You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.

You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.

Actually happy.

You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.

You had already chosen yourself.

And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.

"Vodka cranberry."

Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.

You glanced over.

"What about it?"

He nodded toward your drink.

"You always order vodka cranberries."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"

"Maybe."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I like knowing things."

"Yeah, I've noticed that."

The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.

"You seem happy."

The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.

You looked over at him. "So do you."

"No."

The small smile on his face faded slightly.

"I'm serious."

Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.

"Good."

The word came quietly. Sincerely.

"You deserve that. It suits you."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.

He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.

And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.

You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.

Jack had never made you feel that way.

Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.

And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.

Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.

Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.

"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."

Jack laughed immediately.

"Past tense?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

"What changed?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.

You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."

Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.

"I used to fall in love with potential."

The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.

Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."

"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."

His smile widened. "Very terrible."

"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."

You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't."

"It should."

Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."

The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.

"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."

The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.

"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.

The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.

"Consistency."

Jack nodded slightly.

"Kindness."

You thought for another second.

"Emotional intelligence."

Then, completely serious, you added,

"A guy with a real job."

The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.

"A real job?"

"I'm serious."

"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You pointed at him.

"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."

His shoulders shook with laughter.

"I stand corrected."

"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."

"What?"

"I'm not joking."

"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."

"It is, trust me."

By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.

When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.

Not intensely.

Not romantically.

Just honestly.

Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.

You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.

It felt intentional.

Steady.

Healthy.

The realization settled quietly into your chest.

Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.

Jack wasn't potential.

He wasn't a project.

He wasn't a possibility.

He was already there.

Already doing the work.

Already growing.

Already becoming.

And maybe that was what made room for something real.

Not two people searching for someone to complete them.

Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.

And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.

The first kiss happened months later.

Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.

You knew the sound of his laugh.

You knew how he took his coffee.

You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.

You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.

You knew how he listened.

And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.

The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.

As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.

You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.

When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.

Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.

The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.

"You just did, big guy."

His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.

And there it was.

That look.

The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.

Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.

Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"

Just like that.

No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.

Just honesty.

Direct. Simple. Certain.

The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.

You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.

For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.

None of it had been wasted.

Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.

Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.

Your smile widened before you could stop it.

"Yeah."

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.

It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.

Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.

Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.

You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.

Then his hand lifted.

Gentle. Careful.

He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.

The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.

When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.

Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.

But the opposite had turned out to be true.

Having expectations hadn't prevented love.

It had protected you until the right person arrived.

Because these days, you had expectations.

And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.

He'd exceeded them.

The church smells like floor cleaner, coffee, and old wood. It should be grounding, usually, it is.

The scrape of folding chairs across linoleum. The low murmur of volunteers sorting donation bins. The distant laugh of someone in the kitchen who has no idea the world has ever ended, or maybe knows and has simply learned how to laugh anyway.

You should be thinking about the stack of canned goods in front of you. You should be checking expiration dates, organizing labels forward, keeping count the way you promised Sister Agnes you would.

Instead, you are thinking about John Walker's hands. Because apparently your brain has no sense of community service.

You stare down at a can of green beans and see his apartment instead. The couch. The forgotten report. His mouth against your throat. His voice saying girlfriend into a military phone call like he had carved the word into stone before anyone could take it from him.

You had almost crossed a line.

No.

You had walked right up to the line, pressed your hands against its chest, and asked if it wanted to come closer.

If that phone had not rung, you know exactly what would have happened.

Your face warms in the church supply room. 'Perfect. Wonderful. Very holy.' you think. You set the can down too hard.

Across the table, Sister Agnes looks up over the rim of her glasses. She is tying little paper tags onto donation bags with the calm precision of someone who could probably shame a demon back into the ground with one look. "Everything all right, dear?"

You blink. "Yes."

She eyes the can.

You glance down at it. The green beans are dented now.

You smile weakly. "Aggressive sorting."

Sister Agnes hums, slow and deeply unconvinced. "Careful. Even vegetables deserve mercy."

"I'll apologize to them."

"See that you do."

There is no judgment in her voice. Somehow that makes it worse. She simply gives you one more look, gentle and knowing enough to peel paint, before going back to her donation bags.

You exhale through your nose and press both hands flat to the table. 'Get a grip, Mara.'

The problem is, you don't want a grip. You want John. The thought doesn't arrive gently. It lands heavy and honest in the center of you, no disguise, no exit strategy.

You want him.

His hands. His mouth. His rough little sounds when you touch that freckle on his ear. The careful way he asks if you're okay even when his whole body is shaking with the effort of holding back. The warmth of him in bed beside you, steady and alive, one arm always finding you sometime in the night like he's checking that you're still there.

You want him, and you're almost certain John wants you too.

You saw it in his eyes before the call interrupted. You felt it in his hands beneath your shirt. You heard it in his voice when he said your name like it cost him something.

Your fingers drift to your chest without permission. The wolf charm rests beneath your shirt, warm from your skin. You slip it free and hold it between your fingers.

For a moment, the church noise dulls around you.

The charm catches the light, small and familiar, and grief rises in you the way it always does. Not sharp enough to cut you open today. Not gentle enough to ignore either.

"I still love you," you whisper.

The words are so quiet they barely exist. You bring the charm to your lips and kiss it.

It's not a confession you need forgiven, not an apology, just the truth.

You love Bucky. Some part of you always will. That love sits in the marrow of who you became after the world broke apart. It's stitched into the old version of you, the one who survived on ghosts and knives and promises no one else could hear.

And still...

You love the way John looks at you like he's relieved you walked into the room. You love the way his apartment has started to hold your shape. You love the way he lets you be haunted without trying to exorcise you.

You love him too. The realization sits in you quietly. Just waiting for you to stop looking away.

Your phone pings in your back pocket. Your heart makes one stupid, hopeful little leap before you can stop it.

You pull it out.

John: I'm sorry, love. Got held up at base. I'm not going to make it to the church today.

Another message appears before you can type.

John: I'll call you when I can.

You stare at the screen.

You knew this would happen. You felt it coming all morning, that ugly little pressure behind your ribs every time you checked the door and saw someone who was not him. Base has been swallowing him whole lately. Free days. Nights. Mornings that were supposed to be his. Hours that were supposed to belong to neither mission nor report nor special review.

The military keeps taking pieces of him and calling it duty. You hate it.

You hate that he sounds sorry when he has no control over it. You hate that you can picture him standing somewhere fluorescent and sterile, jaw tight, shoulders squared, saying yes sir while someone else decides what part of his life gets to belong to him.

You type back before anger can turn into something sharper.

You: It's okay. Be careful.

Then, because you're trying to be a person who says what she means before the world punishes her for waiting,

You: I miss you.

The little delivered note appears. You lock the phone and slide it away.

For a second, you let your fingers close around the charm again. Then you tuck it beneath your shirt, pick up another can, and try not to dent this one too.

By the time evening starts smearing gold across the parking lot, most of the volunteers have gone home. The church doors are propped open behind you. The last of the supply tables are folded and stacked.

You and Lemar are clearing the parking lot. Which mostly means you are picking up empty water bottles while Lemar carries three folding chairs at once because he likes being useful and irritating about it.

"You know," he says, balancing the chairs against his hip, "for a place of worship, this parking lot has a real talent for collecting trash."

You stab a paper cup with the grabber in your hand. "Maybe the trash is seeking redemption."

"That cup looks beyond saving."

"You would know."

Lemar pauses. "Was that an insult?"

"You'll figure it out."

He grins. "There she is."

You roll your eyes and drop the cup into the trash bag.

Lemar shifts the chairs higher in his arms. "You've been quiet today."

"I'm volunteering. Quiet is allowed."

"With you? Suspicious."

"I can be quiet."

"Yeah, when you're plotting."

You look at him. "Do you want me to start plotting?"

"No, ma'am." He lifts one chair like a shield. "I choose life."

You huff despite yourself and tie the trash bag closed.

For a minute, the two of you move in silence. Comfortable silence, the kind that has earned its place. Lemar has always been too good at standing beside your damage without poking it just to see what color it bleeds.

That makes him dangerous in a different way.

You glance toward the street. Then at him. "Can you give me a ride?"

Lemar doesn't even try to hide his smile.

You regret speaking instantly.

"To where?" he asks, voice already too innocent.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do."

"I'm simply asking for the destination. Very normal. Very logistical."

"John's place."

Lemar's smile becomes a full event. The man has never met a moment he could not turn into a weapon.

"Hmm," he says.

You point at him. "No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said hmm."

"Hmm is not a crime."

"It is when you do it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to put on a bonnet and gossip from a porch."

Lemar laughs, bright and loud, and the sound bounces off the church brick. "Trouble," he says, "you have a key to the man's apartment and still ask me to drive you over there like this is a neutral errand."

You grab another empty bottle off the pavement. "It is a neutral errand."

"Right."

"I am going to check on him."

"Very neutral."

"He has been stuck at base all day."

"Mm-hmm."

"He might be tired."

"Naturally."

"And someone should make sure he hasn't worked himself into the floor."

"Someone."

You glare at him. "You are enjoying this way too much."

"I'm enjoying it a normal amount."

"There is nothing normal happening on your face right now."

Lemar presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts. This is my concerned face."

"That is your I know something and I'm about to make it everyone's problem face."

He laughs again and finally starts walking toward his truck. "Come on. I'll take you to your neutral errand."

You follow him. "You are never meeting anyone I date ever again."

"Too late. I knew John before you did."

"That is exactly the problem."

He tosses the chairs into the back of the truck and looks over at you. The teasing softens, not gone, just lowered. "He text you?"

You look down at the trash bag twisted in your hand. "Yeah."

"Base?"

"Yeah."

Lemar's jaw tightens for half a second.

You see it. He knows you see it. Neither of you says anything until you're both in the truck and the church starts shrinking in the rearview mirror.

The ride begins with the radio low. Some old R & B song hums through the speakers. Lemar taps two fingers against the steering wheel, less to the beat and more because stillness doesn't suit him when he's worried.

You watch streetlights flick on one by one. For a while, you let the quiet sit. Then you ask the question that has been clawing at the inside of your chest since John's phone call days ago.

"Do you think they know?"

Lemar's fingers stop tapping. He doesn't look at you right away. "Know what?"

You turn your face toward the window. Your reflection looks back at you from the glass, faint and ghostlike. "My past."

The truck rolls through a green light. Lemar's voice changes when he answers. Less playful now. All brother, all soldier. "Mara."

"The killings," you say, because if you don't say it cleanly, it will grow teeth. "The people I killed after the Blip. What I was doing when John and I met. When you found me."

Lemar is quiet.

You remember that night too well.

The warehouse stink of blood and dust. The sound of your own breathing, too calm for what you had done. You had been a ghost wearing skin, a girl sharpened into a weapon by loss, grief packed so deep inside you that mercy had felt like a language from another country.

John had looked at you like he could see the wound beneath the blade. Lemar had looked at John like, what the hell are we walking into? Neither of them had turned you in.

"They don't know," Lemar says.

You look at him.

His eyes stay on the road, but his voice is certain enough to put steel in the air. "John and I never made a report."

Your throat tightens.

He continues, steady. "Not about you. Not about what happened. Not about who you were before or what you did. In our files, that whole thing is smoke. Bad intel, dead end, nothing actionable."

"Lemar."

"I mean it." He glances at you then. "You're a ghost in our reports."

The words should comfort you, they do, a little. They also chill something old inside you. A ghost. You have been that for so long.

"I don't know if that matters anymore," you say.

"It matters."

"They asked John about me."

His mouth tightens.

You watch his hands on the steering wheel. "He didn't tell you?"

"He said they asked questions." Lemar exhales through his nose. "He didn't say details."

"They asked how long he knew me. What I was to him."

"Yeah," Lemar says quietly. "That tracks."

Your stomach twists. "With what?"

"I don't know yet."

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"That soldier voice." You turn toward him fully. "The one where you pretend uncertainty is strategy."

Lemar's mouth pulls into a humorless smile. "Learned from the best."

"John?"

"No," he says. "You."

That shuts you up.

The truck moves through the evening, tires whispering over pavement.

You stare at your hands.

"They can ask whatever they want," you say. "It doesn't change what happened."

"No. It doesn't."

"And if they find out, if they dig deep enough, if some buried thing crawls its way out..." You swallow. "I'm prepared for the consequences."

Lemar's head turns sharply toward you before he forces his eyes back to the road. "No."

You blink. "No?"

"No," he repeats. "I hate when you talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you already signed the sentencing papers in your head."

Your jaw tightens. "I'm being realistic."

"You're being cruel to yourself and calling it realism because it sounds more respectable."

The words land harder than you expect. You look out the window again.

Lemar softens, but only slightly. "Prepared doesn't mean deserving, Mara."

You close your eyes. "Don't."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's why I said don't."

He sighs. "You did terrible things."

Your eyes open.

He doesn't flinch from it. That's the thing about Lemar, he can be kind without lying. It makes the kindness harder to survive.

"You did," he says. "And you also survived something that tore the world apart, both can be true. But don't sit there and act like consequences are the same as justice. They're not always."

You stare at him.

He keeps driving.

After a long moment, you say, "I hate when you're emotionally competent."

He smiles a little. "I know."

"It's unsettling."

"I contain multitudes."

You huff, but the laugh barely makes it out.

Lemar reaches over and taps his knuckles lightly against your knee. Quick. Brotherly. There and gone.

"He won't let them use you," he says.

You look down at where his hand was.

"And neither will I."

The threat in his voice is soft. It makes your chest ache.

"Thanks," you whisper.

He gives you a sideways glance, trying to pull the moment back from the edge before it becomes too tender to survive.

"Also, for the record, if you and John ever break up, I'm keeping you in the divorce."

You blink. Then you laugh, sudden and real.

"There's no divorce, idiot."

"I'm just saying, I was your brother first."

"You were never my brother."

He looks offended. "That is hurtful."

"You assigned yourself the role."

"And I have performed it beautifully."

"True, you are driving me to my boyfriend's apartment while bullying me."

"That's premium brother service."

You shake your head, but you are still smiling when his truck pulls up outside John's building.

Lemar puts it in park and looks up at the windows.

For a second, the teasing vanishes again.

"You sure you're okay?"

You follow his gaze. One of the windows is lit. John is home. The sight loosens something in your chest before you can stop it.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm okay."

Lemar looks at you.

You sigh. "I will be."

He accepts that because he knows it's the best truth you have.

He gets out with you anyway.

"I can walk myself upstairs," you say.

"I know."

"Then why are you getting out?"

"Because I want to see his face when you use the key."

You stop on the sidewalk and glare.

Lemar grins. "What? I've earned joy."

"You've earned silence."

"Never cared for it."

You mutter something unkind under your breath and head inside. Lemar follows, delighted.

The elevator ride is unbearable because he keeps looking at you. You stare straight ahead.

"Stop."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're looking at me emotionally."

"That's your thing."

"I learned it from John."

"You two are terrible influences on each other."

You glance at him. "And you're loving every second."

"Deeply."

When you reach John's door, you pull the key from your pocket. It still feels strange in your hand. Not bad strange, terrifying strange, soft strange. The kind of strange that makes your ribs feel too small for your heart.

You unlock the door.

Lemar makes a sound behind you.

You turn before opening it. "No."

He presses his lips together.

"Do not say anything."

He holds up both hands.

"You're vibrating."

"I am full of support."

"You are full of something."

You push the door open before he can answer.

John is already there.

He stands near the hallway, towel in one hand, running it through damp hair. He has on a dark T-shirt and sweatpants, feet bare, shoulders loose in a way they only get when he's home and trying to pretend the rest of the world is not chewing through his patience.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

For half a second, his face is all soldier.

Then he sees you.

The tension around his eyes eases. His mouth softens. His hand stills with the towel half lifted, and the warmth that moves through his expression is so open that you almost forget Lemar is behind you.

"Hey," John says.

You step inside like you have every right to. Because apparently, you do now.

"Hi."

John's eyes flick past you to Lemar, then back to you. Amusement ghosts across his face. "You bring backup?"

Lemar steps in behind you. "Chauffeur. Emotional witness. General public nuisance."

Without looking back, you say, "At least you're self-aware."

"Barely," Lemar says.

John's mouth twitches.

You walk straight to him, rise onto your toes, and kiss him. Quick and soft. Possessive enough to make your own stomach flip.

When you pull back, John is looking at you like you just turned the lights on inside his chest.

Unfortunately, Lemar exists.

You glance over your shoulder at him. "Not a word."

Lemar holds both hands up, eyes wide with theatrical innocence. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to say I'm leaving."

"You were not."

"I was eventually going to get there."

John laughs under his breath.

You point at him. "Do not encourage him."

"I breathed."

"You both use that excuse. I hate it."

Lemar grins at John. "For the record, this was apparently a neutral errand."

Your face warms. "Lemar."

"What? I'm supporting the narrative."

"You are seconds away from losing speaking privileges."

He looks between you and John, grin softening into something far too knowing. "She's mean when she's in love."

The apartment goes still.

Your entire body heats.

John's eyes flick to you.

Lemar's grin falters just enough to prove he knows he poked something soft. Then he clears his throat and takes one step back. "I'm leaving now."

"Great idea," you say too quickly.

John's eyes flick to you.

You look anywhere but at his face. "I'm going to take a quick shower," you tell him. "Lemar, thanks for the ride."

Lemar salutes you badly.

You glare at him because that is safer than any other expression. Then you escape down the hall before the apartment can grow more feelings.

The bathroom door shuts behind you. For a second, you stand there with both hands on the sink. Your reflection looks flushed. Nervous. Alive in a way that still catches you off guard sometimes.

You turn on the shower.

In the living room, John watches the hallway long after the bathroom door closes.

Lemar sees it. The man has made a hobby out of noticing what John tries to hide.

"You good?" Lemar asks.

John looks back at him. "Yeah."

"That was convincing."

John tosses the towel over his shoulder. "What?"

Lemar's teasing fades. There is no clean way into it, so he just steps through.

"She's worried about you."

John's jaw tightens. "Lemar."

"No. I'm saying it because she won't." Lemar keeps his voice low. "She's worried about all this military bullshit you're wrapped up in. The special review. The questions. You getting called in on days you're supposed to be off. She's acting like she can take whatever comes, but that doesn't mean she's not scared."

John looks toward the hall again. A muscle works in his jaw. "I know."

"Do you?"

John's eyes come back to him, sharp now.

Lemar doesn't back up, he never has.

John exhales and drags a hand over his damp hair. "I know she's worried."

"She asked me if they knew about her."

John goes very still.

Lemar's expression hardens. "About what happened after the Blip. About what you and I walked into."

John's voice drops. "What did you say?"

"I told her the truth. We never made a report. She's a ghost in our files."

John looks down. The words don't soothe him the way they should. Because now the military is asking questions about a ghost. And John doesn't like ghosts becoming targets.

Lemar steps closer. "You need to talk to her."

"I will."

"Don't just tell her everything's fine."

John's mouth tightens.

Lemar raises his brows. "That face means you were absolutely going to tell her everything's fine."

"I can handle it."

"I know you can handle a lot." Lemar's voice softens, but only a fraction. "That's not the same as letting her in."

John looks toward the hallway again.

The shower is running now.

He can picture you in there too easily. Wet hair. His soap on your skin. That look you get when you're pretending not to worry because you think worry is another burden someone else has to carry.

His chest tightens.

"I'll talk to her," he says.

Lemar studies him. Then, because he is Lemar and apparently allergic to ending anything with clean sincerity, he tilts his head toward the hallway.

"So," he says, "she has a key now."

John blinks at him. "What?"

"I'm just saying. Key to the apartment. Showing up after church. Kissing you like she pays rent here."

John narrows his eyes. "Lemar."

Lemar lifts both hands. "I'm observing."

"Get out."

"Gladly. Some of us respect boundaries."

John gives him a look.

Lemar's grin flashes. "Recent development. I'm proud of it."

"Goodnight, Lemar."

"Goodnight, boyfriend."

John's ears go faintly pink.

Lemar sees it, brightens, and wisely leaves before John can throw something at him.

The apartment quiets after the door closes.

John stands there for a moment, listening to the shower, feeling the shape of everything pressing in from all sides.

Base. The review. The questions. You.

You, who walked into his apartment with a key and kissed him like coming home. You, who loved a ghost and somehow still looked at him like he was something worth reaching for.

His hand curls once at his side. He's going to handle this, he has to.

When you come out of the shower, you are wearing one of John's oversized shirts and your shorts.

Of course, the shirt is his. Of course, it hangs off one shoulder. Of course, John Walker, decorated soldier, trained officer, certified man with working lungs, forgets how to breathe.

You walk into the room rubbing a towel through your hair, bare feet quiet against the floor. The shirt slips a little lower with each step, exposing the curve of your shoulder and the strap of your top underneath.

John is standing near the couch. He looks at you, then your shoulder. Then very deliberately back at your face like he's trying to be noble and losing a private war.

You notice. Your mouth curves. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That was not nothing."

"You're wearing my shirt."

"I wear your shirts all the time."

"I know."

"You keep looking surprised."

"I keep surviving it."

The words slip out before he can stop them.

Your smile softens in that dangerous way, the one that makes him feel seen and undone at the same time. You step closer. "Surviving?"

"Barely."

Your face warms, but you don't look away.

John reaches for you slowly, his fingers brush your exposed shoulder. A soft, careful touch.

Your breath catches.

John's thumb moves once over your skin. "You're cold," he murmurs.

"I just got out of the shower."

"Mm."

"That was an explanation, not an invitation to look concerned."

His mouth curves faintly. "I'm always going to look concerned."

"Sounds exhausting."

"Sometimes."

Your eyes lift to his. The air shifts slowly, the way a tide changes while pretending to be still.

John's hand stays on your shoulder, warm against the cool damp of your skin. His thumb traces a small path there, over and over, and your body betrays you by leaning into it.

He sees that too. But instead of kissing you, instead of letting the heat catch, he draws in a breath. "Lemar told me what you asked him."

Your eyes close for half a second. When they open, the softness is still there, but now it has armor around it. "I'm never telling Lemar anything again."

John's mouth twitches. "He cares about you."

"He has a terrible way of showing it."

"He drove you here."

"He mocked me the entire way."

"That's how he shows affection."

"I noticed. It's a hostile love language."

John smiles, but it fades quickly. His hand slides from your shoulder to the side of your neck.

"Everything's under control," he says.

You stare at him.

John already knows that look. It's the one that means you have found a weak point in his sentence and are preparing to stab it.

"Is it?" you ask.

"Yes."

"John."

"I mean it."

"You got called into base on your free day again. The military's asking questions about me. Lemar looks like someone shoved classified dread into his pockets." You step closer, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. "And you want me to believe everything is under control?"

His jaw tightens.

You soften your voice. "I care about you."

That hits him harder than the accusation would have. You see it land. The way his eyes change. The way his throat works once. The way his hand stills against your neck.

You lift both hands and cradle his face. "I care about you," you repeat, quieter. "That's what makes me worry about all this special review crap."

John closes his eyes for half a breath. When he opens them, the soldier has not disappeared. He's still there, still braced, still ready to shoulder the weight alone because that is what he was trained to do and praised for doing and punished for failing at.

But the man beneath him is tired.

Your chest aches. "Talk to me," you say.

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he covers one of your hands with his. "I don't know what they're looking for yet."

The honesty is small, but it matters.

You nod.

"They're reviewing my conduct. My reports. My recent operations. They're asking questions that don't line up with what they said this was supposed to be." His thumb brushes over your knuckles. "And now they're asking about you."

"Because of me?"

"No."

"You don't know that."

His expression hardens. "I know you're not the problem."

"That's sweet."

"It's true."

"Those aren't always the same thing."

"Mara."

The name comes out rough.

You stroke your thumbs along his cheeks. "I'm not saying I'm the problem. I'm saying I have been one before."

His face changes. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Talk about yourself like evidence."

The words knock something loose in you. For a moment, you cannot answer.

John leans his forehead against yours. "I can't tell you not to worry," he says. "That would be stupid."

"Mm. Growth."

His mouth twitches against restraint. "But I need you to know I'm not going to let them turn you into leverage."

Your breath catches.

"They don't get to use you to get to me," he continues, voice low. "And they don't get to use me to scare you."

You close your eyes for a moment. "I'm prepared," you whisper.

John pulls back enough to look at you. "I know you are."

You blink at him.

He doesn't say it like Lemar did. He doesn't argue. He doesn't soften the truth until it becomes something easier. He simply sees you.

"But you don't have to prepare alone," he says.

Your throat tightens. You hate him a little for that.

"You're getting dangerously good at saying the right thing," you murmur.

His eyes soften. "Only with you."

You drop your hands from his face before you do something humiliating like cry over emotional competence.

John catches one of your hands before it falls completely. His gaze moves over your face, searching. Then, because he must sense you're one tender sentence away from dissolving, he changes the subject.

"So," he says quietly.

You look at him. "So?"

His thumb moves over the back of your hand. "You used your key."

The shift is so soft, so carefully placed, that for a second all you can do is stare at him.

Then your face warms.

"I did."

John looks toward the front door, then back at you. "Felt kind of natural."

"Don't get emotional about a key."

"I'm not."

"You are."

His mouth twitches. "Maybe a little."

You narrow your eyes. "You and Lemar are unbearable in different fonts."

"He said this was a neutral errand."

"Lemar says a lot of things."

"He also called me boyfriend."

Your eyes close slowly. "I'm going to kill him."

John's smile finally breaks through. It's small, tired, and unfairly beautiful. "He seemed proud of himself."

"He should mind his business."

"He never has."

"He should start."

John's fingers lace with yours. You look down at them, then back up.

The room has gone softer at the edges. The worry is still there. It hasn't left. It sits in the corner like a patient animal with too many teeth.

But John is here. Warm. Barefoot. Damp-haired. Looking at you like you're the only thing in the room he understands.

You tug lightly on his hand.

"Come to bed."

His eyes darken. Not all at once. Not crudely. Just enough.

"Mara."

"What?" You lift your brows. "We share a bed now."

His mouth curves. "Yeah, we do."

"Very domestic of us."

"Terrifying."

"Deeply." You step backward, pulling him with you. "Come on."

The warmth returns first. Then the heat beneath it. Then the careful pause he always gives you, even now, even after weeks of shared beds and stolen shirts and kisses that have been getting less innocent by the day.

"You sure?" he asks.

You step closer until your body nearly brushes his. "Yes."

John's hands tighten at your waist.

"Okay," he says softly.

Then he kisses you soft enough that it almost hurts.

His mouth moves over yours with the kind of patience that makes your knees unreliable, one hand sliding from your waist to your lower back while the other comes up to cradle the side of your neck. He walks you backward carefully, not rushing, not pushing, just guiding you toward the hallway as if the apartment has narrowed to the path between his mouth and the bedroom.

You go willingly.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers sliding into the damp hair at his nape. He makes a quiet sound when your nails graze lightly there, and you smile against his mouth because you are becoming terrible with power.

John notices. "You're proud of yourself again," he murmurs.

"A little."

His mouth brushes yours. "Problem."

You huff a small laugh and slide your fingers higher. You find his left ear.

John's breath catches before you even touch the freckle.

Your smile deepens. "Already?"

"Hart."

There it is, that warning with no ammunition.

Your thumb brushes over the tiny freckle on his earlobe. John stops walking for half a second. The sound he makes is low, quiet, almost helpless. It moves through you in a warm, wicked little bloom.

"You are so easy there," you whisper.

His eyes open, dark and narrowed. "Keep talking."

"Is that a threat?"

"No." His hand slides lower on your back, pulling you a fraction closer. "It's a warning."

You brush the freckle again.

John's jaw flexes. Then his mouth is on yours again, hotter now, less patient.

You stumble backward into the bedroom, laughing softly against his lips when your heel catches the edge of the rug. John catches you immediately, one arm firm around your waist, the other braced at your side.

"Careful," he murmurs.

You look up at him.

The word hangs strangely between you. You have both been so careful. Careful with grief, with want, with the ghost under your shirt and the soldier beneath his skin. Careful has kept you safe. Careful has also become a door neither of you knows how to open without breaking something.

You lift your hand to his face. "I'm here."

His eyes search yours.

Then his mouth softens, and he kisses you again, deeper.

He walks you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You sit, tugging him with you by the front of his shirt. John follows with a low breath, one knee sinking into the mattress beside your thigh as he leans over you.

His hand cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheek.

"You tell me if you want me to stop," he says.

You nod.

His eyes sharpen slightly.

You swallow. "I will."

"Promise me."

The demand should annoy you. It doesn't. Not when his voice is rough with want and still threaded with restraint. Not when his body is asking for you and his first instinct is still to make sure you know the door is open.

You touch his cheek. "I promise."

John exhales, then his mouth lowers to your shoulder.

The shirt has slipped again, leaving skin bare to the cool air and his warm breath. His lips brush the curve first, a barely-there touch that sends a shiver through you. Then he kisses you properly, open-mouthed and slow, right where your shoulder slopes toward your neck.

Your head tips back before you can stop it. A soft sigh leaves you.

Pleased.

John stills for the smallest second, then he does it again.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. "John."

His name sounds different like this. Less like a warning. More like permission.

His mouth moves along your exposed shoulder, patient and devastating, each kiss placed with maddening care. His hand settles on your bare leg, warm against your thigh, thumb brushing once over your skin.

You breathe in sharply.

He looks up immediately. "Okay?"

You nod, already reaching for him. "Yes."

His gaze stays on yours for another beat, making sure.

Then his hand moves again, slow over your thigh, his palm callused and warm, sliding carefully until his fingers curl at your hip. He kisses you as he does it, mouth returning to yours, and you fall back onto the bed, pulling him down with you.

John follows. Always careful with his weight. Always aware of where his hands are, where your body is beneath his, how much room you have to move.

You hate how much that undoes you.

His body settles over yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your hip. Your legs shift around him naturally now, no panic in the movement, no apology.

Just want, just the heat of him and the familiar weight of his breathing against yours.

Your hands slide under the hem of his shirt, fingers pressing to the hard warmth of his back.

John groans into your mouth.

The sound sparks through you. "There it is," you breathe.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. "You like that too much."

"I like a lot of things too much."

His mouth curves, but the smile shakes at the edges when your hands move over his skin.

"Yeah?" he asks.

You nod, then lift your hips slightly beneath him.

John's eyes close. His breath leaves him in a rough exhale.

Your own sound follows, small and helpless, when his hand slides beneath the edge of the shirt you stole from him.

His fingers find your waist first. Warm skin to warm skin.

You both go still.

It's not the first time he has touched you there.

These past few weeks have shifted things between you, kiss by kiss, touch by touch, the line between comfort and hunger thinning until you can barely see where one ends and the other begins.

His hands have learned your waist, your ribs, the dip of your back.

Your hands have learned the weight of his shoulders, the warmth of his stomach, the soft, secret sound he makes when your mouth finds his left ear.

Nothing has crossed that final line. But innocence has packed a bag and fled the apartment.

John's hand slides higher beneath your shirt, over the skin of your side, thumb tracing the curve of your ribs. Your back arches slightly, a pleased moan slipping from your mouth before you can trap it.

His eyes snap to yours.

There's heat in them, but also something else. Wonder. Tenderness. That quiet, dangerous awe he gets sometimes, as if he still cannot believe you're here beneath him, touching him back.

"Don't look at me like that," you whisper.

His hand pauses. "Like what?"

"Like that."

His mouth lowers to your jaw. "Can't help it."

You turn your face, catching his mouth again before he can make you feel anything too large for your chest.

The kiss burns hotter.

His hand moves under the shirt again, slow and deliberate, pushing the fabric higher just enough for his palm to spread over your bare stomach. You stiffen for half a second.

John feels it immediately. He stops. His mouth leaves yours.

"Love?"

You open your eyes. The concern in his face nearly breaks you.

"I'm okay," you say.

His gaze searches yours.

You place your hand over his, holding it there against your skin. Against the place where grief has lived in a language no one else could read.

His expression shifts.

He understands. Not all of it, no one can, but enough.

His thumb moves once. Soft and reverent. The touch is not apology this time. Not pity or fear.

Just love before the word has arrived.

You pull him back down.

John kisses you with a sound low in his throat, and the heat returns, threaded now with something so tender it makes your eyes burn. His hand stays beneath your shirt. His fingers trace your side, your waist, your ribs.

Every touch asks, every breath listens.

And you answer.

With the arch of your body. With your hands in his hair. With the soft sounds you no longer try to swallow because you have learned what they do to him.

A small moan escapes when his mouth returns to your shoulder, when his teeth graze lightly over the skin there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your fingers dig into his back.

John groans against you. "God."

You smile, dazed and warm. "What?"

His mouth brushes your skin. "Those sounds."

Your face heats. "Don't."

"I can't." He lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and bright with something unguarded. "I like the sounds you make for me."

The words move through you, molten and sudden.

You tug at his shirt before either of you can get lost in the size of that feeling.

"Off."

His mouth stills against your skin.

When he lifts his head, the corner of his mouth curves. "Bossy."

"You like it."

His gaze drops to your mouth. "Yeah."

He pulls back long enough to strip the shirt over his head.

You have seen him shirtless before. In the mornings, after showers. Half-asleep in blue-gray light while you pretended not to stare because you had dignity, allegedly.

This is not the same.

Not with him over you like this. Not with his chest rising hard, skin warm under the lamp glow, every line of him familiar and new at once.

Your hands go to him immediately.

John's breath catches when your palms slide over his chest, then lower, over the tense plane of his stomach. His control slips by degrees, betrayed by the sharp inhale when your nails drag lightly over his ribs.

You look up. "Oh."

His eyes narrow. "Don't."

You smile, slow and delighted. "There?"

"Hart."

You do it again.

John groans, low and helpless, his head dipping toward your shoulder. The sound moves through you like heat through metal.

"You make sounds too," you murmur.

His laugh breaks against your skin, rough and breathless. "Apparently."

"I like them."

He lifts his head, eyes darker now. "Yeah?"

You nod.

Something hungry flashes over his face. Then his mouth is on yours again, and he kisses you until every clever word scatters out of your head.

His hands find the hem of the shirt you are wearing, his shirt.

You lift your arms.

John pulls it up slowly, his knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the lower curve of your breasts. He keeps his eyes on yours until the last possible second. Then the shirt is gone, and the air touches you everywhere.

For one heartbeat, you want to cover yourself.

Because your body has been a battlefield. A shelter. A weapon. A graveyard. Because being seen has never been simple.

John sees the flicker.

He catches both your wrists before you can move them inward and brings your hands to his mouth. He kisses your knuckles one by one.

"You're beautiful," he says.

Your chest pulls tight. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you mean it."

He lowers your hands back to the bed on either side of your head and leans over you, his mouth near yours.

"I do."

The words burn.

You close your eyes, but John kisses them open again, one soft touch beneath your brow, then your cheek, then your mouth.

His lips move lower.

Your breath catches as he kisses the line of your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the place where your pulse is betraying you. His mouth drifts to your throat, reverent and slow, and then he stops.

Not because of you.

Because of the charm.

The little wolf rests against your chest, caught in the lamplight between your bare skin and his gaze.

For a second, the room changes shape.

John doesn't touch it. He only looks at it, then at you.

The silence is gentle, but it still cuts.

Your hand rises to the charm before you can think better of it. The metal is warm from your skin.

Bucky's ghost. Bucky's memory. Bucky's love.

Still there.

Still yours.

Still resting over your heart while John looks at you like he wants to be careful with every broken, breathing part of you.

Your throat tightens.

John's voice is quiet. "Love." He swallows. "You don't have to do anything."

The kindness of that almost hurts worse.

Your fingers curl around the charm. "I know."

"I mean it." His hand comes up, not to take it, just to rest beside yours on your chest, warm and steady. "I don't want you to feel like you have to choose."

Your eyes sting.

You look down at the little wolf, thumb brushing over the familiar shape. For a moment, you are somewhere else. Somewhere colder. Somewhere full of grief and blood and all the prayers you never said out loud.

Then John's thumb strokes once over your skin.

You breathe in. "I'm not choosing between ghosts and the living."

John's expression tightens, like the words have found somewhere soft in him and pressed.

You reach behind your neck with unsteady fingers. The clasp is small, suddenly stubborn, and your hand trembles once before John carefully covers it with his.

"Let me?"

You nod.

He shifts closer, his fingers brushing your hair aside with aching care. He unfastens the chain slowly, like the necklace is something sacred, not an obstacle. Like grief deserves gentleness even when you are setting it down.

The clasp gives.

The wolf charm slips into his palm.

John looks at it for a second, then back at you.

"You sure?"

You take the charm from him and press the cool metal to your lips. Your eyes close for half a breath. Then you set it carefully on the nightstand. Just resting there, safe in the low light.

When you look back at John, your chest feels unbearably bare.

No chain.

No metal.

No memory between your skin and his hands.

Only you.

Only him.

Your voice is soft when it comes. "Tonight, I want to be here with only you."

John's breath leaves him like something in him has come undone.

For a moment, he only looks at you.

His eyes are dark and bright, his face open in a way that makes your ribs ache.

Then he lowers himself over you again.

Skin to skin.

The contact steals every thought.

His chest presses to yours, warm and solid against the place the charm used to rest. His mouth finds yours, and when you kiss him back, something in you opens wider than fear.

John's hand curls at your hip. "You're here," he whispers against your mouth.

You slide your fingers into his hair. "I'm here."

His forehead drops to yours. "And I've got you."

You believe him.

The air between you changes.

Not all at once. Not sharply. It softens first, then warms, then deepens into something that makes your heart beat too hard.

John looks at the bare place on your chest where the charm used to rest.

Then he looks at you.

"I love you."

For a second, you forget there is a body beneath your skin. You forget the bed under your back, the warmth of his hand at your side, the careful tremble in his breath.

All you know is the shape of those three words.

They do not sound clean when he says them. Not perfect or polished. They sound dragged out of him, rough around the edges, too honest to be pretty. Like they had been living in his chest for weeks and finally broke the lock.

John is still above you. He looks like he has already accepted that the words are yours now, whether you keep them or hand them back. His thumb brushes beneath your eye once, careful and afraid and so warm it hurts.

"John," you whisper.

His name is all you have.

His throat works. "I didn't mean to scare you."

You shake your head. "You didn't."

His eyes search yours, still uncertain, still open in a way that makes something deep inside you ache. You have seen John Walker angry. You have seen him proud. You have seen him brave, stubborn, exhausted, protective enough to make your own fear bare its teeth.

But this is different.

This is John with his armor on the floor and his heart in his hands.

You lift your fingers from his hair and trace the side of his face. The movement is slow, because everything feels breakable now. His cheekbone. His breath. The space between his mouth and yours.

"I don't know what to do with that," you admit.

The truth lands softly.

John's eyes flicker, but he does not pull away.

"Okay," he says.

Just that.

Not wounded. Not demanding. Not trying to stuff the words back where they came from.

You almost hate him for that. For being patient when it would be easier if he pushed. Easier if he gave you something to fight, something to resent, something sharp enough to hide behind.

But John only lowers his forehead to yours and breathes you in like even your confusion is something he can hold.

"You don't have to say anything back," he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. "That's not fair."

His mouth brushes yours, barely a kiss. "I know."

"No." You close your eyes. "I mean you being good about it. That's not fair."

You feel his smile against your mouth.

"I'll try to be worse next time."

A laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. It comes out shaky, almost wet, and John kisses the corner of your mouth like he loves that sound too.

Then the heat returns slowly through the cracks tenderness left open.

His body is still over yours, warm and solid. His hand rests against your side like he is afraid to move without permission now that the words have changed the room. Your legs are still tangled around him. Your fingers are still at his face.

And you want him.

God, you want him.

It is different now. Deeper. It does not crawl across your skin. It sinks beneath it, fills the hollow places, turns your heartbeat into something heavy and bright.

You tilt your face and kiss him.

John freezes for half a breath.

Then he kisses you back, slow at first, like he's letting you set the terms of this new world. His mouth moves carefully over yours, but his breath shakes when your tongue brushes his, and that tiny loss of control sends heat pouring through you.

You slide your hand down his chest, feeling the hard beat of his heart beneath your palm.

His hand flexes at your waist.

You kiss him harder.

John makes a low sound into your mouth, restraint fraying. You feel it in his shoulders, in the way his body lowers over yours, in the careful pressure of his hips settling between your thighs.

Your back arches.

Both of you inhale at once.

"Love," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "We don't have to."

Your fingers curl against his skin. "I know."

"I don't want you to feel like this has to happen because of what I said."

Something inside you softens so violently it nearly undoes you. You cup his jaw. "John."

He goes still.

"I want you."

The words leave you quietly, but they hit him hard. His eyes darken. His mouth parts slightly. His fingers press into your skin.

You see the exact second he tries to make himself behave.

You decide, with great seriousness, to ruin that.

You lift your hips again, slow and deliberate.

John's eyes close. A rough breath tears out of him. "Mara."

"I want this," you whisper. "I want you."

When he opens his eyes, the look in them is almost too much.

Desire, yes. Enough to set the room on fire. But beneath it, something reverent. Something astonished. As if he has been handed something fragile and holy and is terrified his hands are too rough for it.

You pull him down by the back of his neck.

His mouth meets yours again, and this time there is no pretending the kiss is only a kiss.

John's hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over you with a slowness that makes your breath fracture. He pauses, watching your face, learning the sound, learning the shape of your reaction beneath his palm.

His mouth follows.

Your back arches off the bed.

The sound that leaves you is not careful. It is not quiet enough. It is raw and soft and yours, and John reacts like it has gone straight through him. His hand grips your waist. His mouth becomes hotter, slower, patient in a way that makes your thighs tighten around his hips.

He stops. Looks up. Checks.

You nod before he can ask.

"Yes."

His mouth lowers again.

You learn him too.

The way his breathing changes when your nails scrape lightly over his back. The way his stomach tightens when your hand drifts lower. The way that tiny freckle on his ear still has the power to ruin him completely.

You reach for it.

John catches your wrist, eyes dark.

"Careful," he warns.

You are breathing hard, lips parted, body warm under his.

"You keep saying that."

His thumb moves over your pulse. "Because you don't listen."

"You like that too."

His mouth curves, but the smile disappears when you lift your head and kiss the freckle instead.

John shudders. A deep, broken sound pulls out of him, and his hips press down into yours before he can stop himself.

The contact makes you both gasp.

John looks at you.

There is no hiding what he wants now. No disguising it behind teasing, no wrapping it in restraint until it looks safer than it is.

He wants you.

All of you.

And you want the same.

Your hand slides down his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.

He catches your wrist again, but this time his grip is weaker. Less warning. More plea.

"Mara."

You look at him. "Yes."

His jaw works. "Say it again."

Your heart stumbles.

You understand what he is asking. Not because he does not believe you. Because he needs to hear it with the world narrowed to this bed, this choice, this final step.

You lift your other hand to his face. "Yes, John."

His eyes close briefly.

When they open, something in them has changed.

Not control lost.

Control offered.

He kisses you then, deep and slow, and his hands move to your shorts. He does not remove them at first. He hooks his fingers in the waistband and waits. You lift your hips. That is all the answer he needs.

He draws them down your legs with care, mouth following the path of fabric and skin. He kisses your thigh, your knee, the inside of your calf, so tenderly that your throat tightens even as heat curls low in your belly.

When he comes back up the bed, you reach for him.

He lets you.

Your fingers push at his waistband, and this time he helps, shedding the last of his clothes with a breathless kind of impatience that makes you smile despite the pounding of your heart.

Then he is above you again. Skin to skin. The contact steals every thought.

John's chest presses to yours. His thigh slides between your legs. His hand curls at your hip, and the heat of him settles against you in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.

He goes still immediately. "You okay?"

You nod, but your voice comes out shaky. "Yes."

His forehead drops to yours. "We can stop."

"I don't want to stop."

His eyes search yours.

You hold his gaze. "I don't want to stop."

The air leaves him in a slow, trembling breath. "Okay."

His mouth finds yours again as his hand moves between your bodies. The first touch makes you jolt from the sudden bright rush of sensation. John stills, learning you, waiting until your body eases beneath him.

"Tell me," he murmurs.

You swallow hard. "Softer."

His touch shifts instantly.

Your eyes close. "There."

He does it again.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders.

John watches your face like it is the only map he needs. He learns pressure. Rhythm. The places that make your breathing hitch and your hips lift toward his hand. He learns the little broken sound that leaves you when he touches you just right, and when he hears it, his own control fractures.

"Love," he says, voice rough.

You open your eyes.

He looks wrecked. Beautifully, painfully wrecked.

You reach for him too, fingers wrapping carefully around him. John groans, burying his face against your neck, his whole body shuddering at the touch.

You go still, startled by the power of it.

He laughs once against your skin, breathless and undone. "Don't stop."

So you don't.

You learn him by the sounds he cannot hide. By the way his hips move into your hand. By the tension in his arms, the heat of his mouth at your throat, the way his voice goes low and uneven when he says your name.

"Mara."

You love the sound. You love that it belongs to this moment, to his skin beneath your hands and his breath breaking against your jaw.

John pulls back enough to open the nightstand drawer with an unsteady hand. He finds protection, then pauses, looking down at you.

You nod before he can ask.

He prepares himself with shaking fingers, and the sight of him like that, careful even in his hunger, nearly undoes you.

Then he settles between your thighs again.

The whole room seems to hold its breath.

John leans down and kisses you once. A promise before the crossing.

"You tell me if anything feels wrong," he says against your mouth.

You brush his damp hair back from his forehead. "I will."

"I mean it."

"I know." You wrap your arms around his neck. "John."

His eyes meet yours.

"I trust you."

Something in his face breaks open.

He kisses you again, and as he does, he begins to push inside so slow your breath catches and holds.

Your fingers tighten at the back of his neck. John stills at once, body trembling over yours.

"Love?"

You breathe through it, eyes closed.

Not pain exactly. Pressure. Stretch. The overwhelming intimacy of being opened to someone who is looking at you like you are not something taken, but something received.

"I'm okay," you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek. "Look at me."

You open your eyes.

He's right there. Close enough that you can see the gold caught in his lashes from the lamplight. Close enough that his breath is yours. Close enough that the fear doesn't have room to grow teeth.

He moves another inch.

Your body yields slowly.

His jaw clenches. A rough sound slips from him, restrained and desperate.

"God," he breathes. "Mara."

You cup his face, keeping him with you.

He stops when he is fully inside.

Both of you go still.

There's no noise for a moment except your breathing.

You feel full of him. Surrounded by him. Held open not only by his body, but by the enormity of this choice, this trust, this warmth you have allowed into a room grief used to own alone.

John is shaking.

You realize it with a strange little ache. His arms are braced on either side of you, muscles tight, every inch of him holding back.

You stroke your thumb over his cheek. "You're shaking."

His laugh is barely sound. "Trying not to move."

The admission sends heat through you.

You shift beneath him experimentally.

His eyes close. His head drops forward with a low groan. You feel him everywhere. The sound makes your body clench around him.

John's breath breaks.

"Fuck," he whispers, and then immediately kisses your cheek like he has to apologize with his mouth.

You almost laugh, but the laugh turns into a gasp when he moves, just a little. A slow pull, a careful return.

Your whole body responds. Your nails press into his shoulders.

John watches you. "Okay?"

You nod quickly. "Again."

His eyes darken.

He moves again, still slow, still careful, but deeper this time. The sensation rolls through you, warm and startling and intimate enough to make your eyes burn.

He learns you one movement at a time.

Slow at first.

Listening to every breath.

Stopping when your body tenses. Continuing when your hips rise to meet him. Adjusting until the angle makes your mouth fall open and a moan spill out, helpless and sweet.

"There," you gasp.

John's control slips visibly.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it higher against his hip. The next thrust reaches something deeper, brighter, and your back arches off the bed.

John groans with you.

"There?" he asks, voice ruined.

You nod, breathless. "Yes. John, there."

He does it again and again.

The rhythm builds slowly. His body moves into yours with increasing certainty, and yours answers, hips lifting, thighs tightening around him, hands roaming over the damp heat of his back.

You learn the weight of him. The drag of him. The way his mouth searches for yours whenever the feeling threatens to become too much. The way he murmurs your name against your skin like he is trying to keep himself anchored. The way his hand finds yours on the mattress and laces your fingers together when your breath starts to shake.

You learn that he loves your shoulder. He returns to it again and again, kissing the bare curve like he has found a place of worship there.

You learn that the light scrape of your nails down his spine makes his rhythm falter. You learn that when you whisper his name right against his ear, John Walker loses the thread of every disciplined thought he has ever had.

And he learns you.

The place at your hip that makes you shiver. The pressure you like. The rhythm that pulls sounds from you faster than pride can catch them. The way your breath hitches right before pleasure crests too high.

His hand slips between your bodies again.

Your eyes fly open. "John."

"I've got you," he whispers.

He changes the angle of his hips, keeps moving inside you, and touches you at the same time.

The world narrows to sensation.

Heat.

Pressure.

His body over yours.

His voice in your ear.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, rough and tender. "Let me hear you."

Your body trembles.

You don't swallow the sound this time. You let it leave you.

John groans like it ruins him.

The pleasure builds, slow and relentless, coiling tighter with every stroke of his fingers and every deep movement of his body inside yours. You cling to him, breath breaking, face turned against his neck, your mouth finding any skin it can reach.

His pulse beats beneath your lips.

Alive.

Here.

Yours for this moment.

And there is nothing between you now. Nothing but his body, his breath, his hand wrapped around yours.

The pleasure gathers under your skin, rolls through your hips, your stomach, your chest.

John feels the change in you and follows it, his mouth at your throat.

"That's it," he whispers. "Let go. I've got you."

You believe him.

That's what breaks you open.

Not only the pleasure, though God, there is so much of it. Not only the way he moves inside you, deep and sure now, learning the rhythm that makes you fall apart beneath him.

It's the tenderness, the steadiness, he way he keeps one hand in yours while he takes you apart.

Your body tightens. Your breath catches.

John feels it. His voice goes rough. "Love?"

You cannot answer.

You can only cling to him as the pleasure crests, sudden and overwhelming, pulling a broken moan from your throat. Your whole body trembles beneath his. Your thighs lock around him. Your nails dig into his back as wave after wave rolls through you, bright and blinding and too much to hold in silence.

John watches you come apart.

The look on his face almost undoes you a second time.

Awe.

Hunger.

Love.

His rhythm falters, but he keeps moving, slower now, carrying you through it while you shake against him.

"That's my girl," he breathes, voice wrecked.

The words hit something deep. Possessive, but gentle. Reverent, not claiming what you have not given.

And tonight, you have given so much.

You pull his mouth to yours. John groans into the kiss. His body tenses above you, his control finally fraying to its last thread.

"Where are you?" you whisper against his mouth.

His eyes open, confused and dark.

You cup his face. "Stay with me."

The words do to him what his did to you.

His breath breaks.

"I'm with you," he says.

Then he lets go.

His hips press deep, his whole body shuddering as release overtakes him. A low, raw groan tears from his chest, your name caught inside it. He buries his face against your neck, shaking through it, holding you close without crushing you.

You hold him, one hand in his hair the other spread across his back. You hold him while he comes back to himself.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

The room is warm and dim around you. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is damp. John's breathing slowly steadies against your shoulder.

He is still inside you, still close, but the urgency has softened into something quieter, almost sacred.

Eventually, he lifts his head. His face is flushed. His hair is a disaster. His eyes are too soft for your survival.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You nod, but he waits.

So you answer properly. "I'm okay."

His thumb brushes your cheek. "Any pain?"

You shake your head. "No."

"You sure?"

"John."

"I'm checking."

"I know." You touch his mouth with your fingertips. "I'm okay."

Only then does he exhale.

He kisses you once, soft and grateful, then carefully shifts away to take care of the condom and clean himself up. The loss of his warmth makes you shiver, and before you can complain, he is back with a damp cloth and that serious expression that means he has decided aftercare is now a military operation.

You stare at him.

He pauses. "What?"

"You're very focused."

His ears go pink. "I want to do it right."

The tenderness of that nearly kills you.

You let him clean you with gentle hands. Let him kiss your knee, your hip, the inside of your wrist when your fingers brush his. Let him pull the blankets back and gather you against his chest like he has been waiting his whole life to learn exactly how you fit there.

You end up half on top of him, cheek against his bare chest, one leg tangled over his. His heartbeat is still fast beneath your ear.

Your wolf charm rests on the nightstand. You look at it for a while.

John follows your gaze but says nothing. His hand moves slowly over your back.

"I'll get it for you," he says quietly.

Your throat tightens. You press your lips to his chest.

"Not yet."

His hand stills.

Then it resumes, careful and warm.

"Okay."

The silence stretches.

You trace a lazy line over his ribs, smiling faintly when his stomach tightens under your touch.

"Still sensitive there," you murmur.

John huffs a laugh into your hair. "Don't start."

You lift your head and look at him.

He looks exhausted now. Soft. Younger somehow, with the fight gone from his face and only the man left behind.

The man who loved you before you were ready to know what to do with it.

Something opens in your chest.

Quietly.

Completely.

John sees the change before you speak. His hand comes up, brushing hair away from your face.

"What?" he whispers.

You look at him for a long moment.

Then you lean down and kiss him.

It's not hungry this time. Not a question, not a distraction.

It's answer.

When you pull back, your mouth stays close to his. Your voice shakes.

You say it anyway.

"I love you."

John goes completely still.

You feel the words move through him before his face changes. His breath catches first. Then his eyes, widening slightly, shining in the low light. His hand tightens at your back like he is afraid he imagined it.

You smile, small and tearful.

"I love you," you say again, softer but steadier now. "I don't know what that means tomorrow. I don't know how to make it simple. I can't promise I won't be scared."

John's eyes search yours, raw and bright.

"But I love you," you whisper. "Tonight, I know that."

His face breaks. Not fully, John is still John. Even undone, he tries to hold himself together.

But you see it.

The way relief moves through him. The way wonder follows. The way all that careful restraint collapses into something tender enough to make your own eyes burn.

He pulls you down to him and kisses you.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, longer, his hand cradling the back of your head.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. "Say it again later."

You laugh softly against his mouth. "Demanding."

"Please."

That ruins you.

You touch his cheek. "I will."

John closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours.

Outside, the city keeps moving. Somewhere beyond the apartment, the military waits with its questions, its reports, its special reviews, its teeth hidden behind official language.

But here, in John's bed, with your charm resting on the nightstand and his heart beating beneath your hand, the world narrows to his skin, your breath, the truth between you.

For tonight, there are no ghosts in the bed.

Only John.

Only you.

Only love, terrifying and warm, finally spoken out loud.

Silence.

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

The second they're out, his stomach drops.

Fuck.

Your smile disappears.

"Huh?"

Dex can hears his own heartbeat.

Too fast.

Way too fast.

You blink at him.

Confused.

Then uncertain.

"Matt," he says.

His voice sounds strange.

Too sharp.

Too direct.

"Do you like him?"

Fuck.

Stop.

Stop talking.

You glance away immediately.

And that alone feels like an answer.

"I-I don't understand what you're talking about."

You're lying.

Or maybe you're not.

Maybe you're confused.

Maybe you're uncomfortable.

Maybe—

Stop.

Your fingers tighten around your cup.

You still won't look at him.

See?

See that?

She knows.

She knows exactly what you're asking.

She just doesn't want to answer.

Because the answer is obvious.

Because you're making things weird.

Because you always make things weird.

"Dex—"

Don't.

Don't interrupt her.

Let it go.

Let it go right now.

"I think you know what I'm talking about."

The second he says it, he hates himself.

Your shoulders tense.

Slightly.

Just slightly.

But he sees it.

Of course he sees it.

"Dex—"

"Oh, come on."

No.

Stop.

His own voice sounds wrong now.

Like somebody else talking through his mouth.

"Matt this."

You flinch.

"Matt that."

Stop.

"It's always Matt."

Stop.

"You can't go five minutes without talking about him, can you?"

He wants the words back.

Instantly.

Immediately.

Like reaching for a knife after it's already been thrown.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Your face changes.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just—

small.

You look smaller somehow.

Your eyes drop toward the table.

Your voice comes out quieter.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

The guilt hits him so hard it almost makes him dizzy.

No.

No.

That's not—

That's not what he meant.

He didn't mean—

His eyes lift.

And then he sees it.

Your eyes.

Glassy.

Not crying yet.

But close.

That horrible shine sitting there.

The shine people get when they're trying very hard not to cry.

And suddenly every angry thought evaporates.

Gone.

Instantly.

Leaving only horror behind.

No.

No no no.

Fuck.

What have you done?

His stomach drops straight through the floor.

You weren't arguing.

You weren't getting defensive.

You were apologizing.

Apologizing.

Because you think you upset him.

Jesus Christ.

"Dex."

Your voice is small now.

Small enough to break him.

"No."

The word leaves him immediately.

Too fast.

"I—I didn't mean—"

But you stand up.

The movement is quiet.

Gentle.

Somehow that makes it worse.

You don't look angry.

You don't yell.

You don't tell him he's an asshole.

You just stand.

And suddenly he realizes what's happening.

You're leaving.

No.

Please don't.

His chest tightens violently.

"I think I should go."

The words hit harder than they should.

Because they're calm.

Because they're final.

Because you won't look at him.

And for one horrible second, Dex doesn't move.

His brain simply refuses to understand what's happening.

You're leaving.

The words don't fit together properly.

People leave all the time.

He knows that.

People walk away from conversations every day.

But something about watching you stand there, avoiding his eyes, gathering your bag with shaking hands—

it feels different.

Wrong.

Like watching a door close while he's still standing in the doorway.

No.

The word explodes inside his skull.

No no no no.

Not like this.

Not after—

Not after everything.

Not after the bracelet.

Not after your everyday coffee.

Not after all those walks home.

Not after you smiled every time you saw him walk through the door.

Not after you said you were friends.

You turn slightly.

And panic hits him.

Real panic.

The kind that feels like drowning.

Like suddenly realizing the ground underneath you isn't there anymore.

His chair scrapes violently against the floor.

"Wha—"

He stands too fast.

People glance over.

He doesn't care.

You take a small step backward.

And somehow that hurts more than anything.

"No."

The word comes out rough.

Desperate.

"I didn't mean—"

His hand closes around your wrist.

Instantly.

Without thinking.

Just instinct.

Just panic.

Just don't leave.

Your entire body freezes.

And the second he feels you freeze—

the horror starts.

Because your skin is warm beneath his hand.

Because he can feel how hard he's holding you.

Because your eyes immediately drop to his grip.

Fuck.

Let go.

Let go right now.

"Dex."

Your voice sounds smaller now.

Please don't leave.

The thought is screaming so loudly he can barely hear anything else.

"I'm sorry."

The words start falling out.

Fast.

Messy.

"I didn't mean it like that, I swear, I wasn't—I wasn't trying to—"

His grip tightens unconsciously.

Not because he's angry.

Because he's terrified.

The difference doesn't matter.

Your face tightens slightly.

Pain.

He caused that.

He's hurting you.

The realization arrives and somehow still isn't enough to make him let go immediately.

Because the fear is bigger.

The fear of you leaving.

The fear of losing this.

Losing you.

"I'm sorry."

Again.

Again.

Again.

The words keep coming.

His thoughts are tripping over each other.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Fix it.

"I just—"

God.

How does he explain this?

How does he explain the feeling of listening to you talk about Matt and feeling something inside him tear itself open?

How does he explain the jealousy?

The loneliness?

The ugly selfish part of him that wanted your attention and hated sharing it with a man he'd never even met?

How does he explain any of that without sounding insane?

He can't.

Because it is insane.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

His voice cracks.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

Your eyes close briefly.

And that's somehow worse.

You finally pull your arm.

Not violently.

Not angrily.

Just firmly.

Trying to get free.

Dex immediately realizes how hard he's holding you.

Too hard.

Way too hard.

His fingers release instantly.

Like he's been burned.

"Oh God."

The words leave him automatically.

Your wrist is red.

His stomach drops.

Your wrist is red.

You rub it instinctively.

And the shame that follows is so intense he almost feels sick.

Of course.

Of course this happened.

You give him kindness.

You give him friendship.

And he responds by grabbing you hard enough to leave marks.

Good job.

Fantastic.

You finally look at him.

Actually look at him.

And somehow that hurts more than if you'd been angry.

Because you look sad.

Not scared.

Not angry.

Sad.

"Dex."

His throat closes.

"I think..."

You hesitate.

Choosing your words carefully.

And that terrifies him.

Because people only choose words carefully when they're afraid of what happens if they don't.

"I think maybe it would be better if you didn't come by the café for a little while."

The room goes silent.

At least to him.

Everything else disappears.

The words just keep echoing.

Don't come by.

Don't come by.

Don't come by.

You continue quietly.

"And maybe don't call me."

Each sentence feels like another door closing.

"Or text me."

Another one.

"Just for a little while."

Another.

Until there's almost nothing left.

You swallow.

"I think we both need some space."

Space.

The word feels enormous.

Cold.

Permanent.

Even though you didn't mean it that way.

Dex knows you didn't mean it that way.

But his brain doesn't care.

Because all it hears is:

Go away.

Go away.

Go away.

His chest hurts.

Actually hurts.

Like something sharp lodged itself between his ribs.

You look exhausted.

Heartbroken, almost.

Like this isn't easy for you either.

And somehow that's the final thing that breaks him.

The realization settles heavily inside him.

Just heavy.

Like wet concrete slowly filling his lungs.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder.

Neither of you speak.

Then finally—

"I'll see you around, okay?"

Your voice sounds fragile.

Dex opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because every apology feels useless now.

Every explanation feels selfish.

So all he manages is a small nod.

You give him one last sad smile.

Then turn.

And walk away.

This time he doesn't stop you.

He just stands there.

Watching.

Until the door closes behind you.

And for the first time since he met you—

he has no idea what to do next.

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