You weren't quite sure what to expect. Pete had come to your office late yesterday afternoon, asking if you could do him a favor. You had agreed, thinking it had to do something with the latest case you were working on or the new client that dropped by. What you didn't expect was for him to show you the mountains of manila folders with only one word etched on the front of them, Bear.

Ever since moving to Chicago, Pete had been a mentor of sorts. At first, it was firm assigned. He always had his door open when you had questions about the workings of the company or the complexities of a case. You found yourself sending him about 15 emails a day, and they were always followed up with a smiley face emoji and way too many exclamation points for a grown man to use.

But beyond that, he had welcomed you into his home and made an effort to really welcome you to Chicago. After mentioning to him one day during lunch that you still hadn't been able to cook something for yourself, despite being in the city for three weeks already, he had insisted that you join him and his wife for dinner that weekend.

You had shown up with a bottle of wine and were met with a round stomach. Nevertheless, Natalie had laughed and hugged you tightly as you apologized profusely for the bad gift choice.

"I wouldn't ask if I knew you couldn't handle it. It's just that Natalie's about to pop, and I need to devote my energy towards caring for her," he explained as you sifted through the miscellaneous documents.

So now, you stood outside the establishment, double-checking the address, then triple-checking, before opening the door.

"I swear to everything holy, Cousin! Hold the fucking table straight!"

"I am, jagoff! Fix your fucking eyes!"

"Dumbass, it's crooked! Look!"

"It's not! Your fucking head is crooked, screwed it on the wrong way this morning."

"Oh, fuck you!"

"Fuck you!"

Just as you were about to sneak back out the way you came, you saw Natalie's familiar face.

"Idiots! You're gonna scare her off."

Both men whip around to face you. You held out a hand and waved, sending them both a small smile.

The older man grins back at you, "Oh shit, sweetheart, didn't even hear you. Quiet as a mouse coming in."

The younger one just scoffs at the older man, but his eyes don't leave your form. You feel your tummy jump as his electric blue eyes drag over your body and land on your face. You think he might say something. But as Natalie comes to gather you in her arms, he doesn't say a word.

The older man's gaze flickers over to the younger one, and it seems like the smile on his face widens tenfold, from what you can't quite put your finger on yet.

"Richard Jerimovich, but everyone just calls me Richie," he tells you, sticking out a hand. His grip is surprisingly gentle and firm, all in the same breath. Still, you give him a small smile and offer your name.

Expectantly, you look towards the curly-haired brunette, but he just looks at you blankly.

As Richie barks out a laugh, again, at something you don't quite know, but Natalie cuts in swiftly.

"I gave everyone a brief introduction as to who you are and what you'll be helping with, so no need for niceties just yet. I want to show you the belly of the beast," she tells you as you just nod and let her guide you through the mess of a restaurant.

As she pushes open the swinging doors to the back of the building, you swear you catch the two men going at it again.

"Holy fuck!"

"Shut the fuck up, Cousin."

"Holy fuck! Are you a fucking teenage boy, Bear?"

"Shut up!"

"Got something staining on the front of your pants, y'know."

But a huff from Natalie brings you back into reality. With a creak, the door to a back office opens up, and you almost gasp at the condition of the place.

"I know, but everything has its place. Mikey had his system, and we all work around it," she says, almost sensing the anxious thoughts circling your head.

After hearing her reasoning, though, your heart pulls, and you hum. Pete had told you about his passing. It wasn't exactly office talk, but he said he needed to give you a crash course before today. Michael was the first thing he told you about.

Pulling out a chair, she beckons you to sit. Once you do, she plops a stack of papers in your lap.

"Petey is working on I.R.95 forms for The Bear now, and told me he's almost finished. But we need to have these," she says, finger coming down to point at the title of the paper, "I.R. 114 forms done by the end of next week."

You nod, he had told you most of this already, and you had made a color-coded list of what to tackle with corresponding due date, but you sat and let her explain it to you a second time.

"And the city keeps giving us the run around with these," Natalie continues, placing another stack of paper in your lap. The chair squeaks under the weight.

You thumb through the pages, mostly to confirm what you're looking at, but the action makes the woman across from you twitch.

"I know it's a lot," she says, almost like she's sorry for you, like you hadn't already agreed.

"No, it's okay, Natalie," you say, trying to ease some stress. Still, her shoulders almost reach her ears as you read along the pages of documents.

After giving you a few minutes, she moves. Getting up from her seat, Natalie's hand braces on the wall, stomach sticking out like a reminder. "I'll go get Carmen and Richie. They said they wanted to be here when we talked about hours."

With that, she leaves you in the office. It's quiet once she shuts the door, but you can feel the buzz of the building regardless. The kind of place with an energy that tells others it never sleeps.

Looking around, you see bits and pieces of the Berzatto's life. Mismatched pens in a glass cup. Thumb-tacked pictures hang from shelves. Colorful sticky notes cover one wall while the other is completely bare. It's scatterbrained, but still makes you smile.

Carmen must be the younger man from when you came in earlier. He looked a bit like Natalie, you think. Has the same rosy cheeks and pink lips. But just as soon as the thought of his soft-looking lips arrives, you push it away. The swing of the door aids this.

Sure enough, the young man and Richie come in tow with Natalie. Richie braces against the lip of the desk while Carmen leans up against the doorway so as not to crowd you in the small office. When you look at him, he's already watching you. Your eyes dart back towards your lap, pretending to read over the documents once more.

"We can't afford more than 3 hours a week. Pete told me your rate, but I just want to make sure that $500 an hour is still okay?" she asks you, handing you another document, this time with a pen for a signature.

"And we want to say thank you," Richie says, a genuine smile on his face.

You look between the family in front of you and then back at the loose contract, brows pitched in focus at the words.

"Did Pete not tell you?" you question, voice small, this time looking solely at Natalie.

"Did you up your rate? Oh, God. I guess we did have that conversation a few weeks ago. I shouldn't have assumed, I'm sorry," she apologizes, already grabbing the form out of your hand as you just look at her open-mouthed.

"No, no, Natalie. I told him I'd work pro bono. And I thought we could set a base of ten hours a week? I mean, sometimes I might get busier, but I can make up for it later. As long as that's okay for you guys?"

The office is silent for a minute. You worry that you overstepped, suggesting more hours than they came to you with.

"You're serious?" This time it's Carmy who speaks.

You just nod, not able to find the words as you look at him.

"You're an angel. Like an actual angel sent down from heaven," Natalie breathes out as you laugh a bit at her dramatics. "But, sweetheart, I can't take advantage of you like that."

"No, I want to. You and Pete have been so welcoming to me. Please let me do this for you guys," you tell her.

"You're sure?" she asks hesitantly, but you can see the small smile on her face at the thought.

You smile and hum, happy to take something off her and Pete's plate as they get ready for their daughter's birth.

"I fucking love this girl!" Richie whoops, hands clapping together as Natalie laughs at his antics.

"Thank you," Carmen follows. If you hadn't already been looking at him, you would've missed it. But instead, you just smile at him, your eyes unable to maintain contact for long.

જ⁀➴

Your Saturday mornings were now spent at The Bear. After settling the most urgent concerns and going over some brief paperwork questions you had, the four of you landed on Saturday mornings being the day you came into the office to work. It was only a few hours; the rest of your work would be done throughout the week, but still, it was nice to run things by the family before moving forward.

It was early, but Natalie assured you that Carmen was going to be here to help you get settled. Balancing your keys, phone, and drink carrier, you pushed open the back door of the restaurant.

Sure enough, the kitchen was quiet, no clanging of tools heard at this hour, only the typing of keys and thwacking of stacks of paper being shuffled around.

"Hi, Carmen," you say quietly while standing at the outskirts of the office. Immediately, he rises to his feet, chair kicking out behind him.

"Hey, hi. Good morning," he replies, going to help you with your bag and the drinks in your hand.

"Oh, thanks." You smile at him as he just nods.

As you sit, you slide a coffee his way. When he gives you an inquisitive look, you laugh a bit.

"Natalie says you never sleep, figured you might want one. It's from my favorite cafe in the city," you explain, fiddling with your fingers. When he just stares at you, like he did last week, you continue, "Honey Lavender, it's supposed to be relaxing."

"Honey lavender," he repeats, turning the cup in his hands like he's trying to figure out if you've handed him coffee or perfume.

"It tastes better than it sounds," you defend with a laugh. "Promise."

He peels back the lid carefully, steam curling up into his face. You can smell the mix of coffee and sweetness from across from him.

You watch him as he dips into the drink to take his first sip, eyes tracking his lips as they wrap around the white rim of the cup and then to his throat as he swallows.

"It's good," he affirms, but still sounds surprised by what he's saying.

Your shoulders immediately relax.

"It's…sweet."

"It is," you reply, laughing a bit at the observation.

"I don't usually drink sweet coffee."

"I know."

His eyebrows lift at this. "You know?"

"You look like someone who drinks coffee just for the caffeine."

He stares at you another second before rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"You really are a lawyer, huh?"

You laugh loud enough that it echoes around the empty kitchen.

For a split second, he just watches you.

It's a nice laugh, he thinks. Easy and light. The kind that fills a room instead of demanding attention from it. Carmen realizes he's staring when you clear your throat.

"So…" you gesture toward the mountain of folders. "Forms?"

He exhales dramatically. "Forms."

Opening the first folder, you immediately organize the papers into neat little stacks. Within minutes, sticky notes begin appearing everywhere. He watches as you pull stack after stack from your bag, almost like a never-ending clown scarf.

"You color-code everything?" he asks, hands rubbing the waxy paper of the cup as he watches you.

"Hm?" You look up at him briefly, hands thumbing different documents at lightning speed.

"The sticky notes."

"Oh." You glance down like you hadn't even realized you were doing it.

"You remember what every color means?" he asks, eyes dancing around the desk as he takes everything in.

"Blue is city permits."

He nods. "Yellow?"

"Insurance."

"Green?" he tests, smile now creeping up on his face.

"Anything Pete forgot to tell me," you tell him, bringing up the thin stack of sticky notes, laughing. "He forgets a lot."

"He really does," Carmen chuckles as you smile at him once more.

You continue like this for a while more, silence falling over you both again. But it isn't awkward. If anything it's comfortable, different.

Carmen watches as you bend over a packet of licensing paperwork, lips moving ever so slightly while you read. The gloss is still there, but slightly smudged. He can see the remnants on your coffee cup, the plum color intrigues him more than it should.

He notices you tuck your hair behind your ear every few minutes. It keeps falling out of the pearly-looking claw clip that's holding your hair in its place. He thinks it's the same one you sported last week.

You chew the inside of your cheek whenever something doesn't make sense. The way your brows fold over on themselves and you huff a bit is one of the cutest things Carmen has ever seen.

You scribble tiny stars next to things you need to revisit. Along with green stick notes. Every time you place one down, he laughs a bit to himself.

He doesn't know why he notices any of it. He just does. It's like he can't tear his eyes away from you. Your fingers, your lips, your hair.

"You've got nice handwriting." The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

You look up, almost like you don't believe him. "Thanks."

He immediately regrets speaking, Richie was right, he was acting like a teenager. "I just mean—"

"No," you smile, hands waving away his explanation. "I've just…never been complimented on my handwriting before."

"It's organized," he offers and you laugh again. Carmen wants to make you laugh over and over again.

"My professors used to call it aggressive."

"Aggressive handwriting?" he raises his brows and you nod.

"I press too hard."

When he glances down at the paper, sure enough, the words look as if they are bound to the page. Every letter looks deliberate. Like it belongs exactly where it is. It's nothing like the scribbles in his notebook or the reminders he leaves himself.

"Professors? From law school?"

You hum without looking up. "NYU. Good program, good professors, just a little judgy."

That gets his attention. New York. "You move here recently?"

You spit out your grad date and shrug absentmindedly.

He nods slowly. "I, uh, lived in New York, too. Around the same time actually."

At this, you stop working, hands pausing and furrow on your brow disappearing as you look at the man. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"What part?"

"Manhattan."

Your eyes widen. "No way."

"What?" he asks, smile on his face, like he can't wait to find out what you're going to say next.

"I lived in Midtown," you explain, hands now fully dropping the documents and coming to tuck your hair behind both of your ears again.

Carmen watches your movements, mirroring you as he places the now empty coffee cup down on the table. "I was living downtown."

You both sit there for a second, letting the information brew.

"So we probably crossed paths."

"Probably," he hums.

"Same city."

"Same months."

"And we both ended up in Chicago. How funny," you say, scrunching your nose a bit, a movement that Carmen files away immediately.

"That is kind of funny." That's all he says for the moment, but he can feel himself twitch as memories start coursing back.

The memories of New York always felt too loud. Too many people counting on him, too many waiting for him to fail. Not enough time to really perfect his craft, not enough time to settle into the way of the city. Never enough patience for those around him, patience wasn't something Carmen even knew for himself.

The feeling of Chicago, his home, was so unfamiliar and new in this light. The new challenges every week at The Bear keep him on his toes. Remnants of Mikey around every corner. New people in his life he never would've reached for.

But somehow that stream of conciousness pauses as you sit across from him. Something inside him calms as you go back to flicking through the forms, pressing your pen too hard against the paper, and sticky noting everything within sight.

He notices you've been working for almost three hours without touching anything besides coffee. Carmen wonders if it's a habit. Something built into you from long hours studying for law school or just a quirk you picked up recently.

Without saying a word, he disappears into the kitchen.

You barely notice he's left your side, too entrenched in the mountains of questions you now have for Pete and Carmen, until the smell reaches you.

Butter.

Pepper.

Something warm and familiar.

Carmen is carrying two plates as he enters your space again.

"What's this?" you ask, perking up to look at what he's prepared.

"Breakfast."

"Oh. Carmen, you didn't have to—"

He waves you off, placing the food in front of you. "You forgot to eat."

You blink. First looking at him and then the food.

"You've been here since seven."

You look down at your watch and sure enough it's almost ten. "Oh gosh, I didn't even notice."

"I know." He hands you a fork and gestures for you to dig in.

The omelet looks impossibly soft, folded around herbs and cheeses you're sure you can't pronounce. The smell is unlike anything you've been around in months, take-out and frozen meals that would surely earn you a scolding if the chef next to you knew.

Oh, and the taste. The taste.

When you go to take the first bite, you eyes shut. The flavors hit you almost instantaneously, some a bit subtle and some punching forward.

"Oh."

He studies your reaction, food on his plate untouched. "Good?"

You laugh quietly as you nod, chewing and swallowing so you can talk to Carmen. "I don't think I can ever eat my own cooking again."

Something in his chest loosens at this. You've settled into the seat now, spine not as rigidly straight and shoulder dropping. Carmen notices it all.

Good, he thinks. He wonders if you'd like a Croque Madame or Eggs Benedict next week.

જ⁀➴

Carmen is sitting in the office skimming over some notes you left. Mostly it's just arrows asking for his signature, the occasional exclamation point or question mark. But still, he finds himself rubbing a thumb over the lettering, lingering on pages a little too long.

"No, we submitted those," Natalie says from his side.

He perks up a bit at this, turning to face her with a puzzled look on his face as she just shrugs and listens to the voice on the other end of the call.

Quickly, she grabs a legal pad, one that you had left in the office "just in case". Hands scramble for a pen, and she begins writing furiously.

Now Carmen drops the forms he was looking at and focuses solely on her.

What the fuck? He mouths at his sister as she shoots him a glare.

"Can you tell me what section again?" Natalie asks as Carmen's anxiety begins to heighten.

She hums at another thing the voice says and immediately drops the pen. Her hand flies towards her forehead, smacking it before it makes its way down the side of her jaw.

Carmen stands now, bending down to look at his sister closer and try to catch what the man on the phone is saying.

"Okay. Yes, I understand," she finalizes, lowering the phone and dropping it back into the receiver.

"What? What was that?" Carmen twitches. When she gives him a pitiful look, his heart sinks.

"They're saying the occupancy amendment wasn't attached."

"The fuck does that mean?" he asks, a permanent scowl now on his face.

"I don't know, I don't know. But it's not good," she replies, hands coming to slam down on the desk as she pushes her chair back and away from the desk.

The ruckus gets the attention of Richie and Neil, both of them popping their heads into the small space.

"Whoa, what's going on?" Richie laughs out.

"Fucking occupancy amendment! Fuck!" Natalie groans as the three men share a worried look.

"What's that mean? Is it bad?" Neil questions innocently as Natalie just nods.

"The guy, he said it could affect the opening. Says that the paperwork we submitted last week is invalid. We'll have to get another inspection." Her head is now in her hands, fingers digging in the blonde locks.

"What? The inspection place schedules 2 months out," Carmen barks out, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"Sugar is Bear being for real? 2 months?" Richie asks, amusement gone from his face now.

"At minimum. Maybe 4 months," she replies, head still dropped.

"4 months?" Carmen almost yells, voice booming in the small office.

"And he said it invalidates our liquor license," she drops on them, sending another wave of panic through the men.

"No fucking alcohol?" Again, Carmen urges as he looks at his sister.

"No alcohol," she repeats.

"No one's going to want to eat with no wine," Neil observes out loud as everyone deadpans at him.

"No shit. Holy fuck, we're screwed. Uncle's gonna fucking kill me." Carmen chokes out, hand coming to brace on his chest.

The four of them sit in silence for a minute. Then another. It feels like this is the end. The end of the dream. The end of this place. The end of whatever Mikey might've wanted or hoped for.

"Call her," Carmen finally speaks. He doesn't even say your name, but Natalie's already searching for your contact in her phone.

When you don't pick up the first time, Carmen sighs. The next time, he bites his lip hard. The fifth time, he almost cries.

"She's probably with a client," Natalie offers, but it does nothing to stop the energy they all seem to be sharing.

"It's only three," Richie says and it feels like a bomb goes off in the office.

"Try again," Carmen urges.

"What if she's in court?" Neil argues back.

"Fuck," Carmen yells out, pushing his hands into his eyes.

"It's two fucking hours. We can do two hours."

Around 30 minutes into their waiting game, people start to filter into The Bear for the weekly dinner.

It only takes Sydney asking why Neil looks like he's about to cry to push Natalie into an over-detailed and overly dramatic rant about the douche bag she talked to on the phone.

Around the 50-minute mark, Richie is hunched over the laptop in the office. Carmen at his side, reading over his shoulder.

"What the fuck is estoppel?"

Nobody answers.

He keeps reading, hoping that something will jump out and spark some recognition. "Pursuant?"

Again, the kitchen is silent.

"Who writes like this?" he huffs, hands coming out to flip off the laptop.

"Lawyers," Carmen responds dryly. "I hate lawyers."

Sydney laughs at this. "I don't."

Richie squints over at her. "You don't know any lawyers."

She just raises her brows, giving the men a knowing stare.

Carmen nods, not quite willing to give in to what she's implying just yet. Still, he grumbles, "I like one lawyer."

જ⁀➴

The sound of clicking gets Carmen's attention.

"Hi," you say, rounding the corner, meeting everyone as they all work on their latest creation.

Like Natalie said, you look like you were coming straight from the office. Something about it has Carmen taking a deep breath.

On Saturdays, you came into The Bear wearing beat-up sneakers, jeans, and old sweaters. It wasn't like you weren't putting effort into what you wore or how you looked, but Carmen could tell you opted to be in comfier attire when you worked here.

Now, you were standing in front of him, charcoal pencil skirt, white button-down blouse, and black heels. Your hair was pulled away from your face in a tight ponytail, something that was also different from Saturdays when you let it fall freely from your claw clip.

You looked like a lawyer.

"Sorry, we just finished up at court, or else I would've gotten here earlier," you apologize.

Natalie moves to hug you, and you let out an 'umph' as she does so. "Thank God."

"I got six missed calls," you laugh as she just squeezes you tighter. Your eyes meet Carmen's, and you share a look that would normally make him smile, but he can't right now. His eyes are still trained on you. The slightly worn look of your lipstick and the softness of your exposed legs making him freeze.

"Sorry," she says, finally letting you go.

"No, no, what's wrong?" you say, smiling still.

As Natalie starts explaining, occasionally looking to Carmen, he can't bring himself to move.

Richie notices and leans over. "You okay there, Cousin?"

The men share a look. Richie's is considerably lighter. Brows dancing and grin spreading across his face. Carmen is noticeably pissed. Eyes intense, and lips pursed.

"Did you forget how blinking works?"

Carmen glares harder, if it's even possible.

Richie grins wider, if it's even possible.

"Having a little wet—"

"Shut the fuck up." Carmen snaps, hand coming to slap Richie on the chest, but the action just makes the man laugh.

You and Natalie move to the office, both going back and forth about what the man said exactly to her earlier on the phone.

Carmen follows, hot on your heels.

Soon, though, you're settled in the office, and Natalie is dialing the number. Just as he thinks you're about to put it up to your ear, you press a button, a green light illuminating on the old phone, now on speakerphone.

Carmen's never heard you like this. Usually, your voice is dipped in honey, never sharp and tactful like it is now. Even when you introduce yourself, the words are like spitfire from your tongue.

He feels Richie's elbow nudge him and fights the urge to roll his eyes at the attention.

First, you talk with the man about the missing forms.

"It was submitted on September fourteenth," you say definitively.

"We have no record of that submission, ma'am," the man spits back, like it's a game. You smile at that.

"I have confirmation."

The line is silent for a bit before you continue.

"Would you like the confirmation number?" you ask, sickly sweet.

After the man confirms that he has the form, he continues, "This still complicates things with you alochol permit. We won't be able to issue you the permit until a month after asked date. It's a city ordinance."

"Could you point me toward the ordinance you're referring to?" you ask, like you already know the answer.

Clicking on the other line is heard, and you're scarily steady.

"Just takes a minute," the voice comes through.

"No, that's alright," you cut in immediately. "I'll wait."

By now, everyone has abandoned their stations and is camped outside the doorway. Carmen can't blame them.

"I actually can't seem to—"

"Oh, that's okay. I have it here," you speak. "It should be page thirty-seven, second paragraph."

The line is quiet again. It's a minute too long for anyone's liking but you just sit and smile.

Again, you speak into the receiver. "I can read it if that's easier."

Carmen's brows shoot up at this. His hand comes up to cover his mouth, a smile forming.

Carmen's heard you laugh. You've been at The Bear enough Saturdays now that he knows how to get you to smile and double over from just his words.

He's heard you ramble about permits. He remembers the day he set down a T.G. 15 form in front of you, and you practically vibrated with excitement, telling him it was your favorite due to how the subsections and clauses were organized.

He's heard you apologize when you interrupt someone. Too many times, he's told you to stop saying sorry, especially around him. "You got nothing to be sorry about, sweet girl." You barely spoke a word to him for five minutes after that, blush raging on your face.

But he's never heard this.

Every sentence lands exactly where you intend it to. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No nervous laugh. No fiddling with your rings. You don't rush to fill the silence. Instead, you wait. Patient and knowing.

It's incredible.

"I understand," you follow as the man on the line recalls the information. "But, respectfully, that's not what subsection C says."

Richie and Neil high-five at this. Carmen shakes his head, doesn't hide his small smile.

"Yeah, bitch. Subsection C," Richie whispers, mic-dropping, making Sydney and Marcus laugh quietly.

"Yes, I'm looking at the municipal code right now." Your voice is steady. It's the first time Carmen looks at you and really fears being on the receiving end of a lecture from you. He's sure your curt words would be much more effective than his temper tantrums.

"Get his ass," Richie speaks lowly again.

"Ma'am, I just don't think you understand how this applies in this situation." The man on the phone sounds utterly miserable, but still determined to make everyone's life a living hell.

Carmen sees you straighten up at this, your jaw ticks once, and he sucks in a breath at the sight.

"Could you hold while I read it aloud? Just so we both understand how it applies here."

Everyone around the office just stares.

Richie mouths, holy shit, and Carmen just huffs and laughs, like he can't believe you.

"Read him the whole book," the man says, just a bit too loud this time, though, earning a glare from Natalie.

"Richie," Sydney whispers.

He shrugs, "I'm supporting Counsel."

Carmen almost laughs at that.

"My mistake, I'll get that filed right away for you. There shouldn't be any delays."

"Oh."

You pause and smile.

"Wonderful. So we're all set?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you so much! Have a great day." You place the phone back in the receiver.

Carmen watches as your shoulders drop, and you smile at everyone. Not the fake smile you were giving the city guy, but a Saturday smile. The one he knows.

And the office space explodes.

"I knew it! Those dicks didn't fucking file shit right. Fuck yeah!" Richie yells out.

Sugar practically weeps, eyes closing and back finally sinking into the chair.

Sydney high-fives Marcus, both of them starting to recall moments of the conversation like a live play-by-play.

Carmen just looks at you. His entire nervous system has finally unclenched. Your eyes meet his, and you smile; this time he smiles back. "Thank you," he says simply.

"So… can you yell at my landlord?" Marcus asks, a smile on his face as he crosses his fingers.

You laugh at this, "I can't yell at everybody."

"You should, sweetheart. Fuck that was great." Richie pumps his fists in the air, earning another laugh from you.

"I got three parking tickets."

"Neil," Sydney scoffs, a smile on her face as she looks at the man.

"What? I'm just saying."

You look at Carmen again and just smile brightly, like you can't hide how you're feeling.

You begin to grab your phone off the desk and pluck your bag off the floor.

"Where are you going?" Natalie asks, her hand coming to still your movements.

"…Home?" you say, whispering like it's the wrong answer.

"It's family," Richie tells you, like it's obvious.

You blink. "What?"

"Dinner. Family dinner. You gotta stay," the man explains as you nod. "Right, cousin?"

"Yeah," Carmen breathes, not taking another second to think about what he's saying. "Stay, please,"

As you all move into the dining room, something shifts. Richie already has a chair pulled out for you, the one on Carmen's right-hand side. Marcus sets down your plate, tilting it just the right way for presentation. Tina slides silverware in front of you, undoing the napkin herself and helping you drape it across your lap. Ebra grabs you a soda, cracking open the seal for you.

They make room.

And somehow that realization makes something in Carmen's chest settle.

જ⁀➴

You got the call early this morning about the first round of permits. Everything had been submitted perfectly, allowing you to move on to the next round of paperwork. It was a long time coming, with Pete being the one to start everything 3 months back.

Now you balanced a box of assorted pastries from Frost, a cafe Carmen had offhandedly mentioned last week, ready to share them and celebrate.

Gosh, Carmen was going to be so happy. He'd been so stressed recently. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed while cutting miscellaneous vegetables or how he stared down at the workshopped menu, face twisting and setting in a grimace. You wonder if he'll send you a smile when you break the news or say something in that sweet, soft voice again. You hope that he relaxes a bit after this, lets go of this piece of the puzzle.

Pushing open the backdoor, you bite your lip in excitement. But quickly, your face drops.

"Come on, Marcus!"

You freeze at Carmen's voice. His hands are raised and you can see a vein straining on the back of his neck.

"You have to taste it!" Carmen yells. He slides the dish across the workstation. It would've slammed and shattered onto the floor if Marcus hadn't caught it.

"I did," the man insists.

Carmen groans at this. "No, taste it!"

"I did!" he fights back.

"Then what? You'd send that shit out?"

"Chef—"

"No. No excuses!"

Silence falls over the kitchen. It's not the usual response to Carmen's yelling. Usually, Sydney will step in and defend whoever's being chewed out. Tina will tell him to breathe, to take a step back. Richie might be yelling back.

But now, it's quiet. And no one is looking at him.

He tracks their eyes and sees them go over his figure, behind him.

Carmen doesn't let up at this, though. "Chef, answer me."

"Cousin..." Richie breathes out.

"What?" Carmen barks.

Now it's Sydney's turn to cringe. "Turn around."

He does.

And you're standing there, pink box cradled against your body and big eyes looking right at him.

But still, you smile at him. "Hi."

And Carmen feels sick. A wave of nausea and shame rolls through him at record time.

"I—I got the permits," you speak again.

The kitchen is still silent. Carmen swears he hears his heartbeat in his ears, the thumping making him want to clutch a hand to his chest.

"They got approved, just this morning," you continue like nothing. But Carmen sees the way your fingers strain against the box and the way you rock forward on your heels.

You saw him. The real him. The version of himself he tried so hard to keep away from you. Loud, impatient, temperamental. Fuck.

Sydney breaks the standstill energy in the room, dropping her knife and wiping her hands on her apron. She grabs your arm and leads you to the office.

Carmen hears you both as you go, the words distant even in the small kitchen.

"That's great," Sydney tells you.

"I know! Just this morning, too. Perfect news to start the day," your warm voice says. But Carmen just looks in the direction of where you had gone, not able to enjoy the news as much as you had hoped.

"She thinks I'm a psycho," he says as Richie comes up beside him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"She didn't look scared," Richie tells him, but it only makes the ache in his chest grow wider.

"Cousin. I scared her."

"No. You just embarrassed yourself."

He looks at the older man, dread evident on his features. "Thanks," he deadpans as Richie just claps him on the back once more.

Natalie appears a few minutes after you settle into the office, Sydney still sitting with you as you talk about next steps.

"I can't believe they finally passed everything through," Natalie grins as she leans back in her chair, tummy sticking out.

You hum, but look out into the hallway, hoping that maybe Carmen will come to celebrate with you.

"He'll be okay," Sydney says, snapping you out of your trance.

"Carmen?" you question dumbly as the two women share a look.

Natalie nods. "He just gets... passionate."

Sydney laughs at that. "One way to describe it."

"Like a wet cat," Natalie adds.

The comparison of a cat clawing its way out of a tub to the image of Carmen in the kitchen earlier makes you all laugh.

You had grown accustomed to people yelling in your line of work. Partners, bosses, clients. You were beginning to understand what it was really like to work in a kitchen though.

While Saturdays were usually full of paperwork, breakfast served by Carmen, and honey lavender coffee, you were starting to see the other side of things as The Bear got closer and closer to opening.

No wonder Carmen was so stressed all the time.

You had caught yourself sneaking glances at him too often these past few weeks. The bags under his eyes and the way he rolled his neck every half-hour didn't go unnoticed. Still, he was here. Working hard for everyone around him. You admired that.

On the other side of the restaurant, Carmen's hands shake. He tries applying the glaze, but keeps getting the portioning wrong, silverware clinking on the porcelain alerting everyone.

He huffs, placing the utensils down and planting them flat on the station in front of him.

"Chef?" he says to the man in front of him, and Marcus immediately looks towards him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

Marcus blinks, then grins.

"Don't worry about it. Can't believe I forgot the peach glaze," he laughs.

Carmen sighs, but doesn't feel any lighter.

"Go," Marcus urges, voice quiet, like their teenagers talking in the back of the classroom.

"Nah," Carmen says, going to pick up the brush once more and trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

"Come on, man. She was so excited."

They share a look, and Carmen can't help but laugh at the goofy face Marcus is giving him.

"Yeah, okay."

Carmen makes his way back to the office, knuckle wrapping on the door frame as she looks up from the laptop.

"Hey," he tests, and you smile immediately, like nothing had even happened.

"Hi," you say again, lightness still in your voice, but you're a bit quieter now.

"Congrats," Carmen states simply.

You laugh at that, gesturing for him to come sit with you. "Thank you."

He does, but can't quite look at you.

"Are you okay, Carmy?" you ask, and Carmen almost loses it. He knew you heard Richie call him Bear and Natalie call him Carmy, but you had never tried anything other than Carmen. The sound of the nickname coming from you made his cheeks flush.

But it wasn't just that. The three words that came before also had his mind reeling. Are you okay. Fuck, it kills him. You caught him yelling, losing it on Marcus, and now you were asking if he was okay?

He clears his throat. "Yes, sorry."

You tilt your head at this, and Carmen has half the mind to take your cheeks in between his palms just to feel the softness, the sweetness that you exude.

"For what?"

"The yelling. My yelling." He feels his chest tighten all over again at the recollection.

"You're working," you say simply, and before Carmen can open his mouth, you continue. "You should see me during cross-examinations."

You giggle a bit at this, and Carmen looks at you like a dog that was just given a bone.

"Really?" he asks, a smile playing on his features now. He can't imagine you losing it on someone, but he'd paid to see you lay into someone like they do in those old-timey court drama movies.

"Oh yeah," you tell him, biting your lip as he laughs.

You look at each other for a minute. Carmen feels the weight in his chest leave when he sees the smile on your features. He can't believe this. Can't believe you.

He's about to apologize again, you can tell by the way his hands fidget.

Gently, you cut him off. "I just... I don't like seeing you stressed."

Carmen's eyes bore into you at this. He feels something crawl up his throat.

Before he can let it take control, he hums and sucks his teeth.

"Thank you again. And good work," he states, gathering himself from the office chair, getting ready to head out to the kitchen again.

Your heart skips a beat at the praise, and you just nod as he leaves.

You watch him disappear back into the kitchen before finally looking down at the permits again. The words blur for a second. You smile despite yourself.

જ⁀➴

You decide around lunchtime to stay late and work on organizing yourself for the next few weeks. With the permits submitted and accepted, you were moving on to stage two, acquiring all the contracts needed for the menu and daily operations.

You had sat with Carmen for a large chunk of time, going over potential vendors who could give you the best quality and best price. With the few names he gave, you made sure to draft a few key points for the upcoming contracts.

But when the lights in the kitchen cut in half, you look up from your laptop for the first time in what seems like hours.

Packing everything up into your bag and rubbing your eyes, you can feel the exhaustion setting in. By the time you step into the hallway, everyone's stations are clean, and the only sound that can be heard is drilling with the occasional 'fuck!' from Neil.

Carmen rounds the corner and takes you in. You're noticeably softer than you were this morning, makeup a little worn and smudged, and more strands of hair frame your face than usual. Still, he pauses and takes a breath when he sees you.

You look tired. And somehow, you look even prettier than you did this morning.

"You heading out?" he asks, and you nod immediately.

Still, you supply him with a small, "yeah." Carmen can see the sleep dipping into your features from the long day.

He gestures for you to follow him out the back, and you do. He can hear you padding behind him, and it brings a small smile to his face.

As soon as he pushes open the door, the winter wind of Chicago greets you. Carmen watches as you shiver, and before you can protest, he's shrugging off his jacket.

"Oh, Carmen—" you start, but he just drapes the thick material over your shoulders.

"Take it," he says simply, tugging the collar up to your neck to protect you from the breeze. His fingers graze your cheek, and Carmen can't help but think about how soft you feel.

And it's hard to say no. The jacket is warm, and it smells just like him. Smoke, generic laundry detergent, and surprisingly cardamom. The blend makes you relax as you inhale it.

Carmen watches as you settle into the fabric. It swallows you, and he can admit that the sight does something to his stomach.

He scratches the back of his neck before speaking, arms bare now, only the tight white T-shirt against his figure. "About today. I didn't… I didn't want you to see that. But thank you for what you said."

Softening at his words, you can see the lingering stress in his figure, the day having took it's toll on him. "I have tough days too," you tell him, completely honest.

He nods at this, but you see the way his fingers flex against his thighs.

"I don't think any less of you, Carmen," you continue, hands itching to reach out from the confines of the big pockets to take his in your grasp.

The man looks at you once more, but this time, it's like he's been destroyed by your words. Carmen's eyes are a bit glassy, and his hands are shaking now. But instead of sadness, you find relief in his expression. Like something had been settled within him.

A car hisses through wet streets, momentarily bringing you out of the moment. The dewy and cold air amplifies the noise in the otherwise silent moment.

But neither of you moves. Instead, you just watch the other.

Your nose is pink from the cold. Carmen sees the way it scrunches every few seconds, like you did in the office a few weeks ago. He had been waiting to see it again.

His jacket hangs off your shoulders. The piece of clothing looks good on you, looks like it belongs. He can't even fathom ever wearing it again.

And, God, the way you look at him with those impossibly soft eyes. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. Carmen can see their fullness under the harsh lights of the parking lot lampposts.

He's leaning forward before he realizes he's decided to.

And you don't move away.

Your eyes flicker down to his lips. A bit chapped, but still a pretty pink. It's enough for him bend down, to meet you halfway.

You can feel his hot breath on your cheeks, and you let your eyes begin to flutter shut.

"Carmy!"

The back door flies open.

"Carmy!" Neil's voice practically echoes into the space between you as you jump apart.

Your heart races at the sudden intrusion, like you had been caught doing something you weren't supposed to do.

Besides you, Carmen sighs before answering. "…Yeah?" Carmen's voice cracks as he peels his eyes away from you and to interruption in front of the doorway.

Before Neil can answer, you're handing Carmen back his jacket and turning on your heels.

"Goodnight!" you call out, waving at the pair, not quite able to face Carmen as he sends you a devastating look.

"Night, Counsel!" Neil cheers back.

But Carmen can't get himself to say anything back. The jacket, even though only been in your possession for less than 10 minutes, smells like you.

Lavender.

The scent makes him reel. He closes his eyes for just a second.

"You coming?" Neil asks.

Carmen opens them again and nods, watching as you pull out of the lot, taillights disappearing down the street. "Yeah."

જ⁀➴

By now, arriving at The Bear had become routine. You'd push through the back door. Marcus would wave without looking up. Tina would already be sliding your coffee across the counter. Neil would yell hello from somewhere you couldn't see. Ebra would quietly ask if you had time for "one legal question."

And Carmen.

Carmen was almost always waiting with a plate.

"Try this."

Every Saturday. Without fail.

When you dug into the dish and tasted whatever he had given you, you'd always hum. Carmen seemed to enjoy this, a half smile on his face as you chewed.

So when he isn't there, you notice immediately. You glance around the kitchen, expecting him to appear from the walk-in. Venturing farther into the restaurant, you reach the front. Maybe he was here, helping with whatever furniture had arrived.

"Where's Carmen?" you ask Richie, who'd been rearranging chairs with all the grace of a forklift.

A grin spreads across his face as he pauses to face you. "Oh, sweetheart."

You blink. "What?" At this, he comes closer to you, like he's about to share a secret.

He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "Just…"

Another laugh comes out of the man. Less contained this time.

"He's fixing his hair."

You stare. "What?"

Richie's grin somehow grows at your expression.

"Been in and outta the bathroom for fifteen fuckin' minutes," he half-whispers.

"Carmen?" you ask with a furrowed brow.

"Mhm," he hums, as if he's proud to share this tidbit with you. "You called Sugar sayin' you were five minutes away."

You feel warmth creep into your cheeks at the recollection. "I did."

"And suddenly this asshole discovers mirrors."

"Richie."

"Oh, yeah." Richie leans closer like he's sharing classified information. "Been wetting it down."

You try, really try, not to smile. "He what?"

"Wetting it down. Shakin' it out. Lookin' at himself." Richie mimes fluffing curls in front of an imaginary mirror. "'Does this look okay?'" He switches into a surprisingly accurate Carmy impression.

Your jaw drops at this, unable to imagine this version of Carmen.

Another fake mirror check. "'Maybe if I—nah.'"

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Richie."

"I'm tellin' you." He throws both hands into the air. "Fifteen minutes."

"Cousin!" The shout echoes through the restaurant, and you find yourself bringing a hand to cover your grin.

Richie doesn't even flinch. "What?" he yells back.

"Shut the fuck up!"

"I ain't say nothin'!"

"You literally are!"

You laugh, facing away from Carmen enters the space. Richie joins you, laughing into his elbow, disguising it as a cough.

When you look up, you can't help but notice how Carmen's curls sit suspiciously well today.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as Richie keeps giggling to himself. You've opted to just smile at the man.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He turns in the direction of the office. As you walk next to him, your shoulder brushes his.

Quietly, you murmur, "I like your hair."

Carmen stops walking for half a second. His ears turn bright red.

Behind him, Richie catches your eye. He points triumphantly at Carmen, then at his own hair. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing again.

જ⁀➴

The text you sent Carmen last night, telling him you wouldn't be in until noon, had him a bit worried. Usually, whenever you texted, you left little emojis or smiley faces at the end of every sentence. But this text had come in at 1:48 AM and was unaccompanied by any yellow faces.

Maybe you went out last night, Carmen tries to reason. Although that thought doesn't send him much comfort. The idea of you drinking and swapping stories with someone at a bar until 1 in the morning didn't sit well with him, especially since he had never seen you like that.

You'd never mentioned a partner. And you had talked about your friends quite a bit. So maybe you were out with them, let time run away from you. But Carmen remembers you saying that most of them were still out in New York. His friend's theory came to a crumbling halt.

Maybe you were sick. Caught something at work earlier that week and just needed a bit of extra rest this morning. 7 AM was a brutal wake-up time even without a runny nose and pounding headache. Maybe you were curled up in your apartment, chills running through your body as you curled up in that patchwork hoodie you had sported a few weeks ago.

But this also makes him frown. The thought of you suffering alone in the snowy Chicago winter with a sore throat and no one to help you warm up with some blankets.

"Jeff, you good?" Tina asks from beside him, effectively snapping Carmen out of his trance.

"Yeah, sorry. Thanks, Chef," Carmen says with a small voice as he gets back to whisking the mixture in front of him.

Well, whether it was a cold or a hangover, Carmen would have something prepared for you as soon as you walked in the door. Maybe chicken noodle soup, although that seemed a little on the nose. Something like a wrap could be good, full of superfoods and veggies to help you recharge. But who wants kale when they feel like they're about to throw up?

"Chef, can you take over?" he asks Tina, abandoning his station and moving through the kitchen to collect items for your meal.

She just nods and sends Sydney a look, both women easily catching on to what was making Carmen so distracted today.

જ⁀➴

Trying to be quiet as you enter the building, you pad into the office, not bothering to make your rounds and say hello to everyone.

But as soon as you settle into the squeaky office chair, there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," you call, voice a little hoarse.

Just as you suspected, Carmen comes into the space. He holds a bowl in one hand, big palm underneath it, making the dish look minuscule. And in the other is a plate, fingers gently holding the porcelain.

"Hey," he says simply, placing the food down in front of you.

"Hey," you parrot, hoping to fall back into your easy routine.

You take a minute to look at it and sigh deeply. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. A childhood favorite you mentioned to the man offhandedly more than a month ago.

"Figure you might be under the weather. Just making sure you get something to eat," Carmen explains when you don't speak. His actions meant to comfort you, ease some part of your body.

But his words seem to have the opposite effect as he watches your eyes get teary. When the first tear slips down your cheek and the pout in your lips starts to tremble, Carmen freezes.

It takes him a few seconds to catch up and see what's happening.

"You okay?"

The question only makes the tears fall faster as your body starts to shake.

"Sorry," you manage to get out. "I'm sorry." Wiping furiously at your cheeks.

Wide eyed, Carmen sucks in a breath. He knows he should comfort you, be fucking normal. But he just stands there, not wanting to crowd you.

When your breathing becomes clipped, all the thoughts of awkwardness leave his brain.

Carmen wraps his arms around your shoulders, bringing you close to his body. He feels your hands grasp at his white T-shirt as they find their way around his waist. The position is a bit awkward, but Carmen wouldn't dare move from his spot until you let go.

He feels his neck begin to get wet as your body wracks against him. The sounds that slip through your lips, little whimpers and harsh sighs, nearly make him cry. At a particularly heartbreaking noise, his hand comes up to the back of your head, cradling it and stroking your hair lightly.

You stay like that for what must be 10 minutes. Carmen doesn't try talking again, just lets you hang off of him and bury yourself further into his chest. He feels your hands start to loosen their grip and your breathing return to normal, and it's only then that he pulls back a little bit to take a look at you.

Your eyes are red-rimmed, and your lips are still a little wobbly. He ticks his jaw at the sight of your wet cheeks, his thumb coming up to wipe them gently. It had been weeks since he felt their softness.

"What's going on, sweet girl?" he tries again.

When you sigh again, Carmen thinks he might've made the wrong choice by asking another question. But instead, you look at him for the first time that day, and Carmen's heart breaks all over again.

"I lost." Your voice is raw, and if he wasn't so close, nearly pressed up against you, he would've missed it.

"Your case? McDowell?" He recalls the name from a few weeks ago, but he almost wishes he didn't, as it sends another set of tears down your face. This time, his thumb is there to catch them before they drip down your cheek.

"Mhm," you tremble in his hold.

"I'm sorry," he says, eyes never leaving yours. "I know you worked really hard on that."

This makes you laugh, but Carmen can tell it's bitter.

"He yelled at me after. Told me I was incompetent. Not cut out for this."

Your words make Carmen's hands tighten their hold on you.

Your breath hitches as you continue, "I keep thinking he's right."

"No," he says immediately.

"Carmy," you start, but a squeeze to your shoulder, you quiet again.

"They're wrong," Carmen speaks definitively. "I've seen you work."

"That's easy stuff," you mumble, leaning into his touch more and more.

"You come in here every Saturday with, like…" He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of folders on your desk. "A million forms."

Now your head rests on his chest again, and you can hear his heart thump wildly as he talks.

"You know every deadline. Every permit. Every whatever the fuck those city codes are."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches.

"You argue with people on the phone, and they apologize to you."

Another tiny laugh escapes you.

He chuckles at that. "Nothing about anything you do is easy. He's wrong."

You nod at his words, but a few tears still slip past.

"C'mere," he says softer. You melt into his hold as the last few tears soak his shirt, hands coming back around you.

As soon as the sobs subside, Carmen pulls your chair with one strong arm up to the desk again.

"Eat," he tells you. The bowl of tomato soup and grilled cheese is considerably colder now, but you can still smell the butter on the bread and the fresh pepper garnishing the soup.

Picking up the sandwich, you take a bite and smile for the first time today.

"You always feed me," you tell him, teasing lit in your voice that makes Carmen happy.

"You're always hungry," Carmen responds without thinking. When you send him an amused look, he immediately backtracks. "No, that's— that's not what I meant. You just, you're just always ready to eat."

"Wow," you smile as Carmen's face turns beet red.

"No, no," he waves his hands, laughing a bit. "That came out wrong."

"Yeah, thanks, Carmen," you laugh openly now.

"I just— Sugar told me, after the first few weeks, you can't cook," he offers, but you just send him another look.

"Now you're insulting my cooking," you deadpan, but Carmen can see a faint smile on your lips.

"That's not what I mean." Carmen can't help but laugh as you shake your head and take another bite. "I just want you to eat. Want you to take care of yourself."

"Are you keeping tabs on me?" you ask and Carmen just shrugs.

"No," he says too quickly. But it wasn't true.

The entire time Carmen had known you, he had been noticing. He notices how, after you drink coffee in the morning, you get a little jittery and can't stop tapping your feet for at least an hour. He notices when you're about to run out of sticky notes, finding himself browsing on Amazon for the particular kind you like, having them ready for the next time you come in. He notices how you always pause before eating whatever he sets in front of you. Your eyes bounce all over the plate, taking everything in before you take a bite.

It was only after the third week of honey lavender lattes that Carmen realized, you don't eat much.

"They're all like that," Natalie told him one night as they cleaned up the office. "Pete barely remembered to drink water when he was in the running for partner."

"Jesus," Carmen sighed. He didn't like the idea of you running on fumes alone.

"Yeah, but she's especially bad. Pete and I try to have her over every other week for dinner when she told him she only buys frozen meals."

"You're joking," Carmen cringes at the thought.

But his sister just shakes her head. "Nope. Just doesn't really have the time or energy to cook."

"Maybe," he tells you, scratching awkwardly at his neck.

"Thank you." Your voice is small, but Carmen nods at the words, staying at your side until you finish eating.

જ⁀➴

It's Sunday. After yesterday's late lunch at The Bear and crying into Carmen's chest, he had sent you home without a second thought. Today, though, you spent the day cleaning around your apartment, something that was always soothing and let you feel like you were in control again.

Toweling off from a much-deserved shower, you heard a knock at your door.

Barefoot and still wrapped in your worn but soft towel, you pad down the hallway to look out the peephole of your apartment. Maybe it was Mrs. Crawford needing to borrow some sugar, or maybe it was a delivery man.

What you didn't expect to see was Carmen standing in the hallway of your building, grocery bags at his side.

Carmen hears the clicking of a chain, and a few seconds later, your door opens.

"Hi," you say with a smile. But Carmen can only focus on the way your hair drips down your shoulder and your pretty bare face. It's the most skin he's ever seen from you, the towel not doing much to cover your dewy skin.

He sees the small scar across your left knee and is curious about how you got it. Then his eyes find the small freckles and beauty marks littered up from your arms to your shoulders and chest. He wants to count all of them. And your hair, it's always so put together, but now the ends are curled a bit from the water, and Carmen wonders how you wear it outside of work.

"Hey," he finally manages. "I was at the farmers market… bought too much."

You look at the six completely full grocery bags in his hands and just smile. "Right," you say, beckoning him inside your place.

As Carmen slips off his shoes, he takes in the simplicity yet warmth of the apartment. Little candles everywhere, too many lamps to count, fun patterned carpets. It's so you in the best way.

You try to reach for some of the bags, but Carmen dodges you and plants them on your kitchen island in one go. You try not to look at his muscles straining, but you can't help it. The navy blue tee around his figure is new for you, as you've only ever seen him in white.

"So, what'd you get me, Chef?" you tease.

Carmen blushes at the name, never having heard it from your mouth but liking it instantly.

"Some fruits and vegetables, sourdough bread, local honey and jam, and some pasta," he tells you as you sift through the canvas bags.

As you reach to grab the honey, your towel begins to slip down your frame. Quickly, your hand comes up to catch it.

"Oh—"

You look to Carmen, smiling at the moment, but immediately his eyes shoot straight to the ceiling.

"Sorry," he spits out.

"Why are you apologizing?"

His ears turn bright red. "I don't know."

He can hear you chuckle lightly, but it only increases the blush that's spreading across his face.

"I'm gonna go change, be right back." And with that, you're padding down the hallway as Carmen tries to regain some sense of properness.

He begins to unpack all of the goods, laying them out around the kitchen. As he sets down the fresh basil plant near the sink, he feels your touch on his arm. Turning, he faces you and drinks you in. You're in a pajama set now. A blue tank top and capri pants decorated with white flowers and strawberries. It's adorable. You're adorable.

"Carmen, this is..." You look around the kitchen at everything he's brought over.

Tomatoes. Garlic. Fresh basil. Pasta. Olive oil. Parmesan. Lemons. Eggs. Butter.

"Yeah?" he asks, reveling in your touch, at being so close to you.

"This isn't groceries. This is meal planning," you laugh out.

"Maybe," he says, just like he had yesterday. "But you said you eat frozen dinners."

His face twists as the words come out, like the thought of it personally offends him.

You laugh. A real Saturday laugh. Something that Carmen was missing yesterday.

"That doesn't mean I'm going to know what to do with all this."

"Well, what are you doing now? I could teach you a dish," he suggests and you find yourself nodding instantly.

"Yes, yeah. I just," you pause and close your eyes for a minute. "I'm really bad."

"I doubt it."

But Carmen is eating his words no less than 15 minutes into this endeavor. First, he tasks you with cutting up half an onion. When you begin dicing, the knife slips from your hand and lands on the floor, an inch away from his foot.

He moves you over to the pasta instead. Just stirring occasionally. But when he turns his back for two seconds, the water is boiling over and he's manhandling you out of the way to turn down the stove.

Carmen thinks you can handle the bread. All you have to do is watch the toaster. The bread gets a bit stuck, and just as he's about to jostle the machine, you reach to get it out with a fork. A metal fork. Carmen grasps your wrist firmly before you can even get the prongs near it.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out.

"It would've been fine," you argue.

"No. No, you would've been electrocuted."

Finally, he sets you down in front of the sauce. Everything is already done, and the pot is just a low simmer, still he tells you to stir.

"You're so different here."

You look over at him as he begins to plate the now finished pasta. "What?"

"At work, you're so sure. You walk into a room, and everybody listens."

You shrug. "I know what I'm doing there. This," you gesture to the kitchen around you, "is terrifying."

Carmen laughs at that, and you share a smile with him.

"It's weird," you start, looking back down at the saucepan.

"What?" he hums, full attention on you.

"I don't really know how to stop," you admit. Suddenly, the music from your old radio and the open window ushering in the sounds of the city fall away. "I wake up thinking about work. I go to sleep thinking about work. Sometimes I don't even realize I've skipped dinner until I'm brushing my teeth."

You laugh at that last part, but Carmen just purses his lips.

"It's exhausting," you sigh. "But it's also the only thing I'm really good at."

The words feel too familiar for Carmen. He sees the way your shoulders roll, and your posture straightens as the words sink in. "Yeah."

He doesn't know what to say, how to tell you that he understands. He doesn't want to think about it too hard.

"Me too," is what he finally settles on after a few seconds of silence. "I don't really know who I am if I'm not cooking." The confession hangs in the air, and you're back to looking at him, even if it's for a brief second, recognition flashing across your face.

The sauce spits and you yelp.

Sauce lands on your shirt, your cheeks, your nose. And you can't help but start laughing. Even as it still bubbles up from beside you.

Carmen is quick to move across the kitchen and turn off the stove. You attempt to wipe away what's reached your face, but your hands are also compromised, only making the redness smear more across your features.

Carmen watches you for a second, just smiling. Really smiling.

Reaching for a towel, he wipes your hands firmly, but gently. Stepping closer, he focuses on your face now.

"Hold on."

You freeze at his voice; it's low and steady as he take you face into his grasp.

His thumb brushes your cheek first. Then the bridge of your nose. All the sauce is wiped off now. But Carmen doesn't let go of your face, fingers lingering on your features.

You watch his blue eyes become consumed by his dark pupils. And again, your eyes dart down to his lips.

The air around you is heavy, charged. But when his lips part to suck in a quick breath, you lean forward, closing the distance.

His lips are soft, just like you thought they would be. But you don't linger when you feel him still against you.

Pulling away, you laugh nervously.

Carmen looks at you, and you can't quite tell what he's thinking.

"I think..." he starts, hand coming up to cup your cheek, settling you a bit. "You taste like tomatoes."

You laugh, really laugh at this. Carmen laughs with you and you can't help but admire the way his eyes crinkle shut when he throws his head back a bit.

"Yeah?" you tease.

"Mhm," he smiles, thumb stroking your cheek gently. And you can't stop looking at him. The way his curls fall, the intensity of his stare, the faint blush on his cheeks. It draws you in.

Carmen almost moves to pinch himself. He can't believe he's standing in your kitchen, holding you so close. He's thought about what it would feel like to kiss you, but once you had moved to press your lips against his own, he froze.

Now he wants more.

"Come 'ere," he says softly.

For a second time, your lips lock, and this time he's pressing into you. It's longer. More certain. Like he's found something in you that he doesn't want to let go of.

When you finally pull apart, the pasta has gone cold, but neither of you seems to mind.

"Guess we're eating lukewarm pasta," you murmur, smiling a bit, still feeling the lingering heat of his kiss.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

“Why?” You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben who’s scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.

“Uncle Scott,” he beams in greeting.

Scott matches that expression, the sweetest he’s ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. “Hey, big man, what’re you working on?”

“Me, mom, and dog.”

“Dog, huh?” he chuckles, “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. You’re going to strangle this man. “Let’s talk about it after dinner, bud.” Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. “A word?”

He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christ— “What are you doing?”

“Unpacking groceries.”

You pinch his side. He’s built like a brick wall, he doesn’t even flinch. “Scott.”

He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.

“Why are you here? What is all this?”

“Groceries.”

“Don’t be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?”

“To spend time with you.” He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so he’s putting all the things in all the right places.

“I’m serious,” you hiss.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again who’s back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. “We can’t—” you take a deep breath, “Listen, Ben is young. He’s going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.”

“Would that be so bad?”

The question infuriates you. You scowl, “Are you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? He’s going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. There’s a reason why I don’t bring around just anyone to meet him.”

Scott’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. “You bring others around to meet him?”

“I— no, that’s not what I meant. Jenna’s really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I don’t— I’m careful about who I expose him to. I don’t want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldn’t have his heart broken because people disappear on him.”

He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.

“Who says I’m leaving again?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. “What’re you talking about?”

“Storm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. I’ve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.” He looks a little too pleased when he says, “I need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.”

“You’re not—” Your breath hitches in your throat, “you’re not considering moving back, are you?”

A proud look settles on his face. “Just signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. How’s this neighborhood? I don’t remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?”

“Scott,” you snap. “That’s insane. You can’t just— that’s crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, you’re deciding to stay here? On a whim? What’s wrong with you?”

“Not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve… just decided it’s the right move.”

“In one night?”

“I don’t need more time than that.”

You give him a look. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s efficient decision-making.”

“Scott.”

“What’s for dinner? Does he have any allergies?”

“Scott.”

He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. “We can spend all night arguing about this but it’s a done deal. I like Boston, I’ve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?” Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, “I’ve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and I’m not just going to change my mind.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.

Scott’s eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. It’s a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.

However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way they’re parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.

“Should put more on you,” he mutters.

“What?” You jerk back, confused.

“Nothing. Dinner? I don’t know how to cook.”

“Then get your own damn dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”

He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. “But I bought groceries.”

“That I didn’t ask for.”

“I fuckin’ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. “If you wanted to fuck, just say so.”

His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesn’t catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. “Can you not say insane things when my son is around?”

“Always picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,” he smirks.

Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.

“Now, what do you need help with?”

Scott’s reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that you’re not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that you’ve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkers’ curious eyes on you when you’re pulling up every morning in Scott’s stupidly shiny car.

“Have a good day at work, honey,” he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.

The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, you’re bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.

He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.

“Why not?”

“Scott. You can’t just come here everyday, he’s going to get confused. You are not family.”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“Fine. Every other day, but full weekends.”

It’s a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.

The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.

He’s smart and answers all of Ben’s questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, he’s absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.

“I’ll protect him, don’t worry,” is all he says.

You still worry.

Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress he’s made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.

“You can’t spoil him too much,” you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. It’s the fourth in two weeks.

“He’s a kid. He likes toys.”

“You can’t spoil him,” you mutter.

Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you can’t just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. It’s not as if you’re not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.

Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that he’s itching every time Ben mentions something new he’s curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.

Otherwise, he’s good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.

You tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know he’s the father. It’s less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.

Scott has pressed again, of course — who’s the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support — to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers he’s looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks he’ll wear you down eventually.

Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He can’t possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. You’re convinced that in the next couple of weeks, he’ll realize that this pretend domesticity isn’t the life he wants, and he’ll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you won’t be disappointed.

As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, you’ll be fine.

(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll actually believe your own words.)

However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so there’s nothing really to give away.

Or so you think.

You’re caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your mother’s efforts to inquire more about Scott. She’s been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever she’s here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.

“You know, she is very single. Incredibly single.”

“Mother!”

“I’m aware,” Scott smirks. “Refuses to let me change that.”

You don’t appreciate the way he’s looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.

Heat unfurls across your face and you’re quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.

But now that she’s not here, she’s still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, “Your birthday’s in Decem—”

You don’t think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.

By the time you look up, Scott’s already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.

It’s not a question. He knows. He’s not a fool.

Born the December in the year that you graduated college, it’s not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, it’s not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.

The two of you don’t address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. You’re running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body can’t seem to handle this stress very well.

You have maybe an hour left before Ben’s due for bed and you’re half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scott’s anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.

The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and you’re getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.

He’s being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your son’s face before you exit the room — for good luck.

When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesn’t ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.

“He’s mine.”

You clear your throat. “Technically, he’s mine.”

“Don’t fucking act cute with me right now,” he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. “That’s my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wincing, you take a step away from him. “Can we not do this?”

“Like hell I’m letting this slide. You’ve got to be shittin’ me. That’s my kid. Ben is mine.”

The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. “You’re the father. Doesn’t make him yours.”

You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?” You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.

“You’ve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesn’t matter.”

“I was going to,” you begin, “tell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.”

Scott looks at you, completely aghast. “Timing never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“It would’ve changed everything!”

Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger you’ve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.

Hurt.

The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.

Scott breathes out. “I would’ve been here for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“You never asked,” he spits out, “you never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didn’t even know why.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” you argue.

“It would’ve been fair,” he insists. “You should’ve trusted me to make my own judgment call.”

Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You can’t seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you murmur. “Between me and your dream.” The unsaid words being I didn’t want to watch you choose your dream over me.

Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. He’s become an even bigger person than you could’ve imagined.

What right did you have to hold him back from all that?

“Again, that’s not for you to decide,” he sighs, “Have you ever considered they’re one and the same?” Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. “You’re an idiot,” Scott mutters. “So fuckin’ stupid.”

You press your lips together into a thin line. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“Does he know?”

With a shake of your head, you lean back. “No, he’s been… pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. It’s only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.”

“I can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.”

Wincing, you swallow thickly. “You don’t have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You don’t have to feel like you have to participate.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?” He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. “Like I don’t want to be here. For him. For you.”

“I— I just don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

“Sweetheart,” he begins and your heart feels like it’s been dipped in syrup, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’ve been present, haven’t I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think I’m going to change my mind?”

“It’s different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here as— as his dad! As a parent.”

Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. “Tell me how it’s different.”

“A fun uncle is not a co-parent.”

“So I want to co-parent.”

“You don’t know what that means.”

“It means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means you’re not doing this alone.”

A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.

“So I’m going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to piss you off, you’re going to piss me off, but we’ll make it work.”

You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. “Maybe if we don’t kill each other first.”

His lips curve into a smirk. “You can’t kill me. I’m your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didn’t work.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

He laughs. “Don’t forget the father of your child.”

Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that he’s Ben’s father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that he’s doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.

He likes it when he can put you in your place.

“Some friend you are,” you grunt.

Scott’s rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. “We’re not friends. We haven’t been for a while.”

“That’s… mean,” you whimper.

“The things I want to do with you — to you — they’re not things friends do.”

There’s a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.

It’s hard to breathe when he’s this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you can’t help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.

Heaven have mercy.

“Things are different now,” you gulp.

“You think I still can’t make you cum three times in a night?”

Your lips part. “That’s not—” Heat climbs up your throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Scott chuckles. “I hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. You’re stupid if you think I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”

“Just because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.”

His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. “Why not?”

“Because Ben will always come first and we can’t… just keep fucking.”

“Again, why not?”

Because I’m in love with you. Because I’m going to get my heart broken again.

“I want to maintain some boundaries. It’ll be better for us that way.”

Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. “Okay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.”

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be helpin’ you do that,” he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. “Better prepare yourself, sweetheart. I’m not here to protect your walls. I’m here to break them down.”

“We should go out.”

Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Ben’s room where he’s safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott who’s on his own laptop on the dining table. “Like to get groceries?”

“No, for dinner.”

You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. “There’s a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.”

“Finally letting me in two days in a row?” Scott cocks an eyebrow.

A glare is all he gets in return.

“I meant us. Just the two of us.”

Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. “Why?”

“So I can take you out.”

“Why?”

“To spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.”

Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.

However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, “Why?”

“How old are you?” Scott snaps.

“I don’t think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.”

“Why not?”

It’s your turn to give him a look. “We are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.”

“But we’re friends first.”

“I think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I can’t be doing that with you. Not alone.” 

He knows you’re being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesn’t take the bait. 

“You know what, you’re right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.”

Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.

It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When he’s trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like you’ve been trained. He doesn’t say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when he’s excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter you’re making.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldn’t mean anything. You shouldn’t be reacting this way. You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a while since you got laid last — unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.

But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you can’t miss. He’s slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while you’re mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scott’s glare. In the car, he’s sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.

And god do you fucking love it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you haven’t had anyone in your corner reminding you that they’re there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because it’s Scott and you were in love with Scott.

You tell yourself it’s all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.

But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you can’t help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when you’re walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.

How he doesn’t even blink twice when you tell him a colleague — that same one that he had scared away — had asked you out to dinner.

The frustration builds inside of you, like he’s crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.

You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him — subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.

So, by the time he suggests it again, he’s Pavlov’d you to seek his attention. Fucker.

“Do you want to spend the day together?”

You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like he’s done something good.

“You did this on purpose.”

“What did I do?”

He knows exactly what he did. “All of it.”

“Come on. Get dressed.”

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” you snap.

“Nowhere you need anything fancy,” he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.

You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before he’s driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that you’re wrung up too tight.

Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.

“I got you a massage appointment.”

You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. “What? Why?”

“Thought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt you’ve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.”

At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that he’s done something right — that he knew exactly what you needed.

“Now get going, they’re not gonna find another timeslot for you.”

With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is… divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.

By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that it’s been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.

“Good?” is all he asks.

You nod slowly.

“Good,” he smiles, “now, let’s get you ready for dinner.”

Scott tells you that he’s taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that it’s for your sake.

But you can’t deny that when you see Scott drink you in — how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin — that it might’ve been for him too.

You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere you’re going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.

“What? You would’ve preferred steak and fries at Del Frisco’s?” He’s chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.

Before you can reach for your door, Scott’s rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.

He’s a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott — the condescending prick that he is — orders for you, except he orders right. You’ve been eyeing that dish but you couldn’t do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite — it’s nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.

You’re warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isn’t weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.

You know what’s coming. A proposition — as always. You’re going to say yes — as always. He’s always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.

It still works on you, considering you’re feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.

However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. “Have a good night, sweetheart.” Then he’s slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.

You find yourself saying, “Wait,” before you can even think twice.

Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

You should have more self-restraint. But when he’s looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, you’re only human.

“What is it?”

You fidget with the handle of your purse. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s waiting to see your next move.

“You’re not gonna stay?”

Scott’s lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Doesn’t sound like you do,” he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.

You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means you’ll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.

“Do you want to come up?”

It’s comical how quickly he whirls around to say, “Don’t mind if I do.”

The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.

Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. It’s one thing to have someone watching you, it’s another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.

You don’t even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scott’s hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.

“Fuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,” he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like he’s zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.

You’re no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.

“You got… bigger,” you note in a daze. It’s ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and it’s certainly not from the wine. It’s his scent — masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You can’t help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.

“A lot of time lugging around equipment out there,” he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. “Always getting drenched in the storms.”

Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.

God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. That’s a visual you’d rather keep to yourself.

Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like he’s inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.

“Love kissing you,” he mutters, “missed doing this. I want to do this everyday.”

You’re about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.

His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. “Missed these pretty tits too. Couldn’t get enough of them last time.” He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like he’s trying to coax it out.

As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.

“Hands on the counter.”

“Bossy,” you murmur, but do so anyway.

Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until you’re a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.

“I’ve been hard all night lookin’ at you in that pretty dress,” Scott growls, “knew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldn’t wait to take it off you.”

You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties that’s quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.

“Imagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didn’t go back and do the job myself,” he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.

A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”

Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. “Stop bein’ so tense. You’re undoing all of that woman’s hard work.” Your eyes light up briefly. “I wasn’t going to let some other man touch you. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re such a possessive asshole,” you let out a breathless laugh, “it’s just a massage.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, this—” he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. “You’re so goddamn wet.”

Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you can’t help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.

“You’re so much easier when you’re not stressed.”

That snaps you awake. “Oh, fuck you.”

Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. “Just like that,” he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. He’s rough and he’s messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re dripping all over the counter. You’re so messy, pretty girl.”

“S-Scott,” you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I c-can’t, mmm, please.”

“I know, I know, still so tight, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. “Better than dessert.”

“You’re so corny—” your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until you’re bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until you’re shuddering against him. “Fuck, Scott, wait, slow down.”

Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve — except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach that’s rising and falling with your labored breaths.

His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and there’s no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. “Look at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. She’s droolin’, sweetheart.”

As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until he’s back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until he’s practically suffocating in your cunt.

It’s the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well you’re enjoying it when you’re grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.

That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth — it’s only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because — of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.

Scott scowls up at you, “You’re tensing up again, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out, pressing your lips together.

He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” you snap irritably. Great, now you’re thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat he’s probably fucked the same way he did you.

“You just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I won’t fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, “Holding sex hostage? Real mature.” Well, two can play that game. “If you won’t fuck me, I’m sure I’ve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.”

Scott’s eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. “Yeah? You wanna try that again with me?” Your mouth dries. “Sweetheart, you’re cute if you think I’m letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“You’re mine,” he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.

But you can’t deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesn’t stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.

“Love fucking you just like this,” he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. “Maybe I can put another baby in you.”

“Scott!” You gasp.

“Fuck, I wasn’t even around when you were pregnant. I’d do it right this time. Make sure you’re taken care of — however that may be. Heard the first trimester’s roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you won’t have the mouth to talk back to me.”

Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scott’s unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.

“I could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want — not like I didn’t already,” he chuckles, “no more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?”

“You’re— fuck, you’re insane.”

Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. “So fuckin’ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Can’t wait to do that again.”

The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.

“S-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.”

“Please, please just move,” you whine.

“I know, baby, but I can’t fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,” Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. “I gotta go easy on her. She’s not used to being filled up, is she?”

You call him an asshole in your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.

“Pretty girl hasn’t had anyone taking care of her in a while.”

“I can take care of myself just fine,” you defend with a snap.

“Yeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesn’t feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.” Scott smirks, “Maybe I should’ve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. I’d make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ain’t the same as the real thing.”

“You’re so fucking gross,” you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.

“What does it say about you when I can feel you chokin’ out my cock at the thought of it?” He laughs, taunting. “You’re as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?”

Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.

“Shit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,” he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. “You still on the pill?”

You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.

Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. “Didn’t do us much good last time though, huh? It’s alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages that’ll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.”

It’s disgusting, The thought of returning favors when he’s the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you can’t seem to contain.

“Don’t need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,” he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. “Make sure you and our baby are good. Don’t you worry.”

“F-fuck you,” you stutter as he drives back into you.

The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, you’re getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. “That’s right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. You’re already so cockdrunk, you won’t even know. I’m not letting you out of here until it takes.”

That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. “Shit, Scott— hold on.”

“Can’t do that,” he grunts, “pussy feels too good. Can’t get enough of this hole. I’m going to fill you up, baby. You’re gonna be leakin’ my cum for days. Maybe I’ll send you to get another massage and they’ll see you dripping my cream.”

Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. He’s driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.

“I’m gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.”

“Breed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.”

“This pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You don’t need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.”

It’s filthy. It’s demeaning. It’s a fucking turn-on.

“‘M gonna— shit, Scott, hnnng, please, gonna cum.”

“Yeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?”

You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.

“Cum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what it’s like to have my girl feel so good because of me.”

Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until you’re climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.

“Fuck,” he groans, “cumming so much, sweetheart. Fillin’ her right up.”

Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.

Scott’s hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until he’s sure everything’s out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like he’s making sure his cum stays in there.

He eases out of you slowly, but he doesn’t let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.

You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. “Gross.”

“You like it.”

You do. It’s stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, it’s just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.

Scott smirks. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer is— “Yes.” It’s the only reason Scott asks – because he knows.

His eyes scan you for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. It’s so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.

At the same time — so right.

He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.

When he’s done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.

That’s when you freeze because — what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You can’t be doing — whatever the fuck this is — with his dad, who he doesn’t even know is his dad.

“Scott—”

“Sleep.”

“Go home.”

“No.”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “You can’t be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.”

Scott exhales long and hard, like he’s had enough of your shit. “Why not? I get full weekends, don’t I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.”

“Sleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.”

Before you know it, you’re back on your back and Scott’s on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. “Sweetheart, it seems like I didn’t fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you stop treatin’ me like I’m some shameful one-night stand. I’m the father of your child — our child. So take your pick — do you want me to fuck you again until your head’s too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?”

You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.

He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. “Good answer.”

Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.

There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has — at least around Ben.

He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that he’s getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Ben’s sake.

But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means it’s not surprising when Ben asks, “Who’s Uncle Scott really?”

“He is—” you pause, “—a friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

Fuck.

“No, he’s just a friend — like the kind you’ll meet in school.”

Ben looks at the television where there’s an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. “You love him?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because he’s smiling softly, patting your hand.

“I like him,” Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.

A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesn’t know about. You know it isn’t fair and you will tell him at some point, you’re just not sure how to have that conversation yet — not when Scott’s time here is uncertain, despite what he says.

Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you — your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that he’s here. It’s oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.

Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell he’s itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, you’re driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants — which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.

Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.

“Think he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,” he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.

You roll your eyes, “I’d rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.”

“Or entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.”

“Where do you think he got that from?”

Scott only smirks.

You’re scanning through your list when you realize, “Shit, I forgot to grab butter and it’s up the aisle.”

“I’ll grab it,” he says, squeezing your hip, “just get what you need here.”

Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because he’s convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that you’ll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.

“With Uncle Scott? In Oka— Okla—” He struggles, frowning when he can’t remember.

Oh. “Oklahoma,” you add, “maybe. I’m sure there are closer farms.”

His mouth opens in a bright grin.

When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.

Talking to a woman.

A woman who was very much his type before he met you.

Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you don’t have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.

She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. She’s smiling up at him, giggling at something he’s saying in a way where you know it’s not because he’s funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then he’s saying something and looking at you. And then she’s looking at you too, face souring.

Alright then.

You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. He’s been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. It’s all sugar and food coloring.

Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. “Cereal next?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. “She was cute.”

“Yeah, she was.”

Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. “Didn’t get her number?”

“Told her I’m with my wife and kid,” he smirks.

Wife and kid— you’re not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. “Glad to hear we can be used to avoid women you don’t like.”

“Well, I was only half lying, wasn’t I?” He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, “Not too late to make it all completely true though.”

You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.

It isn’t until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.

Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.

“Took you long enough,” Scott chuckles smugly. “Give it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.”

Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, he’s the one who picks Ben up from your mom’s and brings him to meet you at the hospital.

Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She can’t stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how he’s always on time to pick up Ben even when he’s still in the middle of work, and “Did you know he was featured in Forbes?”

He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. It’s much more spacious, a two-bedroom that’s twice the size of yours — one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.

“Your place too,” Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. “In case you ever need some more space.”

Later, he also shows you that he’s left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. “In case you need to stay over.”

It’s sweet. It’s thoughtful.

It’s too much.

You don’t even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know it’s different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.

“Where are my shoes?”

“I knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.”

“What the fuck? Are you four?”

“No, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.” You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. “You either come here on your own accord or I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.

Things are… good.

For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Ben’s a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. He’ll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month — a month to prepare for the conversation.

You can’t even imagine what it’s like — living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isn’t very sudden considering Scott’s been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, it’ll make the conversation easier.

That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you haven’t had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scott’s; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.

The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.

You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isn’t your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if he’s still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldn’t use the key. Then again, he shouldn’t have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldn’t want you to see.

The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scott’s nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and you’re tempted to agree.

Muffled voices carry down the hall. He’s probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case he’s on a call.

“Yeah, I’ll be back next week, alright,” Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.

An open suitcase in front of him.

Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. It’s like you’re twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams — only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it won’t only be your heart he’ll break.

“I know it’s takin’ me a while,” he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, “no, I still need to pick up my shit.”

You can’t hear the person on the other end of the line but it’s clear that he doesn’t seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.

“I have to tie up some loose ends.”

Loose ends? You swallow thickly. That’s— is he talking about you? About Ben? He’s supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay — right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?

But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. It’ll make it easier for the both of you.

Scott won’t have to break the news and you — you can let that hope quietly slip away.

All you can do now is… leave.

So you do. You take one step back then another and another until you’re in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you won’t be needing those anymore. Then you’re out the door.

You’re functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.

When Scott calls you as you’re getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you don’t pick up.

Not feeling so hot.

His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.

“Hey,” you try to rasp.

“What is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup from—”

“No, don’t,” you blurt out, “I, uh, don’t want to get you sick.”

“I don’t give a shit about that.” You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. He’s probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. “What do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? It’s on the way to yours.”

“Scott, please.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist, “just give me a few days to recover and I’ll text you, okay.”

Silence on the other end means that he’s giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. “Fine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.” He clears his throat, “You know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. I’ll come take care of you.”

You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You can’t get used to this, can’t get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isn’t the kind of thing that lasts.

“No, I promise I’ll be okay.”

You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because you’re the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you don’t miss a day. You’re not sure you like this reputation.

Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. You’re waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. He’s a little confused why you’re at home for a few days, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

“Does it have something to do with hottie Scottie?”

You wince, “That’s a gross nickname. Never say that again.”

“So it does, what did he do?”

It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s about to do. “It’s not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.”

“Well, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so I’ll swing by after with fried chicken?”

Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. “Sounds good.”

On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scott’s every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (you’re fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (he’s sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).

He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that you’re too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.

“This is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. I’ll be fine,” he snaps through the front door. “Will you just let me in?”

Once again, you emphasize that that’s not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scott’s feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.

“Can you just let me in?” He breathes out deeply, “Please. I haven’t seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure you’re good.”

Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Don’t give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.

On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. “I have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,” he mutters, “I’ll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to — if you need anything at all, alright.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper.

You’re tying up those loose ends for him.

Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. He’s finally cutting you loose and maybe he’s simply going to fade into a distant memory. You’re back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.

“You need to talk to me at some point,” she gives you a look.

You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been too afraid to say. Because it’s one thing to think it, it’s another to admit it aloud. “Scott’s gone.”

“What?” She jerks back, “What do you mean he’s gone?”

Pushing around your peas, you sigh. “He’s in Oklahoma.”

“Temporarily right?”

You shrug. “Feel like it might be for good.”

“Did he tell you that?”

No, but you heard his conversation and it’s all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?

“Hon, listen to me. I’ve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guy’s in love with you.”

To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. “He’s just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after — you know — finding out that he knocked me up.”

She gives you a look. “If you seriously believe that, I’m going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.”

On Thursday, you’re finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. You’ll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While you’re doing all that, your phone lights up with Scott’s name.

You don’t pick up. The last thing you need while you’re stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that he’s changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.

Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, that’s always been your motto.

You’re ready for a night of full decompression, which means you’re going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. “I’m home,” you call out.

The sight before you has you freezing. Scott’s on the couch — your couch — with Ben on his lap. They’re reading one of Ben’s favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he can’t see Scott’s expression.

And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. You’re almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.

“Mom!”

“Hey, buddy,” you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. “Where’s, uh, my mom?”

“She left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,” he smiles. It’s sweet. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. “Ben here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you weren’t going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.”

Well.

“We watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!” Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week — everything — and he is completely unaware that he’s digging a deeper grave for his own mother.

“That so?” Scott chuckles, patting his head. “Your mom’s a real miracle worker, isn’t she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.”

The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn’t add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.

Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.

He never sleeps early. He’s just hit you with a second strike.

You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. You’re glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesn’t even want a bedtime story, telling you that he’s knackered from the long day.

And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.

You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because — what’s he doing back here? Isn’t he supposed to be in Oklahoma?

When you finally step out of Ben’s room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.

His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. “You wanna tell me why you lied about bein’ sick?”

You shift back on the heels of your feet. “I just needed some me time.”

“Bullshit,” he spits out, “you know I would’ve given you that if that’s what you wanted. Try again.”

While you’re usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare he’s pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. You’re coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.

“Can’t think of anything, can you? Now that I’ve caught you.”

“Scott…”

“What was it?” He grunts, “What fucking spooked you?”

You press your lips together. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runnin’ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?”

A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scott’s looking at you wearily, a five o’clock shadow that’s rarely ever there dusted across his face.

“You were going to leave,” you murmur.

He frowns at that. “When the hell did I say I was gonna do that?”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” you sigh, “I heard you on the phone.”

His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isn’t confirmation, you don’t know what is. “What’re you talking about?”

It’s your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when he’s been caught red-handed?

“I heard you — you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff and—” the last part has your throat constricting, you’re blinking back tears as you look at him. “—that you needed to tie up loose ends.”

Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. “Yeah, and?”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “If you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.”

“That’s not fucking fair,” he snaps right back, “I reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So don’t turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.”

“How was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? I’m pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?”

“Yes! Exactly like that,” he snarls, “it’s as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.” That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. “So don’t be a hypocrite.”

“It would’ve been selfish of me — to tell you,” you gulp, chest tight, “you would’ve stayed because that’s who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I know, because that’s who you are,” he mutters, “you think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I don’t hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m the asshole that left you.”

“You didn’t know,” you breathe in shakily.

“Doesn’t change the circumstances, does it?” He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. “But I really need you to get your head checked. Something ain’t right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.”

You look up at him and he’s already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.

“I was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. We’re not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.” He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. “I couldn’t just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.”

Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So you weren’t going back to Oklahoma for good?”

The aggravation returns to his face. “You’re shittin’ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that I’m here to stay?”

“I just thought you meant temporarily,” you sputter, “who picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?”

“It’s not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!” That has you jolting back in surprise. “I came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasn’t gonna get you walk away from me again.”

“You— really?”

He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. “Yeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ain’t doin’ that again.”

“Love of your life?” You squeak.

Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. “Thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he mutters, “for someone so fuckin’ smart, you can be real stupid.”

“That’s so rude,” you frown.

“Apparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.”

You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. “So, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?”

“How can I be any clearer?” He snaps, “If you’re gonna ask me since when, you really think I’d keep fucking you back then if I wasn’t in love with you?” Your jaw practically drops. “You’re the idiot that didn’t want anything real.”

“You were fucking everything that moved!”

“Until I met you!” He shakes his head. “Jesus, you really— I don’t know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.”

You huff, “Are you gonna keep insulting me all night?”

“Are you not gonna tell me you love me?”

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “What makes you think I love you?”

“I don’t think, I know, sweetheart,” Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. “Come on, say it. I know you’ve been dyin’ to for years now.”

With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, “I love you.”

He grunts, leaning down to tease you. “Don’t think I heard you.”

“I love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?”

“Never could say no to you, sweetheart.” 

+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @victoriuhmm @effyssky

story taglist: @reepicheeps-blog @coolvoidfire @lmaolmaos @garfieldsladybird

Your favorite barista at that. With your patience hanging by a frayed thread and the little spark of energy you have left inside of you, you exert all of that to defend this poor girl — and the sanctity of this place.

“Are you always this much of a dick or only to people you think are beneath you?”

The man — tall, brunette, blue eyes, a classic all-American clad in an MIT t-shirt, looking like he bathes in daddy’s money — has the audacity to look taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I’m asking if you take pleasure in bitching at people who get paid minimum wage to serve douchebags like you overpriced coffee every day.”

Blue Eyes gapes at you. It’s a shame, really. He would’ve been just your type if he weren’t such a dick. That’s the regrettable thing about men — they have mouths.

“I’m not—” he begins, having the decency to get somewhat flustered. His eyes fly around the room to find pairs of curious, judgmental eyes on him. His lips twist in irritation but he manages to grit out, “I just want my actual coffee order.”

“Then ask for it,” you snap, “you don’t need to pull a Shakespearean soliloquy to get a fucking frappuccino.”

“Black coffee,” he corrects.

“Of course it is,” you roll your eyes. “Now, can you ask politely or do I need to start my own monologue about the detrimental effects of men in society?”

He gives you a satisfying wince. “No, you don’t need to do that.” He turns to Evelyn, the barista. “Can I get my correct order?” He only glances at you because you’re searing him with a look, which ends up with him adding, “Please.”

Now, when the two of you tell your separate group of friends that this is the story of how you met, no one would believe you — not with the way the two of you are joined at the hip. You bicker, you argue, you get into hours-long debates at house parties about the ethics of Greek life.

But afterwards, you can also say without a doubt that Scott is a friend.

A friend who you then proceed to drunkenly fuck one night at his frathouse.

A friend who you swear you would never fuck again afterwards.

A friend who you, that same night, decide to fuck. Again. Thrice.

You hate to give credence to his reputation on the MIT campus, especially as an outsider who doesn’t go here, but you understand why there are constantly women throwing themselves at him.

You tell yourself that this is all in good fun; your last couple of youthful years before selling yourself to the American healthcare system for the greater good should be spent doing the worst humanly possible things to yourself.

If that means fucking Scott every chance you get, having him stretch you out over every possible surface, his hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, a packed house be damned, then so be it.

Truth be told, you don’t expect things to go anywhere with Scott. The two of you come from vastly different worlds with vastly different dreams. It’s not a tragedy. You two are simply star-crossed, never meant to be lovers.

Scott complains to you about how his parents are constantly trying to set him up with debutantes — the crème de la crème of society — for him to marry; all the while you’re still tucked to his side, naked limbs tangled between each other.

You don’t acknowledge the ache that pulses in the left side of your chest. It shouldn’t matter at the end of the day because friends don’t stay friends forever, let alone lovers.

And you and Scott are not lovers.

However, you do have to reckon with the consequences of your decisions and the implication of your feelings when you find yourself with your head in the toilet, breakfast swirling down the drain for the third time that week. You have to really reckon with Lady Luck punishing you when you realize that you’re weeks late on your cycle, too caught up with school and Scott to notice.

When the two pink lines appear, your fear has reduced your inevitable shock into ashes.

Your first thought is that you have to tell Scott. There isn’t a doubt who the father is since you haven’t been with anyone else since him. This feels like a decision the two of you have to make together; you’re both adults and you should be able to have a professional, rational conversation.

That’s what you tell yourself all the way to his place, body moving on autopilot tracing back the path to his lush apartment near his campus. You barely acknowledge Jimmy, Scott’s very kind doorman, when you take the elevator to his floor.

Not once in the entirety of your… acquaintanceship have you ever been nervous to see Scott. But now your hands are trembling and you suppose it’s from the fact that you have a fucking unplanned pregnancy.

You don’t have time to fully process what that means when Scott swings open the door, and the first thing you see is the suitcase popped open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown into it.

Swallowing the bundle of nerves in your throat, you raise an eyebrow in question. “Going somewhere?”

“Head to my uncle’s in Oklahoma for the long weekend.”

“Oklahoma?” You close the door behind you as he begin to fusses with his clothes again.

“Yeah, he’s a real estate developer buying up a shit ton of land down there. Thinking about connecting it with storm chasing. He’s expanding quickly so figured I’d see what it’s like. ”

Your stomach sinks, dread tightening your chest. “The job or Oklahoma?”

He shrugs, completely unaware of your spiraling mind. “Both.”

“You’d really give up your cushy doorman apartment for tornadoes and motels?”

His lips curl into a smirk and your stupid heart is quick to hammer in your ear. Curse him and those deep dimples. “Sweetheart, you know I was born and raised in the south.”

Oh, you know. There’s a reason why that tinge of an accent goes straight between your legs every time he’s upset. “I don’t think a metropolitan like Dallas is the same thing.”

While Scott busies himself with packing again, you splay out on his bed, eyes on the bare ceiling as you try to calm your thundering pulse. You really shouldn’t be this stressed. There are ways out of this — options that two of you can take regardless of what you decide.

Hey, Scott, I’m pregnant. Yes, your child. Am I sure? Yes, you shithead, I haven’t fucked anyone else in months.

Oh, by the way, I’m also probably in love with you, but that’s a secondary problem to the human growing inside me. Thoughts?

“Did you need something?” His voice rips you out of your head.

Your heart rate hasn’t eased, but you have to do it now. So you turn on your side, propping your head up as your belly twists with apprehension. You open your mouth but then you notice the look in his eyes. You know that look all too well; it’s the trigger to all of your bad decisions, including but not limited to being bent over the bathroom sink with all of your friends on the other side of the door and risking arrest for public indecency on a public beach on spring break last week.

His eyes trail over the exposed sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, his hands abruptly dropping a shirt to reach over and drag his calloused palm over your hip. He slides it to your back, onto that little dip on your spine. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he likes the way you automatically arch towards him when he does it — like right now.

He hums and squeezes your waist to prompt you.

“Nothing,” you blurt out, flipping over so you’re facing his window instead. The city looks beautiful this time of day, sunset casting a golden glow across the architecture, painting it in the shades of the sun.

You hear him shuffle behind you before the mattress sinks with his weight. He smooths a hand over the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading out across your stomach. “You’re thinkin’ about something.”

With a deep breath, you test the waters. “Just the future, the usual.”

“What about the future?” His fingers brush your hair to the side as his lips cling to your neck.

“Work, family, friends,” you pause, chest squeezing, “kids.”

“Kids?” He snorts softly, “Where is this coming from? Never heard you talking about them before.”

Stay calm. You roll over to playfully glare at him. “I’m not getting any younger, so I have to think about these things today.”

“Or in a few years once you get your license and settle into the hospital,” Scott cocks an eyebrow. Your lips thin and he relents. “Alright, so kids, what about them?”

This is it. “Have you thought about them? Whether you, um, want them?”

Scott tilts his head deeper into his pillow. “I don’t think so. Not anytime soon at least. Kids are a hassle and I’m too young for that. Still have to go out there, make money, chase dreams and what not. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being.”

His chuckle is drowned out by the sudden persistent ringing echoing in your ear. He must sense it, feels your body going taut next to him.

“What about you?” He murmurs.

If he had asked you a few months ago, you would’ve scoffed and called him crazy. You too have your own dreams to pursue, the world to change and all that. But now, when you know that there’s something else growing inside you, you find that you don’t have the answer to that.

You’re not part of the crowd that thinks aborting this baby would mean murder, but you also never thought that you would be carrying something so special so early. While Scott’s answer isn’t surprising, your reaction to it is — your rationale had been simple: if Scott says no, then you wouldn’t go forward with the pregnancy. If he said yes, then you would have to consider it more seriously.

Scott’s answer is loud and clear, yet you don’t feel so settled with your own.

“Hey, you alright? What’s going on with you?” Concern stitched to the furrow of his brows.

You laugh, your throat feeling a little tight. “Probably just pre-period thoughts.”

He relaxes at that, rolling his eyes. “Women—” you pinch him and he yelps, chuckling. “I’m kidding. I can pack later. Let’s go pick up a pint of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream you like.”

The corners of your lips tip up as he pushes himself off the bed and offers you a hand. “Since when are you so nice to me?”

“I’m nice when I want to get laid.”

You don’t bite back the urge to roll your eyes.

So you’re a coward, sue you. While Scott finishes packing for his flight, you fall asleep in his silk sheets. Slipping in between the edges of consciousness, you feel Scott tuck in behind you, a kiss pressed to the back of your head as you finally give in to slumber.

Afterwards, you tell yourself that you have two months to make a decision. Two months until graduation, that’s your deadline.

A big part of you wants to tell him so you can stop lying about how you won’t be drinking tonight because you’re still hungover from some other party that you never went to. You’re exhausted from biting your tongue when he invites you for sushi, your favorite meal.

“I’m paying,” he insists for the third time.

You yawn, feeling the twinges of nausea rearing its head at the thought of it.

“You never turn down sushi.”

However, you also realize that telling him would be selfish. Despite his reputation, the man has a strong sense of responsibility to finish what he starts. In this case, it would be you. You can’t fathom him feeling like he has to stay here, that he has to be with you, that he has to give up his dreams. For you. He would hate you — if not now, then in the future.

Even worse when you imagine him telling you that he would never, ever do this with you — specifically you. After all, he has many bachelorettes lining up at his doorstep who are likely more than happy to wait a few years to start a family with him.

You’re not sure you’re prepared for that.

With every day that passes, the truth is shoved further down your throat, fear overtaking it.

Before you know it, you’re standing at the airport with him. He wrangles you into a Scott-like hug: one-armed, stiff, a click of his tongue like it’s inconvenient for him to show affection.

“You’re gonna be good, right?”

You scowl, “I’m not a dog.”

His mouth curves up, teeth peeking in his smirk. “Not even gonna turn around thrice and bark for me for my last day?”

“Are you trying to get on your flight in a body bag?”

He’s silent then for a moment, looking at you. Everything blurs around the two of you, noise muffled like you’re in a bubble and all you can hear is his long exhale. “This isn’t forever, you know. I’ll come visit when I finally need you to pump my lungs of all the dirt I’ll be inhaling.”

“Gonna cost you.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less.”

The two of you leave it at that. You could say more. I’ll miss you. I love you. Come back. Stay. But you say none of it. Part of you thinks that Scott knows, part of you hopes he doesn’t. This is his big moment. His future. A picture-perfect frame and you’ve been cut out from the canvas. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” Scott shrugs with a promise.

Your hand flies to your stomach on instinct. You can practically feel that silent heartbeat. If you keep this baby, you can’t possibly hide it from him.

If you can’t hide it from him, he may hate you.

And that’s not something you can ever bear.

So you smile and nod — and you let him go.

To say it’s been a long day would be an understatement. Starting your morning with a hundred unread emails followed by a series of difficult patients (one of which sneezed on you for good measure) and then a last-minute, dreaded ping at four from one of the study sponsors looking for data — all on a Friday no less.

What you need is some hot tea, a long massage, and preferably your phone buried six feet under. A place where you won’t be able to hear the constant calling of your name.

“Girl, are you ever going to leave?” Jenna pops her head in. “You need to go and get ready.”

You peer down at your sleeveless blouse and slacks. “Why cna’t I go to dinner in this?”

She gives you a look, a bone-chillingly disapproving one. “Get your ass out of here and I’ll come pick you up. We’re going out out.”

Given that this is a planned outing, you shouldn’t feel so miserable about it. You’ve even planned it all out — your mom takes Ben until Sunday, which neither of them mind because they adore each other — and you finally get one night to yourself to do whatever you wanted and an extra day to recover. It’s the first time in four years you’ve actually had time.

Don’t get you wrong. Your body created the miracle that is your son. Beautiful, bright Ben. Sweet, kind-hearted Ben who inherited none of his parents’ terrible tempers and foul personalities. You couldn’t have asked for a better pregnancy, better birth, or better child.

It’s the first time you’ve been away for him for a personal outing. Usually, it’s some sort of work emergency; what constitutes a work emergency as a research coordinator, you’ll never know but the higher-ups love the dramatics of making everything sound like life or death.

Jenna, your colleague and probably the closest person you consider a friend, swings by your place an hour earlier than promised.

You’re still not fully ready.

“I knew you were going to drag your feet through this,” she sighs and drops an armful of clothes onto your couch.

“I’m not dragging my feet, I just have nothing to wear.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Jenna has always had a knack for convincing people to do things they never wanted to do in the first place. For example, this is how you find yourself squirming uncomfortably throughout the night, wiggling to adjust the skirt lower down your thighs. However, when you do so, it ends up hanging too low on your hips, showing more skin than you’d like.

“Will you quit fidgeting?” she huffs as she pulls you through the crowd, “You look hot.”

“I look like I’m attempting a mating call with a freshman with a fifty-dollar fake,” you grunt.

She giggles. “Well, if you want to play cougar, I do see some college kids who have been eye-fucking you since you stepped in.” She nods her head in the direction of a group of boys who are in fact staring at the two of you, expressions a little too salacious for your liking.

“They’re looking at you,” you note pointedly.

Jenna is the the perfectly balanced combination spicy, smart, and sweet. At least two doctors and more than a fistful of residents follow her around like puppies around the hospital. She has them on leashes.

“That’s because my tits look great in this dress,” she grins. “Come on, let’s get some shots.”

In hindsight, ripping three shots back to back when you haven’t drank like since college is a terrible idea. It hits you hard and fast, but it was much needed to avoid crinkling your nose at the pile of sweaty bodies on the floor. You dance with Jenna for the most part, you let a few people buy you drinks, and… you’re having a good time.

Sometimes, you miss this part of you — the one that isn’t a mom. You love being Ben’s mother but at the same time, you have to relearn what it means to be you.

While this may not be you forever, this is a piece of you that feels like coming home. At least, that’s what you think when you feel much looser with the liquor in your veins. Jenna twirls you on the floor and you laugh, barely paying any mind to the pinching of these knee-high boots or the fact that you’re showing more skin than you have these past few years.

She spins you around again — except this time, your balance is already walking a fine line, so you end up stumbling into a wall.

Shit, not a wall. Said wall is moving.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, hand to your chest to prevent your tits from spilling out of this top. The last thing you need on your first night out is to be arrested for flashing a stranger. You’re straightening to look for Jenna when you hear your name.

Not only your name but it’s your name. Your name said in a way that has fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. Your name in a way that knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

Because it’s your name coming out of the mouth, with the voice of, the one person you thought you would never see again.

Scott’s eyes are wide when you finally lock gazes.

“You—” he starts then stops. “Holy shit.”

“W-what are you doing here?” You gasp.

“I’m out with, um, the guys,” he says, but his eyes never blink. Neither do yours. You almost want to, hoping this is some sick nightmare and you’re going to wake up in bed with a filthy hangover that takes you out for the day.

On the other hand, it’s Scott — and he looks good. Too good. His hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck. His eyes shine fifty different shades of blue with the flashing lights. His strong brows are furrowed into that familiar frown, one that has heat gathering between your legs. He’s got a suit on that seems to stretch for miles over his shoulders, top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his pretty collarbones and that gleam of a silver chain.

You can’t be here. You can’t do this.

“Right, okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” You’re turning on your heel and you’ve barely made it forty-five degrees before his large hand wraps around your elbow.

“Wait, hold on,” he calls out, tugging you back towards him, your back landing against his front as you stumble backwards. He ducks his head towards your ear to make sure he’s heard but all you can feel is the ghost of his warm breath tickling your skin. “Where are you going?”

You try to extract yourself from him but his grip is firm, now on your hips. “I’m here with a friend. I need to go find her.”

“I’ll go with you.”

You absolutely do not want that. It must show on your face because then he’s scoffing, frown morphing into a disgruntled scowl.

“Is that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in years?”

Instead of deigning him with a response, giving him the satisfaction of your annoyance, you wordlessly turn and make your way through the crowd. Scott is close behind, you can feel his height looming over you. He’s got a protective arm out to push away anyone who even comes close to touching you, charting a path through this Red Sea.

Jenna is on someone’s lap when you find her. She drags her eyes away from an unfairly attractive man when she spots you. You narrow your eyes at the man before turning back to your friend. “Are you good?”

“Peachy,” she beams. Her attention on you is short-lived when it wanders to Scott who’s hovering around you like a chaperone. “I see you’ve found your entertainment for the night as well,” she winks, eyes practically glittering as she wiggles her brows at you. “I’ll catch you at work Monday?”

Well. That’s your cue to go home. With one final press to make sure she’s okay, Jenna waves you off.

“Your friend’s having much more fun, maybe you should consider doing that for yourself,” Scott whispers in your ear, head ducked to reach your ear. “I could volunteer myself for that position.”

Whirling around, you trap him with a burning glare, which he only grins at.

There’s no way in hell you’re getting into this clusterfuck tonight. Not when you’re still half-convinced that you’re dreaming this up. So you turn back around and start marching towards the exit.

Unfortunately, he continues to follow you. He doesn’t even do anything except stick close to your tail. For some reason, that only pisses you off even more. Maybe if you will him away with your mind, you’ll turn around to find him gone. Because he can’t be here. Why the fuck is he even here?

“Why the fuck are you here?” You snap now that you’re on the quiet sidewalk. The music inside is muffled, leaving you alone with your heart beating in your ears and Scott’s stupid smirk plastered across his face.

He leans back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. You can see how the cotton of his shirt stretches across his wide chest. Jesus, did he get bigger? How is that even possible? The worst part is the amused look printed onto his face, dimples carved out deep. “I’m doing a talk — at MIT.”

Of course, he is. You shouldn’t be surprised. You’d never admit it to him but you have been keeping up with him in the news. He’s been building a startup with advanced technology focusing on disaster resilience combined with real estate development. While you don’t know the full mechanics, you know he’s successful enough to be nailing government and corporate contracts, landing himself on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.

You could also lie and say that his face is everywhere, but you really had to look him up to find anything about him.

“So why aren’t you talking? At MIT. Why are you here?”

Scott shrugs, “I reached out to the guys to catch up. I would’ve reached out to you too if I had your number.”

You stiffen, chancing a look at his face to find pure irritation. He has every right to be, but you also had your reasons for doing what you did — he just doesn’t know it.

A gust of wind whips past your bare legs, the chill settling on your shoulders. Boston is unforgiving this time of year so you quickly shrug on your jacket. However, you can still the weight of his gaze rolling over the length of you, slow and warm. His steely blue eyes look almost onyx with the way he drinks you in, dragging across your exposed collarbones down to your bare legs.

“What are you doing here?” He asks coolly.

“Out. With a friend.”

His lips tighten around the corners — slightly, only enough for you to notice. “What, to pick up guys?”

“No,” you scowl, “just for a good time.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Having a good time?”

You were — until him. “Fabulous time,” you sarcastically sigh as you pull out your phone, readying yourself to call a car home.

But your movements halt when you feel warmth soak your entire body, your breath hitching in your throat. Scott’s buried his face in your neck, his front against your back, nose tracing the column of your neck, palms splayed over your stomach.. His teeth graze your skin, eliciting a trained shiver out of you.

“How about we have a better time elsewhere?”

“No,” you swallow, “we shouldn’t.”

“Come on, you don’t miss me?” Scott slides his hands higher, enough for his thumb to brush the underside of your breasts. “We used to have fun, didn’t we?”

“Scott, no,” you protest, but you sound frail even in your ears.

“Why not?” He murmurs, lips placing soft, wet kisses against the back of your ear. Your head tilts on instinct, granting him more access as he nibbles down your neck.

“You’re drunk.”

He chuckles, “‘M so fuckin’ sober. I got a shot in when you bumped into me.”

“Then you should go back in there, go have a good time.”

“Found something more fun to do tonight,” he smiles against your skin. “Well, someone.”

His hands drift a little higher, cupping your tits and squeezing. The groan he lets out molds with yours as you resist another whimper crawling up your throat. “We’re outside,” you hiss.

“Never stopped us before.”

The more warm kisses he presses onto your skin, the weaker your resolve becomes. Your body moves on its own accord, leaning back against his chest while your own rises with a stuttered breath.

“Come with me. Promise I’ll make you feel good. Just like old times.”

“Scott…”

He knows — by the way you say his name — that you’ve given in. He doesn’t give you a moment to hesitate, squeezing your hip and keeping you close as he calls a car. His hand stays on you, toying with your nipples until you’re grinding your ass back against the erection under his slacks.

He hasn’t even kissed you, not properly at least. His lips stay on the pulse point on your neck, nipping lightly as his hands settle possessively around your waist. Even in the car, he hoists you over to his side, a thick arm wrapped around your waist to hold you hostage against him. When his other hand travels up to bury in your hair, he yanks on it just enough to have you gasping.

“Always so sensitive,” he whispers with a grin, “so responsive for me.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter weakly.

His breath is warm as he chuckles into your hair.

The car pulls up in front of some posh-looking hotel. You don’t have a moment to guess how much this place costs a night — nor do you want to, the number would likely break your heart. His hand is wrapped around yours, tight, like he’s making sure you don’t try to make a run for it, as he pulls you stumbling through the lobby.

Scott invades every single one of your senses when he corners you in the elevator. He bites down on his moan when he dips his head, nose nuzzling into the curve of your chin as he takes a deep inhale. His exhale quivering.

“You still wear the same perfume,” he notes, sounding almost pleased.

“Creature of habit,” you mutter, hands finding purchase on his biceps in an attempt to stay upright. Your knees feel a little weak with the proximity, with how much heat his body is radiating.

He’s barely swiped through the door and you’ve barely had the chance to close it before Scott is pinning you against the door and slanting his lips over yours. The first kiss knocks you right off your feet and Scott is quick to catch you and hold you up against the door — one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.

He breathes you in as his tongue strokes your bottom lip. He tastes like a mix of vodka, sugar, and a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The way he moves his mouth is familiar, you’re drawing on muscle memory to remember how you used to kiss. How to move your mouths in sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You swallow his hungry groans as his hands explore you all over, sliding up your curves to push off your jacket before venturing south again to cup your ass from underneath your skirt. “This fucking outfit,” he snarls low, “never seen you wear anything like this before. So fuckin’ tiny, I could see your ass walking behind you.”

“J-Jenna’s,” you clarify breathlessly. “My friend’s.”

“And this goddamn top — I could peek down your chest the entire time we were there. Wanted to rip this off you so I could play with these pretty tits,” he murmurs, kissing his way along your jaw and down your neck. “Then this—” he squeezes your ass, “if I saw one more person try to get a peek, I would’ve bent you over the bar and fucked you then and there to show them that none of them have a shot. Not them. It’s only going to be me.”

Your response dies in your throat when he begins to suck light bruises onto your skin, pain blooming in concentrated spots across your skin. He’s always been territorial, leaving one mark after another to deter anyone else from coming close.

While you usually enjoy the slow build, the persistent ache between your legs demands otherwise.

“Come on, just fuck me already.”

“So goddamn impatient,” he snips but picks you up, legs wrapping around his waist. Your body slips a little lower and you can feel the bulge in his pants poking against your own core. Your panties pressed directly against the thickness, which leaves very little to the imagination. “So fuckin’ hard,” Scott grunts, “started getting a chub the moment I saw you. Then I saw you walking from behind, this gorgeous ass just swaying like you’re teasin’ me. Then you gave me that mean look you’ve got and I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.”

“You’re such a freak,” you huff in a laugh

“Takes one to know one.” Scott backs you into the hotel room, letting you fall back against the bed as he tucks himself between your legs dangling off the edge. His eyes roam over you, exploring every inch of your exposed skin. You’re fresh meat and Scott is starving.

He leans forward, a single index finger starting at the outer corner of your breast where it’s pushed up by your corset and journeys over the trim of your top. You hold your breath, back arching slightly into his touch. “I can’t believe you were out like this. Dressed like a fuckin’ slut. I don’t even wanna know how many guys out there imagined fucking your tits.”

It’s demeaning, you should tell him off. But this is Scott and he knows exactly what you like and — god, do you like this. A whimper climps past your lips instead, a needy little sound that has him smiling to himself.

“But I’m the only one who gets to do that tonight. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You don’t spread your legs for anyone else.”

“Do you ever s-shut up?” You snap, voice frayed to betray the desire thumping in your chest. His hands slide underneath you, settling on your lower spine, as your body rises instinctively to his touch. He drags the zipper of your corset down, peeling it off you and casting it aside.

Scott straightens again, tilting his head as he takes you in from his vantage point.

His gaze burns uncomfortably. He doesn’t say a word and, for the first time with Scott, you feel… shy. Hands fly to your stomach as burning embarrassment sears like a branded mark on your skin. He takes a deep breath and his sweet time outlining the shape of you like he’s recreating a sketch of you in his mind.

“You’ve changed.”

Your heart sinks. The two simple words sting more than they should. Pregnancy changed your body. While you know that it’s created a miracle, it’s survived and remained strong, you also know that you aren’t the same. Softer, more lines stretching across your stomach. Your muscles haven’t survived your long hours at the hospital. You just never thought it would hurt this much for him to point it out.

But you know better than to take this kind of disrespect. If he no longer finds you attractive, you know that you could very easily find another man to satisfy you.

You try to wiggle away from him as your face shifts in aggravation. “Well, I have. So, if you don’t like it, I’m going to go because I don’t fucking need this from—”

“Hold on, never said I didn’t like it,” he murmurs, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above you. He ducks forward again, nose brushing against your jawline. He breathes you in, you can hear him gulp. “Fuck, you look so good, sweetheart. Sexier. Something about you. Even better than I remember — and shit, do I remember you. Thought about you far too much.”

Oh. “Really?”

He pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours as his lips curl into that smirk. “Really. Every night, with my fist wrapped around my cock, imaginin’ it was this tight cunt of yours wrapped around me. I remember how it would squeesze so sweet like you’re trying to choke my dick.”

“You’re so crass,” you roll your eyes.

“You’re tellin’ me that that doesn’t turn you on?” He grins, hand stroking up your inner thighs until he finds your center, fingers nudging the damp gusset of your panties to the side as he dips in between your slick folds. “Knowing that I get off thinking about you. Thinking about this perfect cunt of yours and the way you’d pulse around me, milkin’ me dry every time you cum. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

On cue, you tighten around him, breath hitching in your throat with his filthy words.

“Yeah, she likes that,” he chuckles, “shit, did you get tighter? I don’t remember you being this stiff. It’s gonna be tough getting me in, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”

You clench again at the thought, a moan bubbling up your throat. Well, seeing as you haven’t slept with anyone in years, it’s not a surprise. But you’d never tell Scott that — you don’t want to think about all the other people he’s fucked since the two of you split.

“We’ll make it fit, we always do,” he coos and you don’t block the roll of your eyes, pulling another amused sound from his lips. “Still got that attitude,” he shakes his head, hands squeezing around your wrists, “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck it out of you soon.”

Scott drags down your underwear, flinging it somewhere around the room. You’re about to scold him but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken whine as he stuffs two fingers into you. The slide in is humiliatingly easy with how wet you are, but his thick fingers still stretch out your taut insides.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “won’t even let me in, huh? Have you been takin’ care of her, sweetheart?”

Heat pools low in your stomach and rises to your face. He pushes in and out of you slowly at first, blue eyes staying on you to watch you squirm, watch your body shift off the bed. He mutters something about still the fuckin’ same as he prods his fingers into you, testing out different angles to see which ones make you tick — like he’s relearning how to please you.

He realizes that it takes no time at all to do so because you still move the way he expects you too, especially when he brushes up against that spongy area inside you that wrestles a noise that mixes a gasp and a moan from your lips. Through the hazy blur of your vision, you spot a proud smile dancing on his lips as he continues to push and push until you’re panting desperately underneath him.

Every drag of his fingers along your cunt feels like the strike of a match that sets your entire body on fire. He sets off flames in different parts of your body, all the while he’s still holding you down with just one hand. His head ducks to take a nipple into his mouth and sets your entire being ablaze. The two actions combined are enough to have you sweating over the risk of cumming too fast, too hard.

You’ll be damned if you finish in under two minutes with him.

Another curl of his fingers has you resetting that bar to at least one minute.

“Scott, please,” you rasp.

“Please what, sweetheart?”

“You know what.”

“Use your big girl words,” he tuts softly, “you can do it. I wnat to hear you ask for it.”

Your brows descend in a vexed glare. “Why are you suck a prick?”

“Because it fucking turns you on,” Scott grins, “and because you like my dick.”

You can’t help it, you poke because that’s what you do with him. “I can find good dick elsewhere.”

His fingers stop moving inside you, his body completely still as he levels you with a stare that sends a shiver slithering up your spine. His jaw clenches, white fury masked by his terrifyingly composed expression. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Your mouth feels like sandpaper now, snippy response scraped away to death on your tongue.

He pushes his fingers in deeper, drawing out a cry from your chest. “Think you can get good dick anywhere, sweetheart? Is that why you’re so fucking tight? Have you been spreading your legs for anyone?”

“Fuck you.”

“I thought you had better taste. Clearly, none of them could stretch you out the way you like. You fuckin’ like it when it hurts, when it burns so good you can taste it on your tongue,” he mocks, hand releasing your wrists to grab your jaw. He applies just enough pressure to have your cheeks aching, but that pain only has you clenching around his fingers, stomach twisting with stupid need. “Look at you,” he chuckles, gripping you harder, “gettin’ so tight around me before I even stick my dick in you. Filthy slut just likes bein’ treated like one. Maybe I should stuff that mouth so you stop running it — don’t need you to talk, just need to hear those desperate little sounds you make when I fuck you good.”

Your chest sings with shame when all you can do is take his words. But you take what he gives because he only gives you what you can take; he knows exactly what to say to rile you up, to tip you over the edge, have you seething and dripping between your legs. Even after years, he still knows your body best.

Except now, he has a touch more of that southern drawl that you’ve always adored but could never get enough of.

“She just squeezed me again, sweetheart.” His eyes twinkle with delight. “Why don’t you put yourself out of your misery and just ask me?”

Your lips pinch and Scott pushes deeper, eyes fluttering when he feels you tighten around him again. He can feel your control slipping away, pride curling deep into your chest to hide.

“Fuck me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That it?”

“Please.”

He's biting back a laugh, lips curving just a little more. “Attagirl, there’s your manners. Was that so hard? Guess I haven’t been around to teach you how to be polite with me.”

Your chest throbs with a mix of disgrace and need again. He pulls out his fingers, watches them glisten with your juices underneath the room’s warm lights. Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he slides them over his tongue and closes his lips around it. He sucks on it hungrily, moan muffled as he laves at them to savor.

“Tastes a little different too,” he hums, “maybe I just missed you too much. Missed this pretty pussy.”

Maybe if you weren’t so focused on getting him to fuck you, you might’ve noticed a strange something laced into his syllables — something you may mistake as hurt.

But that wouldn’t be possible because Scott Miller doesn’t get hurt. He takes and throws away like it’s nobody’s business, only thinking about what would be beneficial for him until it no longer has a use. He’s untouchable, always has been.

Before you can process even a hint of it, you feel Scott sliding his cock along your pussy lips, wet with juices that can’t seem to stop leaking all over his sheets. “Makin’ such a mess already,” he grunts, tip poised at your entrance.

You nudge your hips lower in an attempt to encourage him to move faster, but his palm presses down on your hips as he gives you a scalding look.

“Behave.”

Your legs press together around his hips. He feels it. But you do as you’re told.

“Good girl,” he sighs as he slowly pushes himself in. The initial burn has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, like fire between your legs as you let out a cry with how much he’s opening you up. His cock parts through you like a spear and your breath catches in your throat as he finally buries himself all the way in. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he hisses, “you’re so goddamn tight. Feels like that first time. Like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”

“B-been a while,” you stutter, the confession slipping out before you can stop it.

Scott’s hands on your hips drag you closer to the edge until your ass is against his hips, he pushes your legs up against your chest, feet thrown over his shoulders. “I can tell. You’re such a good girl for me, baby. Been saving yourself for me? Have you been thinking about me too?”

You’d die before you give him the satisfaction. Because you have, but you’ll never tell him how many times you’ve come undone with the memory of him alone. Filthy words he’d whisper in your ear toiling around your brain until you can practically hear him right next to you. Promises that have you gasping for air before you’re thrown over the edge of desire.

“Perfect pussy, she’s takin’ me so well,” he moans, deep and guttural, as he begins to ease himself in and out of you. He starts off with a slow pace before building a steady rhythm that painstakingly stretches you out around his cock. With every thrust, he stretches you out just a fraction more, each time slightly easier than the last until the burn dissolves into warmth blooming between your legs.

Scott’s still watching you; with every jerk of his hips, he intentionally angles himself to hit all the right spots that have you crying out for more, your fingers tangling in the sheets. It’s as if he’s drawing out a map of you, marking x wherever he finds a winning piece. He knows exactly how fast to fuck you to have you gasping and crying, tears leaking down your face until you can taste the salt on your tongue. He knows exactly how slow to go to have you begging him, desperate sounds falling from your lips until he has no choice but to show you mercy.

He knows that telling you you’ve got a cunt like a virgin would have you squeezing around him. He knows that praising you for being such a good pussy for him would have you arching off the bed with your eyes slammed shut.

He just knows and that thought scares you more than anything.

“Fuck, I missed this pussy. Nothing else could compare, you know. Tried to, trust me. Every time, I can only cum thinking about your leaking cunt, always drooling all over my fat cock, thinking about you sobbing underneath me until I kiss away those pretty tears. I couldn’t stop picturing feeding her my cock, stretching her out until you’re whining like a bitch in heat,” Scott growls as he picks up his thrusts, sliding in easier, faster now that your arousal has paved the path in for him.

You should be offended by his words, the feminist in you wanting to tell him off for such ridiculously degrading words, but all they do is add fuel to the fire. You haven’t felt this good in so long and you don’t think—

“Wait, fuck,” you blurt out, fingers latching onto his bicep. “Scott, condom.”

Scott freezes, like deer in headlights. “Condom? We’ve never fucked with a condom.”

“I know,” you bite out but again say, “condom.”

There’s a vein pulsing on his forehead, the last shred of his self-restraint hanging on by a thread. He looks more inconvenienced than anything. “Did you get off the pill?”

“N-no, but just wanna be careful.”

Scott laughs, nudging his cock deeper. “Why are you worrying? It’s ninety-nine percent effective.”

Well, apparently, you’re part of that one percent of failure.

He sees that you still look conflicted and he lets out a frustrated exhale. “I don’t have condoms. Haven’t carried it around with me in forever.”

“I need to fuck this pussy, sweetheart. I’m not letting that pretty head of yours change your mind. Not gonna go outside just to get condom. I’ll just pull out.”

“That shit does not always work!”

“Neither does a condom!”

Fuck, he makes a good point.

Scott slowly begins fucking you again, chipping away at the walls you’ve slammed up. “Promise I’ll pull out when I cum. Won’t do it inside you. No matter how much I want to cream inside this pussy, just like I used to.”

Your stomach flips with that admission.

“Remember how I used to fill you up? God, I can still see white leakin’ out of this cunt. I loved cumming inside you in the morning, you could never get all the cum out so you’d be dripping with me. Could smell you when I fucked you again after too.”

Shit, he knows your resolve is down to nothing when he pumps faster into you. He doesn’t need you to confirm what he already knows. He returns to fucking you with fervor. His hips are eager as they chase after yours, slamming against you as his cock fucks all rational thought from your mind. He leans forward, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all his weight is squeezing the breath from your lungs. It only intensifies the pleasure, his cock sliding in with a trail of fire as he kisses your calves.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes, “give it to me. I know you wanna cum. I can feel you tightening around me.”

More moans tumble from your lips as you babble your agreement, words slurring together in an incoherent mess.

“Give it to me. Let her go. I wanna see you fall apart on my cock, want you remember that no one else can make you feel like this. Nobody can — or ever will — fuck you this good. This pussy’s mine and I’m gonna make sure she only remembers me, only takes the shape of my cock.”

You’re struggling for air as your chest constricts, wanton need burning all throughout your body.

“Cum for me, baby. Come on,” Scott grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust.

With a few more pumps of his cock, your stomach tightens, desire coiling tight until it snaps and your pleasure crests. It feels like you’re soaring, body trembling with the force of your orgasm as you clam down around him, legs shaking and pussy sucking him in deeper.

Your cunt continues to pulse as your descent from the high occurs painfully slow. But Scott’s not done. He just uses you at that point, treating you like a little pocket pussy to get himself off as he fucks dirty into you. He spreads your legs so he can see your tits bouncing with how fast he’s going. You can tell he’s close when his drives get sloppier, cock just fucking into you because he can. Then he’s quickly yanking himself out with a gasp, tilting his cock so that ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, decorating the skirt with abstract splatters of white.

His hard cock twitches against his stomach as he holds himself up on the mattress, labored breaths weighing down on his chest.

Even in your weary state, you can’t help but giggle. “It’s been a while, huh, old man? Can’t keep up anymore?”

He tosses a glare your way. “Let’s not forget the last time I overstimulated you until you cried and begged for me to let you cum again. How many times was it? Five?”

Your cheeks warm at the memory. “That was years ago.”

His gaze softens, melts into something that has your heart squeezing. “Yeah, it was.” ith a groan, he pushes himself up and disappears into the bathroom, leaving you in the mess of his orgasm. When he comes back out, he’s got a warm, damp towel in hand that he’s using to clean you of the sticky mess. 

He raises your legs again to check on your pussy. 

“Does it hurt?”

You’re only mildly surprised by his concern, mostly because you haven’t been on the receiving end of it for a while. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? I went pretty hard.”

All you can do now is roll your eyes, using your foot to nudge his stomach. “I’m a big girl, Miller. I know what I can take.”

His lips twitch as he shakes his head, muttering something you don’t catch under his breath. He plops down next to you, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself sink into the bed. He drapes an arm over his eyes, stomach dipping as he exhales deeply.

The lines of his chest are still defined. If anything, his muscles are more evident now. Veins running along his biceps to display the progress he’s made while he was away. You didn’t realize how much he’s changed, how much broader he got, how there are more grays on his head than before. Jawline that was soft through the year that you knew him sharpened into a knife that slices straight through your chest.

You turn away from him, eyes glued to the ceiling. The moment Scott stepped back into your life, he rolled out a fog that clouded your judgment. Now that the haze has cleared, you’re lying in the consequences of your actions, you can’t help but let the remorse carve its place into your bones. You’re a fool if you think this time will be any different.

It took you one night — one night — to fall for his charm. One night for your years-long resolve to fall apart.

You thought you would feel differently about him now, that you could let these silly emotions fade into dust in his absence. However, your heart still beats the same way for him — a little faster, skipping a beat or two, but always towards him. The two of you still move in sync, like two pieces of the same puzzle finally slotting together.

But you’ve changed — or, you should’ve changed. You shouldn’t be this easy, not anymore. Not when there’s more at risk than just your heart.

The shame crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, and suddenly, you’re breathless. The air feels thin when you think of Ben — your son who doesn’t even know who his father is, who has been curious enough to ask once but kind enough not to ask twice.

An arm splaying across your thighs sends you crashing back to reality. He rumbles with eyes closed, “Sleep.”

Gently, you remove his arm as you come to your feet. You move swiftly, body functioning the same it always does — opting for flight rather than fight. You collect your panties and quickly tug them on under your skirt. Before you can reach for your top, a hand wraps around your arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go.”

His confusion deepens. “Why?”

With a shrug, you pick up your corset from the floor and zip it back up. Scott steps in your path before you can make it to the entryway — still fully nude, cock half hard.

You force your eyes to stay on his face instead. “We fucked, we’re good, right?”

Annoyance flashes across his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What else do you want from me, Scott?” You sigh.

You try to sidestep him but he moves faster. His shoulders stretch out to their full breadth as he straightens. “What if I want to fuck again later?”

“You’ve survived this long with your fist, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word. The silence lingers like a ghost between you. He looks conflicted, eyes shifting around the room like he can find the answer somewhere on the walls. “We haven’t seen each other in years and you’re flaking on me?”

It’s your turn to offer no response, mainly because you don’t have one.

“You disappear on me for years. I’m seeing you for the first time since we graduated and you can’t even be bothered to stay?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I just really need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow to wrap up a few things.”

“I can drive you.”

“I have no clothes.”

“We’ll leave early in the morning.”

“Scott.”

Your mind wanders to Ben, wondering what he’s doing right now, how you should be there with him — instead of here with the dad that he never knew.

“Alright. Let me drive you at least.”

He watches as your eyes get distracted again by his nude form before you, him completely shameless, maybe even smug that you still find yourself cross-eyed with him.

“No, I can find my own ride.”

When you manage to maneuver around him, Scott hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to yank you back, and you’re now facing his broad, bare chest, the light smattering of curls directly in your line of sight.

“Can I see you tomorrow then?”

He ducks his head so his lips brush over yours. You can feel that familiar dizziness tease the edges of your rational mind. He knows exactly what he’s doing, especially when you unconsciously lean towards him, like a moth to flame, Icarus who flew too close to the sun.

“Scott,” you whisper when he pulls back to mock you.

“You ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you left me high and dry. You disappeared from everywhere, couldn’t find you on anything,” Scott begins, “Then you went ahead and changed your number. I had no way to reach you.”

You don’t blame him for the bitterness that stains his voice. Even after you promised to stay in touch, the further along you were in your pregnancy, the more you realized that you couldn’t handle the guilt of lying to him. So you… simply stopped. Stopped responding to his texts. Stopped picking up his calls.

Once he ceased his efforts, you changed your number. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, that it would be a clean slate. Clearly, that isn’t the case.

“Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted and I’m sticky—”

“Use my shower. Sleep here. I’ll drive you home then to work in the morning.”

It’s a kind offer. Far too generous for a man whom you distanced yourself from. “You don’t have—”

“I want to,” he insists, “don’t be fucking difficult.”

“Tomorrow, alright. Please,” you plead one last time.

Scott’s blue eyes wash over you, searching for a sign of weakness. He must see the firm stubborn hold in your gaze, because you see him deflate in real time. “Fine. Give me your number.” You open your mouth, ready to extend some bullshit excuse, but he beats you to it.  “So help me god if you try to argue with me again, woman, I’m tying you to my bed.”

You know he’s serious. You can only relent and say that you’ll text him.

“Now.”

“Scott.”

“I’m not fucking around,” he snaps, “I’m not spending the time I have here trying to chase your ass down again.”

Again? You’re too tired to question it further so you pull out your phone, finding his contact — one that you haven’t touched in some time — and shoot him a quick message.

“Happy?”

“Delighted,” he bites back, baring his teeth at you.

You only roll your eyes. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go.”

“Call a car.”

“‘Course, I will!”

He snorts. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have taken the T home.”

You’re about to argue again, but he knows you too well. The T would’ve saved you money, but certainly not time. Instead of replying, you say, “I’m going to go.”

Scott still seems none too pleased but lets you go.

As you cave to the pull of slumber that evening, your phone lights up with a message.

It was good seeing you tonight.

You’re a goddamn coward, that’s what you are. You don’t actually have to come into work the next day but you needed an out. Instead, you wake up that morning with an old friend — that jackhammering in your head commonly known as a hangover. 

Vices hit a little differently when you’re older, especially when you haven’t touched a drop of it in a while.

That goes for the drinks and Scott.

It feels like a fever dream when you wake up alone the next morning, you wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened. Like you didn’t meet your former fuck buddy slash friend slash father of your child at a club and went to his hotel with him as if no time had passed. 

Opening your phone to his text was the first slap of reality.

The second was when you look in the mirror to see the marks all over your neck like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion.

Possessive fucker. 

Jenna’s message certainly isn’t helping either. Hope you had a great night ;) 

You did. You wish you didn’t but Scott somehow still knows you like the back of his hand and, if you had stayed, there would be no doubt that he would change your great night into a fantastic night.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you quickly reply to her with an appropriately crude emoji. 

Scott — well, you do what you do best. You don’t respond.

You don’t reply when he asks you what time you get off work today.

You don’t reply when he sends a single question mark as a follow-up.

You definitely don’t reply when he says—

You’re going to ghost me again, aren’t you?

Instead of acknowledging the magnitude of your actions, you spend the weekend keeping yourself busy. Every time your mind veers to Scott and the messages left unanswered, you pick a new spot in the house to clean. 

By the time Ben returns on Sunday, the house is spotless.

Your mom looks at you suspiciously. “You cleaned.” 

“Yes,” you say before you turn to pepper wet kisses all over your baby. He giggles and his face scrunches up. “How was weekend with grandma?”

“We ate ice cream!”

It’s your mother’s turn to look guilty when you raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that so? How much ice cream?”

Ben, realizing what he’s just exposed, turns to his grandmother then back to you. He pinches his fingers together. “This much.”

“Mhmm, next time grandma gives you ice cream, I’m gonna remind her how much dental visits cost,” you coo, pinching his nose. 

He runs off to unpack his bags, which leaves you alone with your mother who is much too perceptive for her own good. 

“So, good weekend?”

“Good,” you brush off, glancing at your gleaming kitchen counter.

“Did you bring a man home?”

“Mother!” You gasp, “We are not talking about that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, I’m sure the birds and the bees talk is no longer necessary. Not to mention protection, you’ve learned your lesson there.”

“Thanks,” you drawl.

“I’m just saying you look… good. Satisfied.” Your cheeks flame. “You know you’re allowed to have a life outside of all this. You’re still young and there’s still time to find love.”

Love, huh? Scott’s face appears in your mind with that stupidly attractive smirk. You shake your head. “Yes, Mom. I’m aware.” She stares skeptically at you. “I know. It was just a night of fun. I have responsibilities, can’t be reckless anymore.” 

“It was chance,” your mom murmurs, “you were never reckless.”

“The universe has picked her favorites and I’m not one of them,” you laugh, “but I think I milked my luck with Ben, can’t ask for a better kid. Hopefully he behaved?”

“He was an angel.” You nod, humming. “Are you not going to tell me about this man then?”

Groaning, you try to walk away from her but she follows you down the hall. “There’s nothing to tell and I didn’t bring him home.”

“Oh, you stayed at his?”

“No, I… went home.”

She lets out a little surprised noise. “That bad?”

No, that good. “I’m not discussing this with you further.” 

Monday sends you crashing back to earth. While you spent your Sunday recuperating with Ben, a calm day of eating vegetables to balance the treats and touching grass on the playground, being back in this office — this dreary reality reminds you that life really isn’t that swell.

It doesn’t help that Jenna pounces the moment you walk in, an endless stream of questions pouring out of her lips about the hottie you were with and if you got your brains fucked out of your head. You don’t satisfy her with a response, slipping into your office and locking it shut.

An office job coordinating and babysitting adults for the sake of science was never part of the plan, but plans change and you’ve learned to accept it. Now, you’re stretching to work out the crick in your neck as you do a doom scroll of the countless unread emails in your inbox.

You’re trapped in there for most of the day, vision beginning to blur when you have to squint at the screen to decipher the letters. However, the banging close to the end of the day has you jolting awake at your desk, knee slamming up against your table.

A curse slips past your lips as you hop over to open it. Jenna — wide-eyed and dangerously excited — grins like a cat that’s caught a mouse.

“Hottie alert.”

You look at her, unimpressed. “Please don’t involve me in your plans to cross professional boundaries. I don’t want HR to mark me as an accomplice.”

“No, I mean hottie — as in hottie from the club who gave you those hickeys that even your concealer can’t hide.”

Your hands fly to your neck, where the bruises pulse in demand of your attention. Warmth crawls across your face. You’ve spent enough time allowing your mind to wander to memories from that night, you don’t need to do it again at work.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s outside — looking for you!”

The splat of your heart dropping to the floor echoes in the ensuing silence. You must be hearing things because you could’ve sworn Jenna just told you that Scott is here at your workplace. The place where you work.

“No,” you blurt out.

“Yes,” she hisses, “get your ass out there. Clearly, you made quite the impression. Or did he make an impression with his dick inside your—”

“Finish that sentence and I revoke your rights to see Ben,” you warn and she gasps, biting down her giggles. “Can you just tell him I’m not here? Better yet, tell him there’s no one here by my name.”

She gives you a look. “He’s not an idiot. He saw me and clocked me as the friend who dressed her like that.”

Groaning, you press your forehead against the door.

“Was he that bad?”

Again, that good.

“He looks like a good time. Mind if I take a crack at him?”

The question has you jerking upright, your expression souring. Jenna’s a great friend, but Scott is— what is Scott? He’s nobody. He should be nobody.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs, “jeez, you’re obviously into him. Why are you being difficult?”

Because this will end the same way. Your heart broken. Scott gone again.

“Listen, I don’t think he’s leaving and the others are starting to gossip. They think you’ve got golden pussy that’s bringing a male suitor around this desperately.”

Fuck, the last thing you need is Scott causing problems at work. With a relenting sigh, you follow Jenna out front and find Scott standing there, looking impassively at some of the women — nurses and patients alike — who are shooting flirtatious looks at him. In fact, he’s not looking at them at all — his eyes float around the room until they land on you.

He doesn’t look pissed. No, his lips tug up into a smirk tinged with mirth. He says your name, your heart sinks. It sounds like a greeting and a threat. Your stomach turns.

Scott looks you up and down, a silent assessment that concludes in confusion at your clothes. Instead of addressing it, he hands you one of the cups in his hand.

“Tea,” he answers before you can ask, “with a spoonful of honey.”

Your favorite afternoon remedy.

Unfortunately, you feel your colleagues’ aggressively probing gazes burning to your side. It’s natural they’re curious; you’ve never had visitors aside from your mom and Ben — let alone a man. Let alone a man who looks like Scott.

You’ll never hear the end of this.

“Follow me.” You drag him by the elbow towards the waiting room, far away from the disappointed looks. When you’re finally out of sight, you turn around. “What are you doing here?”

Scott looks far from pleased, but his tone is calm. “Came to see you.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee — probably black with a drop of cream.

“You can’t be doing this to me at work, Scott.”

“You weren’t responding to my texts.”

“I’m at work.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“You always think I’m cute.”

You take a deep breath. “Scott, what happened last Friday—” He perks up. “It can’t happen again.” 

“Why not?” He scowls, jaw clicking off to the side. 

“We’re adults now, we can’t be… doing whatever we were doing. It was fun when we were young but come on.”

“What? Too old to have fun?”

“I think I’m at a point where I should be looking for something serious, not a repeat of college.”

There’s a firmness to his eyes that makes you squirm. Something unexpectedly grave that’s foreign to Scott. “Serious,” he echoes, “you want serious?”

“Of course, I do.”

He licks his lips, taking a step towards you. Your heart skips a beat. 

“If that’s the case—”

“Mom!”

Your entire body goes cold, the word both warms and slashes your chest. Your son barrels down the hallway and you barely flinch when you feel his tiny arms wrap around your legs, Ben cheesing up at you with a toothy grin.

You don’t spare Scott a glance when you crouch down to Ben’s height, allowing him to wrangle you in a tight hug. “Hi, bud, what’re you doing here? I was supposed to meet you at home.”

“Missed you.” He pulls away to beam at you and your heart positively melts.

This perfect kid. “Missed you too, buddy,” you smile, “I still need to finish up work. Think you can be patient for me and wait a few more minutes?”

He blinks at you. “Aunt Jenna?”

You shake your head. Jenna is always a crowd favorite. “Aunt Jenna—”

“Is right here!” The familiar voice cheers as she appears next to you. Ben throws himself around her legs next with a giggle. “Come on, we’ve got some new toys in the playroom I can show you. Cool LEGOs.”

Before you know it, she’s already whisking him away, leavingyou, Scott, and your mother — who is staring at him with a little too much curiosity.

On the other hand, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. The thing that shakes your confidence the most is his silence. Upset Scott goes on long tirades, spitting out vile things until he’s clam enough to take action.

However, a very, truly angry Scott is quiet. The rage simmers on the surface, bubbling in imminent explosion on the inside.

Your mother grins at him with sparkling eyes. “I never knew my daughter had such a handsome friend.”

“Mom!” You immediately scold, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.

Scott clears his throat, smile cordial as he turns to your mom. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Scott. A friend.” The last word he seems to add reluctantly.

“Oh yes, she did mention… a friend,” your mom says with a teasing lilt that proves to push that stake of betrayal deeper into your gut. “We’re going to head back for dinner after this. Would you like to join us?”

“He has other things to do,” you say at the same time Scott responds with, “I’d love to.” This time, you do turn to look at him.

His eyes are cool, almost distant, as he regards you. It’s an impassive look that says more than most people expect. A shudder wracks through you as your mouth dries in fear.

“I’ll be there,” he emphasizes, looking pointedly at you.

Your body withers slightly under the intensity of his gaze and you choose to redirect your own displeasure at your mother who simply disregards you. “Wonderful, I’ll wait with Ben. Come find us when you’re done, honey.”

Leave it to your own blood to make the bed and force you to lie in it.

But you’re also your mother’s daughter so you take that as a chance to escape yourself. “I have to wrap up work so I’ll see you later,” you exhale quickly and high-tail out of there before he can even open his mouth.

Procrastinating emotions has always been your strong suit.

By the time you finish work and step back outside, you pray that Scott’s anger would’ve faded. He’s calm when he agrees to follow your family car in his own. You’re constantly peeking at your rearview mirror to see if he changes his mind but his car never disappears from your line of sight.

When you let all of them inside the apartment, Scott gives it a critical once-over. He politely toes off his shoes and steps into the living room. Sweat piles on the back of your neck as you urge Ben to wash up while you and your mom prepare dinner.

“Pasta alright?” You ask, testing the waters.

His answer is respectful and composed. A simple yes, thank you.

It only makes you more nervous.

Dinner passes by without a hitch, despite your bouncing knee the entier time. Your mom asks Scott how he knows you and what he does for work; she’s at least smart enough to tread carefully on the bigger questions of why you’ve never mentioned him and why he feels comfortable enough to show face at your job. The extent of his introduction to Ben is taht he is your son and Scott is your friend.

“Uncle Scott,” Ben confirms, familiarizing himself with Scott’s name on his tongue.

You see the ice in his eyes chip away, albeit slightly, but he nods.

After Ben gets exactly a single scoop of the chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge, you tell him that it’s finally time for bed. He whines about how having a guest means that he should be able to stay up longer. You give him one look and he promptly skulks to the bathroom. 

You take this chance to escape Scott’s attention for a little while; god knows his staring gets unnerving after two hours of it. You take your time preparing Ben for bed, switching him to his comfy pajamas, reading him his favorite book with the voices the way he likes it. When he’s finally out cold, you get up, press a kiss to his temple, and turn to exit. 

Scott’s standing in the doorway, watching you quietly. His expression is thoughtful, but he doesn’t say a word when you lead him back to the kitchen. 

You walk your mom to the door, thanking her for the day.

Her eyes wander to Scott behind you who seems intent on lingering even when it’s late. She smiles at you. “He seems like a good one,” she whispers. “I like him.”

“You’ve known him all of two hours.”

“I can sense it. I like how you are with him.” You raise an eyebrow in question. “Emotional. You get riled up so easily. You’ve spent the last few years playing adult that it’s sweet to see you like this.” 

Your cheeks are hot as you shoo her again. She throws out a final nice to meet you and see you again soon before she finally leaves the two of you alone.

Scott’s eyes chase after you as you fuss with your kettle, preparing caffeine for the conversation you’re about to have. Maybe you should break out that tequila buried deep inside your cabinet instead. He no doubt has questions. You don’t know if he’s connected the dots; you can only hope he hasn’t. Ben looks more like you after all.

There’s a small part of you that hopes Scott would know, call it fatherly intuition, but a bigger part of you wants to avoid addressing that question. He’s only here to visit, he doesn’t need to know that he has a son. If he doesn’t know, then the two of you can return to life as is once he leaves.

You don’t want to admit how much the thought stings.

“Ben,” Scott clears his throat as you set a cup of coffee in front of him. He gratefully accepts it, takes a sip. “Is his dad…”

“Not around.” It’s a safe answer.

“Who is he?”

“No one you know,” you lie smoothly, maybe too quickly.

His eyes narrow a fraction but he doesn’t push. “You never told me you have a son.”

“We weren’t talking, Miller. It would’ve been strange to say hey, hope you’re doing well, by the way, I have a kid!”

“Well, whose fault is that?” He snaps.

The air is strung tight, electricity crackling quietly in the echo of his words. 

“I just—” He takes a deep breath, hands shoved into his hair. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, doing his damndest to try and mean it. You know that he wants to push, to question, to challenge you. Confront you for leaving him in the wind. 

But he doesn’t want to lose you — the same way you don’t want to either. 

“Ben’s a good kid,” you murmur, thumb stroking the rim of your mug. 

“Well, you did raise him,” he notes, lips twitching up. 

You clear your throat. “This is why I can’t do… whatever that was last night again. It was a fluke and a mistake. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night out like that and apparently I just needed to get laid.” 

Instead of the chuckle you’re expecting, some jab about you being abstinent, there is weight that settles heavy in the atmosphere. Scott looks at you carefully, lips tight. “A mistake? Really?”

“Not—” you stop yourself, biting your tongue, “not like that.” He cocks an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of irritation and interest. “I just think I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible.”

“Why? You would’ve fucked any man that night?” 

“Of course not!”

“So just me then.”

“Yes!”

The moment the confirmation leaves your mouth, you stop. Scott smiles, smug. “Good to know.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“You already did.”

The urge to hurl your mug at his head grows stronger by the second.

Scott bites down on his smile but you can still see the ghost of amusement on his lips. “But, listen, in all seriousness, if you need anything— I know raising a kid isn’t cheap and, with your hours and obviously childcare and all the necessities—”

You cringe. “Please don’t tell me you’re offering me money right now.” 

“I just want to help.”

“Not your responsibility.”

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

You consider arguing with him again, defending your stance as a perfectly capable, independent, single mother. However, you know he means well. This is how Scott Miller helps, this is how he shows you he cares. 

“Thank you,” you sigh, “I appreciate it, but I promise you I’m fine.”

Scott hesitates for a second. “You’re not a nurse.” It’s not a question. 

“I wanted to do it, but the pregnancy and the tough hours just didn’t seem healthy – or fair to a newborn. I’m doing something safer, more regular hours. It’s not so bad.”

“Wasn’t your dream though.”

“Well, sometimes dreams don’t work out.”

He doesn’t look appeased. “Why not now? He’s a little more grown. How old is he?”

Your heart rushes in your ears. “I have a good routine going. It’s not like I hate what I’m doing now—”

“But you don’t love it.” Once again, not a question.

“It’s… a job, Scott, I’m lucky to be employed in this economy.”

He grunts but doesn’t push further. “I’m not going to give you shit for not telling me—”

“Shocker.” The sarcastic remark slips out on instinct, Scott tosses you a scalding look with no heat behind his eyes. 

“But at least let me try and help you.” He knows you too well, can sense the argument threatening to fall from your lips, so he quickly adds, “I don’t want to hear it. However I can help, I will.”

When he has this voice, you know there’s no point in arguing, so you let it slide. “Sure. Thank you,” you surrender. “How long are you here for?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

Oh. You’re fast to school your expression. “Got it. We should plan to catch up properly at some point then. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

The corners of his lips tug up and you’re already rolling your eyes, ears tingling with the stupid comment to come. “You don’t think we did that already? Or did you want a repeat?”

“Pig.”