new year, same ol' me

He’d sign his name on the volunteer sheet, grab a bucket and cleaning supplies, and disappear into the kennel rows. No small talk. No introductions. No standing around the coffee station discussing weekend plans like the other volunteers.

Just work.

At first, you barely paid attention to him.

The shelter always had volunteers coming and going. College students looking for hours. Retirees looking for purpose. People who stayed a month and disappeared. You assumed Andrew would be the same. Then one afternoon, a German shepherd named Tank proved you wrong.

Tank had been returned three times. The first family said he was too anxious. The second said he was destructive. The third brought him back after he snapped at their teenage son. By the time Tank arrived at your shelter, he had a bright red warning sticker on his kennel file and a reputation that followed him into every room.

Nobody liked walking him. Nobody volunteered for his kennel. Nobody expected much from him. Including Tank.

You were carrying fresh water bowls down the kennel row when barking erupted from the far end. Loud. Aggressive. The kind that made visitors jump. Tank. Again.

A new volunteer, a teenager completing community service hours, stood frozen outside the kennel door.

“He’s gonna bite me,” the kid said.

“You don’t have to take him,” you replied.

The teenager looked relieved. 

Tank kept barking. Throwing himself against the chain-link door. You were already reaching for the clipboard to mark him as skipped when another voice spoke.

“I’ll take him.”

You looked up. Andrew stood a few feet away, holding a leash.

The teenager handed it over immediately.

“You sure?” you asked.

Andrew nodded once. That was it. No bravado. No speech. Just a nod.

You expected a struggle. Expected barking. Expected chaos. Instead, Andrew crouched outside the kennel. Not opening the door. Not reaching inside. Just sitting.

Tank barked himself hoarse for nearly five minutes. Andrew waited. The dog barked. Andrew waited. The dog paced. Andrew waited. Finally, Tank stopped. Not because he’d calmed down. Because he got tired. For the first time, silence settled between them. 

Andrew looked at him. Tank looked back.

And then Andrew said, “Yeah.”

Nothing else. Just that. Yeah.

Like Tank had told him something. Like he’d understood it. You frowned. The dog blinked. Andrew held out the leash. Another minute passed. Then another. Eventually, Tank stepped forward. Not much. Just enough.

Andrew clipped the leash on. No struggle. No drama. No barking. Then he stood and walked away with eighty pounds of formerly impossible German shepherd trotting quietly beside him.

You stared after them.

“What the hell?” muttered another volunteer.

You didn’t have an answer. Neither did Tank. But after that day, Andrew became harder to ignore.

You started noticing things. The way he always arrived early. The way broken things somehow stopped being broken after he touched them. The way he remembered every dog’s name after hearing it once. The way frightened animals followed him around the yard like he carried some invisible signal only they could hear.

Mostly, though, you noticed the patience. 

Everybody talked about patience like it was kindness. With Andrew, it felt different. It felt like recognition. Like he understood fear because he’d lived with it long enough to recognize it in someone else. Or something else.

One Thursday afternoon, that understanding got him bitten. Hard.

You were restocking food bins when shouting erupted near the intake kennels. Not panicked shouting. Surprised shouting. You rounded the corner to find three volunteers standing around Daisy’s kennel. Daisy had arrived that morning. Three-legged pit bull. Recently rescued. Terrified of everyone. Especially men.

Andrew stood outside the kennel holding a leash. Blood ran down the back of his hand. A bite. Not severe. But enough.

“Oh my God,” one volunteer said.

“Jesus—”

“Get the first-aid kit.”

The room filled with voices. Questions. Concern. Noise. Andrew ignored all of it. His eyes remained fixed on Daisy.

The dog had retreated to the far corner of the kennel. Trembling. Ears pinned back. Terrified. Not of what she’d done. Of what might happen next.

Andrew noticed immediately. “Don’t.”

The word cut through the room. Everyone stopped.

“Don’t what?” asked a volunteer.

Andrew nodded toward Daisy. “Don’t yell at her.”

Nobody had been. But somehow the entire room understood what he meant. Don’t be angry. Don’t punish her. Don’t make this worse.

Blood dripped from his hand onto the concrete. Andrew barely looked at it.

“She’s scared.” His voice softened. Directed entirely at the dog. “That’s all.”

The kennel fell quiet.

You looked at Daisy. Then at Andrew. Then back again. For a strange moment, neither of them seemed dangerous. Just frightened. And somehow that realization stayed with you long after the bite healed.

—

The bite should have healed quickly. It probably did. The mark disappeared from the back of Andrew’s hand within a couple of weeks. The impression it left behind lasted much longer.

After that day, you started paying attention. Not intentionally. At least that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t watching for him when you arrived each morning. You weren’t checking the volunteer sheet to see if his name was signed in. You weren’t noticing when the parking space near the maintenance shed was empty.

Except you were. A little. Enough that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your eyes automatically drifted toward the front desk around two o’clock. Enough that you noticed if he was late. Enough that you knew he was never late.

The shelter ran on routines. Feeding schedules. Medication charts. Walking rotations. People were harder. Volunteers came and went. Staff burned out. Life happened.

Andrew stayed. 

Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Two o’clock sharp. Like clockwork. And somehow, things worked better when he was there.

You’d spend twenty minutes fighting with a jammed kennel latch. Turn around to grab a tool. Turn back. And it would be fixed. A leaking faucet that maintenance hadn’t gotten to yet would suddenly stop dripping. A broken gate would swing smoothly again. A stubborn printer would start working after Andrew wandered past it.

Half the time you never even saw him do it. You’d just notice the problem had disappeared. He never mentioned it. Never waited for thanks. He just noticed things and fixed them, like it was as natural as breathing.

One afternoon, nearly two months after the bite incident, you found him sitting on the floor in the storage room. At first, you thought he was hurt. The sight was strange enough to stop you in the doorway. Andrew sat cross-legged beside a stack of donated blankets, staring at something in his lap.

You stepped closer. Then laughed. A tiny gray kitten glared back at you. The kitten couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. One ear flopped sideways. Its eyes were too big for its face. Its entire body fit comfortably in Andrew’s hands. And it looked furious about it.

“What are you doing?”

Andrew looked up. Then down at the kitten. Then back at you.

“He doesn’t like anybody.”

The kitten immediately hissed.

You snorted. “Clearly.”

Andrew nodded.

The kitten hissed again.

“He’s been doing that for twenty minutes.”

“Why are you sitting here with him?”

Another shrug. Like the answer was obvious.

“Nobody else would.”

The kitten attempted to climb onto his shoulder. Failed spectacularly. Slid into his lap. Andrew steadied him with one careful hand. You felt something strange settle in your chest. Not romance. Just curiosity. Because most people would have laughed. Most people would have walked away. Andrew had apparently devoted half an hour of his afternoon to keeping an angry kitten company.

“You know he hates you, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

The kitten hissed again.

Andrew nodded toward him. “See?”

You laughed.

This time Andrew actually smiled. Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately. But real. It was the first genuine smile you’d seen from him. For some reason, it felt like discovering a secret.

—

The first real conversation happened because of rain.

Southern California rarely got enough of it to cause problems. When it did, everything stopped functioning properly. The shelter parking lot flooded. The roof leaked near the laundry room. Half the volunteers called out. By six o’clock, only three people remained. You. Andrew. And Ruth. Ruth left at six-thirty.

The storm got worse. You were balancing paperwork, medication records, and tomorrow’s intake forms when the lights flickered.

“Don’t,” you said.

Andrew stood on a ladder near the electrical panel. 

“What?”

“The lights.”

The lights flickered again. You pointed your pen at the ceiling. 

“If the power goes out, that’s fate telling me the paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”

Andrew looked down from the ladder. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No chance.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He went back to the electrical panel. “You’d stay.”

“I absolutely would not.”

“You would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You always finish the paperwork.”

“I could leave it.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Andrew glanced down at the clipboard in your arms. “You brought two pens.”

You looked at the pens clipped to the top of the clipboard. Then back at him. “One could die.”

His mouth twitched. “There’s another one behind your ear.”

You froze. Then slowly reached up. Your fingers brushed the pen tucked there.

Andrew turned back to the panel like knowing you that well meant nothing.

You laughed hard enough to nearly drop your clipboard. The sound surprised both of you. Because Andrew immediately looked away. Not uncomfortable. Just… startled. Like he wasn’t used to being the reason someone laughed.

The realization made your chest ache unexpectedly.

—

The friendship happened so slowly neither of you noticed it.

One day he was a volunteer. Then he was Andrew. Then he was somehow part of your routine.

You started saving him coffee if you stopped before work. He always pretended he didn’t expect it. The lie got less convincing every week.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“You say that every time.”

“I mean it every time.”

“You drank half of it before I sat down.”

He paused. “That’s unrelated.”

You laughed.

Andrew looked pleased with himself. Not enough to smile. But close. Very close.

The more time you spent around him, the more you noticed other things too. Not just what he fixed. What he remembered.

Andrew remembered everything.

Which dogs hated thunder. Which ones needed their bowls lifted higher. Which volunteers forgot to latch the side gate. Which brand of creamer you pretended not to care about.

Andrew collected details quietly. And somehow, without meaning to, you started wanting to be one of them.

—

The first time he walked you to your car, you didn’t think much of it.

The shelter closed late. You grabbed your keys. Andrew happened to be heading outside too. The parking lot was mostly empty.

You chatted about a dog adoption event scheduled for the weekend. Normal conversation. Nothing special.

At your car, you unlocked the door. Andrew stopped behind you, hands in his pockets.

“You don’t have to wait.”

“I know.”

“You’re waiting.”

“Yeah.”

You turned, confused. “For what?”

His gaze moved to the empty parking lot, then back to you. “For you to be okay.”

You blinked.

Andrew nodded. Then turned and walked toward his truck.

You stood there staring after him. Nobody had ever made your safety sound so matter-of-fact.

The next week, it happened again. And the week after that. Eventually you realized he wasn’t walking himself to the parking lot. He was walking you.

Not making a big deal out of it. Not asking permission. Not expecting thanks. Just making sure you got there safely. Like he’d decided you mattered.

And once Andrew Cody decided something mattered, he tended to stick with it.

—

The first time you saw him angry, it wasn’t directed at you.

A woman stormed into the shelter carrying a small terrier mix. She was already yelling before she reached the desk. Complaining about the dog. Complaining about the shelter. Complaining about how nobody wanted to help her.

Every answer you gave seemed to make her louder.

You tried to explain the surrender process. Tried to stay polite. Tried to de-escalate. Nothing worked.

The woman leaned across the counter. Voice rising. Finger pointed directly at your face. For a moment you weren’t sure what to do.

Then the room went quiet.

Not because she stopped. Because Andrew had appeared beside you. You hadn’t even seen him walk over. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten her. Didn’t posture.

He simply looked at her. And said, very calmly, “You’re done yelling at her.”

The woman froze. The entire room froze. Andrew wasn’t loud. That somehow made it worse.

There was something in his expression. Something absolute. The kind of certainty that made people rethink their decisions.

The woman sputtered another complaint.

Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Either surrender the dog respectfully or leave.”

Silence. A long silence. Then the woman sat down. Just like that. The fight drained out of her.

You stared.

Andrew turned back toward you. Asked if you were okay. Then immediately started helping with paperwork as though nothing unusual had happened.

No victory lap. No smugness. No acknowledgment that he’d just shut down a situation everyone else had been struggling with for ten minutes.

That was the first time you started understanding the rumors.

Because there were rumors. You’d heard them in pieces. Whispers from longtime volunteers. Comments that stopped when you walked into a room.

You hadn’t grown up here. Hadn’t lived in the area long enough to know the history everyone else seemed to share. All you knew was that Andrew Cody had a past. People talked about his family in lowered voices. There were stories. Some true. Some exaggerated. Most of them impossible to piece together.

But standing beside him that day, watching an angry stranger back down without another word, you understood why those stories survived.

Not because he was cruel. Not because he was violent. Because there was something undeniably dangerous beneath the surface. Something controlled. Something restrained. Something that chose, every single day, not to be what people expected.

Later that same week, a man arrived looking to surrender a dog.

An elderly lab mix. Gray around the muzzle. Arthritis in both hips.

The owner complained about vet bills the entire intake process. Complained about medication costs. Complained about the dog’s accidents. Complained about how much work he was.

The dog sat quietly beside him. Tail wagging. Still trying to be good.

You saw Andrew standing across the room. Silent. Still. Listening.

The owner finally left. The dog watched the door close behind him. Waited. Waited some more. Then slowly sat down. The room fell quiet. Andrew walked over. Knelt beside the dog. Rested one hand against his neck.

The dog leaned immediately into the contact. Trusting. Hopeful. Heartbroken.

Andrew’s jaw tightened. You saw it. Not the sharp, controlled anger from earlier. Something quieter this time. Older. Grief, maybe. Or recognition.

Then the old lab rested his head in Andrew’s lap. And just like that, the anger disappeared. Gone beneath grief. Beneath tenderness. Beneath something so heartbreakingly gentle it made your throat tighten.

That was the day you started wondering if the world had ever bothered to learn the difference. Between what Andrew was capable of and who he chose to be.

—

The first text arrived on a Sunday.

Your phone buzzed while you were grocery shopping. A picture message. No words. Just an image.

Daisy. Covered in mud. Holding a tennis ball twice the size of her head.

You laughed immediately.

A second message appeared.

Andrew: Found contraband.

You stared at the screen. Then at the grocery store aisle. Then back at the screen.

Before you could stop yourself, you smiled.

You typed back before you could think better of it.

You: Armed and dangerous.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then Andrew replied:

Andrew: Very.

You laughed alone in the grocery aisle.

And somehow, without either of you noticing when it happened, Andrew Cody had become someone you were always willing to answer.

—

The texts did not become constant.

They became familiar. That was different. A photo from Andrew every now and then. Daisy muddy. Tank asleep against the fence. The old lab stealing treats with no remorse.

A reply from you. A dry answer from him. Sometimes nothing for hours. Sometimes nothing until the next day, when he’d walk into the shelter and continue the conversation like time had simply paused between you.

It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. By then, you had learned that Andrew did not move through closeness the way other people did.

He did not rush toward it. He circled it. Tested it. Stepped close enough to feel the warmth, then back again before it could burn him.

So you let him. You didn’t chase. You didn’t push. You only stayed steady enough that, eventually, he started trusting the space beside you.

The first time he touched you on purpose, it was barely anything.

You were both in the yard after closing, trying to convince Daisy to come inside. She had decided the patch of dirt beneath the eucalyptus tree belonged to her now and no amount of calling, bribing, or dignity seemed likely to change her mind.

“She’s ignoring us,” you said.

Andrew stood beside you, leash in hand. “She’s ignoring you.”

You looked at him. “She’s ignoring both of us.”

“No.”

“Andrew.”

“She looked at me.”

“She looked at you because you have turkey in your pocket.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “That counts.”

You laughed.

Daisy, unimpressed by your laughter, rolled onto her side in the dirt.

You sighed and stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll get her.”

“She’ll run.”

“She has three legs.”

“She’s fast.”

“She is not faster than me.”

Andrew looked at you for a long second.

Then, dryly, “She might be.”

You turned to glare at him, and your foot slipped in the damp grass. Not badly. Not enough to fall. But enough that his hand closed around your elbow before you could catch yourself.

Quick.

Firm.

Warm.

You froze.

So did he.

His fingers stayed there for one second longer than necessary. Then two.

Daisy barked once from under the tree, like she had opinions about the tension.

Andrew let go first. “Careful,” he said. His voice had gone low.

You looked at the place his hand had been. Then at him.

“I thought I was slower than the dog.”

His mouth twitched. “You are.”

But he didn’t move away. Neither did you. And for the first time, the silence between you felt less like comfort and more like something waiting to happen.

—

After that, touching became dangerous.

Not because either of you did much of it. Because you didn’t. Because every small contact started to matter more than it should.

His shoulder brushing yours in the storage room. Your fingers grazing when you passed him a leash.

His hand at the small of your back once, guiding you around a puddle near the intake gate before he seemed to realize what he’d done and dropped it immediately.

You never called attention to it. Neither did he. But something changed.

Andrew started standing closer. You started letting him.

On slow evenings, after the dogs were fed and the last volunteers had gone home, the two of you sat outside on the bench near the exercise yard.

Not every night. Never planned. It happened naturally, which somehow made it more intimate.

You’d finish locking up. Andrew would still be there, wiping down tools or checking the back gate. You’d sit for a minute because the night air felt good after hours of kennel noise. He’d sit too.

At first with a careful distance between you. Then less. Then none at all.

One night, your knees touched. Neither of you moved. The yard was quiet except for Tank pacing along the fence, ears perked toward the street.

Andrew sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands loose between his knees.

“You okay?” you asked.

He glanced over. “Yeah.”

“You got quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Quieter.”

He considered that. Then looked back toward the yard.

“Didn’t know if I should move.”

Your heart gave a soft, painful twist. You looked down. Your knee was still pressed against his.

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately. Too honest to be casual.

Andrew’s jaw tightened after he said it, like he wished he could drag the word back and inspect it before handing it to you.

You kept your voice gentle. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t. 

Andrew looked back toward the yard. Tank had finally settled near the fence. For a long moment neither of you spoke. But the tension didn’t leave.

The two of you sat like that for twenty minutes. Knees touching. Hands separate. Neither of you brave enough to reach further. Neither of you wanting to leave.

—

The first time you went somewhere together that had nothing to do with the shelter, Andrew looked like he expected to be caught doing something wrong.

It was your idea. Technically. The shelter had closed early for fumigation, and you’d both ended up standing beside your cars in broad daylight with nowhere you were required to be.

It felt strange. Seeing him outside the routine. No kennels. No barking. No clipboard. Just Andrew in the parking lot with his keys in his hand and uncertainty written all over him.

You could have said goodnight. He probably expected you to.

Instead you said, “Have you eaten?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to?”

“With you?”

The question came out so bluntly that you almost smiled.

You didn’t, because he looked like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

“Yes,” you said. “With me.”

Andrew looked toward the road. Then back at you.

“Okay.”

You picked a diner ten minutes away because it was quiet and familiar and unlikely to ask anything from either of you.

Andrew sat across from you in the booth, shoulders tight, hands wrapped around a glass of water he hadn’t touched.

“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you said.

“I don’t.”

You smiled.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his face shifted. Not a smile. Something softer. Like he was pleased he’d made you do that.

The waitress came by. You ordered first. Andrew ordered second, short and simple.

When she left, he looked relieved.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded. Then, after a moment, shook his head.

“I don’t do this much.”

“Eat?”

His mouth twitched. “Go places.”

“With people?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned your arms on the table. “That’s okay.”

He studied you for a long second. “Is it?”

The question had weight under it. Too much weight for pancakes and bad diner coffee.

You answered carefully. “Yes.”

His thumb moved once against the side of the glass.

“I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You don’t have to perform dinner correctly, Andrew.”

He looked down. “People notice.”

“People notice a lot of things.”

“I notice when they notice.”

That hurt. Quietly. You imagined him moving through the world collecting every glance, every pause, every shift in tone. Filing them away as proof.

You softened your voice. “I’ll tell you if something matters.”

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“If you say something that hurts me, I’ll tell you. If I need something, I’ll tell you. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”

He stared at you.

You shrugged. “I’m not going to make you guess.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his shoulders lowered by maybe half an inch. Not much. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

And this time, okay sounded like relief.

—

Dinner became another thing neither of you named.

Not dating. Not officially. Just sometimes, after late shifts or early closings, you ended up somewhere together. A diner. A taco stand. The beach parking lot with takeout balanced between you on the hood of his truck.

You learned that Andrew ate slowly unless he was nervous. That he hated cilantro but would forget to ask for no cilantro unless you reminded him. That he always sat facing the door. That he noticed exits without seeming to. That he didn’t like crowded places, but tolerated them longer when you sat beside him instead of across from him.

He learned things about you too. How you picked onions off everything but pretended you weren’t picky. How you got quiet when you were tired. How you always said “I’m fine” too quickly when you weren’t. How you hated asking for help but accepted it better if he didn’t make a production out of offering.

The first time his hand found yours, you were sitting in his truck after dinner, watching the ocean move black and silver under the moon.

Neither of you had meant to stay that long. The food was gone. The windows were fogged slightly at the edges. The radio was on low, more static than song. Your hand rested on the seat between you. So did his.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then his pinky brushed yours. Accidentally. Maybe.

You turned your hand over. Open. Waiting.

Andrew stared at it.

“You don’t have to,” you said.

“I know.” His voice was rough. 

A moment passed. Then his hand slid into yours. Slowly. Carefully. Like there were rules he didn’t know and he was terrified of breaking them.

His palm was warm. Calloused. His grip loose at first. Testing. When your fingers curled around his, he inhaled quietly. Not sharply. Just enough for you to hear.

You looked over.

His eyes stayed fixed on the windshield.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

Then, after a second, “Yeah.”

You believed him. 

So you looked back at the ocean and let him hold your hand until his grip finally stopped feeling like a question.

—

The first kiss almost happened three weeks before it actually did.

Rain again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor.

You had both gotten caught in it while bringing dogs in from the yard, and by the time the last kennel was latched, your shirt clung damply to your skin and Andrew’s hair was wet enough to drip onto the concrete.

You were laughing. He wasn’t. Not exactly. But he was watching you laugh. That had become its own kind of tenderness.

Andrew watched joy like it was something he did not fully understand but wanted to learn.

“You’re soaked,” he said.

“So are you.”

“You should change.”

“I don’t keep spare clothes here.”

He looked away. Then back.

“I have a hoodie in my truck.”

Something about the offer made the air shift. Maybe it was the way he said it. Quiet. Careful. Like he knew a hoodie was not just a hoodie if it came from him.

“Okay,” you said.

He brought it to you without meeting your eyes. Dark gray. Worn soft. Too big. Still warm from the cab of his truck.

You slipped it on in the staff bathroom, then came back out with the sleeves covering half your hands.

Andrew looked at you. Stopped. The expression on his face made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not exactly. Something more vulnerable. Like seeing you in something of his had touched a place in him he had not expected anyone to reach.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Andrew.”

His eyes moved to the sleeves. Then to your face.

“It looks…” He stopped.

You waited.

He swallowed. “Good.”

That one word landed harder than it should have. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted quickly, almost guilty.

You could have kissed him then. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. Instead, you touched his wrist. A small mercy. A smaller promise.

“Thank you.”

His fingers flexed once under yours.

“Yeah.”

The kiss waited. Neither of you was ready. Not yet.

—

After the hoodie, something shifted.

Not between you. Inside Andrew.

At first, it was subtle. The sort of thing you could explain away if you wanted to. He left a little sooner after closing. Stopped lingering outside your car. Answered questions with less than before.

Not cold. Never cold. Just measured. And somehow that felt worse.

You spent nearly two weeks convincing yourself it meant nothing. Then one Thursday you found him sitting alone behind the shelter. The sun had already gone down. The exercise yard sat empty. Most of the dogs were asleep.

Andrew sat on an overturned bucket near the fence, staring into the darkness beyond the lot. Not occupied with anything. Just sitting. And that, more than anything, felt wrong.

You approached quietly. “Hey.”

His shoulders tightened before he looked up. “Hey.”

You leaned against the fence beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell quiet.

Andrew rubbed a thumb along the rim of the bucket.

You watched the motion repeat. “Did I do something?”

His hand stilled. “No.”

“Then what’s going on?”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. He turned toward the field.

You waited.

He let the silence stand. “You should probably stop.”

You blinked. “What?”

He bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “This.”

Your fingers tightened around the fence wire. “Andrew—”

“You should.” He exhaled through his nose and shook his head once. “You should stop before it gets worse.”

For a moment, the words didn’t land. Then they did. You stared at him. Andrew kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw locked hard enough to show in the fading light.

“Before what gets worse?”

His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek. The answer took its time. When it came, it was barely audible.

“Before you start wanting things I can’t give you.”

The fence creaked softly under your grip.

Andrew looked down at the dirt between his boots and dragged the toe of one shoe through it.

Neither of you spoke.

Then he stood. The bucket scraped hard against the ground.

“You don’t know me.”

You looked up at him. “I know you here.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something worse.

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the shelter. “That’s the problem.”

You frowned. “Why?”

For a moment he didn’t answer. He looked away, toward the kennels, toward the rows of chain-link fencing and concrete runs. Anywhere but at you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“Because this place is easy.”

You waited.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “The dogs make sense.” A moment passed. “They need something. You give it to them.” His gaze dropped to the bucket at his feet. “Food. Water. A clean kennel.”

You watched him carefully. “And people?”

A humorless smile touched his mouth. “People aren’t like that.”

The silence stretched between you. You let it. Andrew shifted his weight. Like he was deciding whether to keep talking. Like every word cost him something.

“You see me here,” he said at last. “You see me doing this.” His hand gestured vaguely toward the shelter. “The work. The routine.” His eyes lifted to yours. “You see the version of me that knows what he’s supposed to do.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. Not angry. Just asking you to let him finish. So you did.

“You know what time I show up. You know I bring coffee.” His jaw tightened. “You know I remember things.” He paused. “You know the parts that fit.”

The words hung there. 

You took a slow breath. “And the parts that don’t?”

His expression hardened. “There you go.”

“What?”

“That.” He looked away again. “You hear something bad and immediately start trying to understand it.”

“I am trying to understand it.”

“I know.”

The answer came tired rather than sharp. For the first time, he sounded exhausted. Not angry. Just worn down.

Andrew stared at the ground for a long moment before speaking again.

“You ever meet someone and know exactly what they think you are?”

You blinked. “Sometimes.”

He nodded once. “Most people look at me and decide pretty fast.” His fingers tightened around the bucket handle. “Quiet. Weird. Difficult.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“Sometimes useful.” A bitter edge slipped into his voice. “People like useful.” His gaze dropped. “Useful’s easy.”

You took a step closer. Only one.

“Andrew.”

This time he looked at you. Really looked. And for a second he seemed surprised that you were still standing there listening. A bitter laugh escaped him.

“You know this version. The guy who shows up, does the work, remembers your coffee order.” His eyes met yours. “But you don’t know me.”

“Andrew—”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “You keep acting like if you care enough, you’ll find something worth saving.” He hit a hand against his chest. “What if there isn’t?”

Silence stretched.

“I’ve hurt people.”

Silence.

“Bad.”

His jaw worked.

“Not by accident.”

Another pause.

“Sometimes by accident.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t know.”

Your grip tightened on the fence.

“Still looking for the good?” he asked.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to make me afraid of you.”

His eyes flashed. “You should be.” He turned away, then back again. Restless. “You think feeding dogs and fixing things makes me safe?”

“No.”

“You think because I haven’t hurt you yet, I won’t?”

The word hung between you. Ugly. Intentional. A flicker of regret crossed his face before he buried it.

“You should go.”

“No.”

His hands curled at his sides. “Why?”

“Because you’re trying to scare me.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re telling me part of it.”

His laugh was harsh. “You don’t want the rest.”

“Then don’t give me the rest. But don’t stand here and pretend cruelty is honesty.”

That stopped him. Briefly.

“I’m not cruel?”

“I said you’re choosing it right now.”

His jaw worked.

You stepped closer. “I think you’re choosing it because it’s easier than letting me choose you.”

Andrew stared at you. His breathing changed. A dog barked inside the shelter.

Then, low and rough he spoke again, “I don’t want you to love me.”

Your heart twisted. “Why?”

“Because I’ll ruin it.” The answer came too fast. “I ruin everything I care about.” He dragged both hands over his neck. Frustrated.

“Take your time,” you said.

“I don’t know how.” The words cracked out of him. He looked at you helplessly. “You. Me. All of it.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

He shook his head. “You keep making it not bad.”

“What’s bad?”

“All of it.”

You held his gaze. He wanted fear. Disgust. Something simple. You gave him none of it.

“I’m trying to tell you something,” he said.

“You are.”

“No. That’s the problem.”

His hand pressed against his forehead.

“The thing in my head—it doesn’t come out right.”

“I’m listening.”

His eyes dropped. “I’m not good.” The words were quiet. Simple. “I mean it. There’s something wrong.”

“Andrew—”

“Don’t make it soft.” His voice cracked. “You take everything and make it into something I can live with.”

The anger slipped for a moment. Underneath it was fear. Raw and exposed.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

You swallowed.

He looked away. “I did everything they wanted. I tried.” His hands opened helplessly. “Useful,” he said finally. “That was the good one.”

Your heart ached.

“I wasn’t easy.”

“You don’t have to be.”

His face tightened. “You say that because you don’t know what it means.”

“Then tell me.”

He hesitated. 

“I get stuck.”

He looked away.

“I miss things. I watch people, try to figure them out, and sometimes I still get it wrong.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not okay.”

“It is with me.”

“You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

“You’ll get tired.”

“Maybe.”

He froze.

So you kept your voice steady. 

“Maybe some days. People get tired, Andrew. That doesn’t mean they leave.”

His mouth parted slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I know I’m still here.”

For a second he looked almost young. Lost. Then he stepped back.

“That’s not enough.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know why you’re still here.”

The words escaped him before he could stop them. You didn’t move.

His face twisted. “I don’t know why.”

“Because I want to be.”

He shook his head. “There are people who don’t do this.”

“What?”

He gestured helplessly between you. “All of it.”

You understood. The anger. The confusion. The sharp edges he couldn’t smooth down.

“There are people who can just be,” he said bitterly. “People who can be loved and not turn it into—” The sentence broke apart. “You should’ve picked somebody else.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want somebody else.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Hope flashed there. Small and terrifying.

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

His voice cracked. “You like the coffee. The dogs. The hoodie.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. “Yes.”

“That’s not me.”

“It is.”

“It’s not enough.”

“I didn’t say it was everything.”

His eyes were wet now. “You keep finding pieces. Like that makes a whole person.”

“It can.”

He shook his head. “There are other pieces.”

“I know.”

“Bad ones.”

“I know enough to know they’re there.”

For once, he had no answer. You stepped closer. He didn’t move away.

“I’m not asking for every bad thing you’ve ever done. I’m not asking you to explain your whole life so I can decide if you’re worth loving.”

He flinched.

“I already decided.”

Andrew stared at you. His breath shook.

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Love isn’t a prize for people who make it through life untouched.”

His brow furrowed.

You swallowed. “You’ve done terrible things.”

Pain crossed his face. You let the truth stand.

“But monsters don’t worry about the damage they leave behind.”

His breathing caught.

“Monsters don’t sit outside kennels because a dog is scared.”

His eyes closed.

“Monsters don’t bring coffee and pretend they didn’t.”

His mouth trembled.

“Monsters don’t stand in front of someone they want and try to protect them from the worst parts of themselves.”

Andrew opened his eyes. They were wet. “I’m not good.”

“I’m not asking you to be perfect.”

“I’m not peaceful.”

“I’m not asking for a life without pain.”

He shook his head, searching for words. Finally, barely above a whisper:

“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”

There it was. The real question.

You lifted your hand but stopped short of touching him.

“I think peace is something people build,” you said softly. “Not something one person hands over finished.”

He stared at you.

“I think it’s telling the truth when it’s ugly. Staying when leaving would be easier.”

His throat worked.

“I think it’s this.”

“This isn’t peace.”

“No,” you said. “But it could be the beginning of it.”

For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he leaned into your palm. His eyes closed. The breath that left him was unsteady. You stepped closer. His hand caught your wrist. Not to pull you away. To keep you there.

“You’re still scared,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

His eyes opened.

“But I’m not leaving because you’re scared too.”

Something in his face folded. Not dramatically. Just enough to reveal the wound underneath.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Then don’t do anything yet.”

He swallowed.

“Just stay.”

His fingers tightened around your wrist. Not hard. Enough.

“I can do that.”

The words were rough. Fragile. A promise small enough to carry.

You smiled through the ache in your chest. “Okay.”

The shelter was quiet behind you. Dogs sleeping. The world holding still. Then Andrew glanced at your mouth. Back to your eyes. The question was there. Terrified. Hopeful.

You answered by moving closer. Slowly enough that he could stop you. He didn’t.

The kiss was barely a kiss at first. A brush of mouths. A question. His lips trembled against yours, and your heart broke all over again because even this felt like something he was afraid to want.

You kissed him back. Softly. Clearly. Your hand stayed against his cheek. His hand stayed around your wrist. Then his other hand rose, hesitant, settling at your waist like he was asking permission.

You leaned into him. He made a small, wrecked sound. The sound seemed to surprise him. Like he hadn’t meant to let you hear it. His fingers tightened at your waist. Not possessive. Just desperate. Just real.

The kiss deepened by a fraction. Enough to stop feeling like a question. Enough to feel like an answer.

Andrew’s forehead furrowed as if he was fighting something even now, the instinct to pull away, to apologize, to ruin the moment before it could matter. Instead he stayed. And when your thumb brushed his cheek, he broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft exhale against your mouth that sounded painfully close to relief.

His hand left your wrist. For one terrifying second you thought he was retreating. Then he cupped the back of your neck. Careful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. The gesture stole your breath. Because Andrew never reached for things he wanted.

He held himself back. Made himself smaller. But not now. Not this time. When he kissed you again, it was still gentle, still uncertain, but there was want in it now. Trust. The beginning of belief. And that felt bigger than passion ever could.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed. His breath shook. A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Not happy. Not sad. Just overwhelmed.

“You’re still here,” he whispered.

Like he was testing the fact. Like he needed to hear it out loud.

You brushed your nose against his.

“Yeah.”

His eyes opened. Red-rimmed. Vulnerable. And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look away.

You stayed there with him. Not fixing. Not saving. Just holding the moment steady until he could breathe inside it. Nothing was solved. Nothing was erased.

But Andrew Cody, who had spent his whole life being told he was too much and never enough, stood beneath the dim shelter light with your hand against his face and let himself believe, for one impossible second, that maybe love did not have to be earned by becoming someone else.

Maybe it could begin here.

Messy.

Frightened.

Imperfect.

Still chosen.

The chairs had always felt vaguely cursed to you, even on good days. 

On bad days—days where the waiting room smelled too strongly of antiseptic and drying blood, where somebody’s kid was crying near the vending machines, where a grown man was acting like a child as he yelled about missing insurance—it felt like corporal punishment in its purest form. You’d been down there for nearly two hours already, bouncing between triage and lacerations and flu symptoms and a man who had somehow managed to staple his own thumb at work only fifteen minutes into his shift. 

By the third anti-vax mom, your patience had worn thin. And being exiled to chairs now felt less like staffing necessity and more like karmic retaliation. How were you supposed to know Robby was right behind you, listening in on very important Pitt gossip, and that he believed in the whole “if you had time to talk, you had time to work.” 

Thus, you’d been sent off to chairs until Robby deemed you cleansed of your sins. 

Because, unfortunately, chairs happened to be the closest thing the Pitt had to purgatory: the perfect place for hellfire and fractures and a waiting room from hell. People were packed shoulder to shoulder while irritated family members grumbled and complained about the temperature. The television in the corner played daytime reruns at an offensively loud volume, and every few minutes somebody new approached the desk asking how much longer the wait would be for something as simple (or ridiculous) as a cut hangnail. Their questions made you believe they thought you personally controlled time itself. 

Which, if you did, you would have made your shift go by a lot faster. 

But no. You did not control time. Time and a chief attending named Michael Robinavitch controlled you, and you hated every second of it. 

By the time you pushed back through the waiting room doors with another chart in your hand, a mechanical smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes plastered across your face. Your eyes glued to the tablet in front of you with the name Mrs. Hill stuck between your teeth. 

However, the name died in your throat after you glanced up. 

There, in the corner, near the far wall, sat Jack Abbot, all hunched over in one of the molded plastic chairs with his elbows on his knees, body stiff as a board almost as to not touch the chair at all, and hood pulled over his head despite the warmth of the waiting room. Your brows pinched, confusion plastered all over your face. For a second, Jack sitting there genuinely made no fucking sense. 

He was the night shift attending. He could walk through the ambulance bays whenever he needed. He’d be prioritized because the Pitt didn’t just look over one of their own and ban him to the chairs off all places to sit and wait with the rest of the common people. 

Jack also never sat still enough to like a garden statue. Even through exhaustion, even post-shift, you noticed that he carried this restless energy about him, like if he stopped moving for too long, he might actually wither away. 

You stared at him for another beat before walking over, Mrs. Hill be damned. 

“What the fuck, Dr. Abbot,” you hissed, stopping in front of him. “What happened to you, and why didn’t you walk through the back?” 

Jack slowly lifted his head, and a small something snagged uncomfortably in your chest. The feeling wasn’t alarming, and it wasn’t that guy from TikTok running back and forth across a field with an overly large flag yelling Red Flag! Red Flag! either. The cause of this feeling was the small curls peaking below the hood. 

Jack’s hair had always been salt-and-pepper for as long as you’d known him in the Pitt, causing the very serious nickname of a true “silver fox” to be tossed around when he wasn’t listening. But right now, Jack’s hair was dark, richer, and auburn almost. Near his temples, the deep, reddish-brown curls were flat under the fabric. 

But even with the recent hair dye, his face was Jack’s, your brain filling in the gaps automatically to the point you didn’t notice the way he was missing his sun spots and wrinkles that Jack normally dawned in the sexiest ways. 

“Hit my head,” he finally replied quietly. 

Even his voice sounded the tiniest bit off, however, your concern for him outweighed the missing features your Jack normally had. 

You frowned, couching slightly so you could get a better look at him, Robby’s “words of wisdom” about getting on the patient’s level ringing in your head. 

“Okay, that explains why you look like you got dragged behind an ambulance,” you said before reaching up to gently cup his face. 

This time, you didn’t miss the way he flinched under your palms before settling as you tilted his head to find the injury. 

“Did you pass out? Throw up? How long ago did it happen” You didn’t really wait for his answers before continuing, already slipping deep into assessment mode. “Actually, hold on, no, don’t answer all that because your pupils are clearly telling me you’re very concussed, and if you start slurring your words, you and I won’t get anywhere with delayed responses.” 

Jack’s eyes fluttered shut as you talked to him, and the weird feeling bloomed under your skin again. When his hazel met yours again, you let his face go and stood to full height. 

“C’mon, Dr. Abbot,” you sighed, motioning for him to stand. “You’re not sitting out here looking like a murder suspect all afternoon. Let me get you into a room before Robby sees you and starts berating me as to why you’re still out here.” 

His eyes lifted to yours fully, and the intensity almost stopped you cold. Jack looked at people all the time—quick glances, assessing looks, sharp little observations hidden behind sarcasm—but the way he was looking at you now was different. This Jack, looking at least fifteen years younger, looked directly as you with a heavy kind of focus that should’ve felt unsettling, like he was trying to learn your family’s history with once glance. Unlike your Jack (which you were still convinced was sitting right in front of you), he felt almost dangerous in how still he was and how carefully he watched. 

When he didn’t stand up to follow, you asked, “You gonna pass out if I make you walk? 

“No.” 

“Is your leg bothering you? I can get you a wheelchair if you need.” 

“I can walk.” 

“Great. Love your confidence.” 

He stood slowly, hands never touching the handles, body towering over you once he straightened fully. Again, another disjointed feeling washed over you. Jack was tall, yes, but he was now carrying himself so opposite of how he normally did. Here, he seemed disconnected from the room, like feeling the air was inconveniencing him. Now standing, you caught another glimpse of bruising near the edge of his jaw as you guided him through toward an empty room down the hall.

His silence was starting to get uncomfortable, so you found yourself talking just to fill the unusual quiet between you, even if talking had gotten you banished to chairs in the first place. 

“You know, Dr. Abbot, most people with concussions demand to be sent through immediately even if they aren’t an attending. Please tell me this isn’t you trying to not look weak in front of everyone? I bet they would rather you come through walking and talking than someone giving you a wellness check and finding you dead because you didn’t follow concussion protocol.” 

Behind you, he stayed silent. 

You busied yourself by pulling gloves on, still talking as he sat on the very edge of the exam bed, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on his thighs. 

“Seriously though, Dr. Abbot, you scared me for a second out there. You looked half-dead sitting in that chair, which, honestly, kind of impressive for you because you usually can’t keep still. I guess that’s why you do SWAT and stuff, huh? One of these days you’re going to find out you’re not actually immortal even though people talk like you are. But what would I know, I’m just a nurse while you spend your free time getting shot at.” 

Finally, like broken pottery, the smallest smile cracked through his face. You blinked at him while his eyes refused to move anywhere but your face. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “You are being deeply weird today. Are you okay?” 

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face. “Head hurts.” 

“That would be your concussion talking.” 

You stepped closer, gently tilting his head toward the light to examine the molted bruise near his temple. Unlike in the chairs, he didn’t flinch under your fingers this time. Up close like this, Jack’s differences stood out more. The lighting in the waiting room made everything seem worse under shadows, but the direct light washed away the wrinkles and lines around his eyes. 

And still, he kept staring at you with an unwavering intensity that made your knees go weak and made a warmth creep up your neck. 

“You’re very stare-y today,” you murmured distractedly while checking his pupils. 

“Sorry.” 

Your hands paused for a half a second at his promptness for an apology. 

As far as you knew, Jack never apologized that fast. 

However, the though slipped through your mind before you could stop it, but again, the concussion explained enough that you ignored every strange feeling creeping higher in your chest. Head injuries changed behavior sometimes. Personalities softened, reactions slowed, and people became emotional, subdued, clingy, and disoriented. You’d seen it first-hand countless times. 

Still. 

You moved back slightly to jot something onto the chart. “Any nausea?” 

“A little.” 

“Blurred vision?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Memory issues?” 

His eyes stayed on you. “Maybe?” 

“Can you tell me where you are?” 

“Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital.” 

You snorted softly. “Using the full government name. I see you Dr. Abbot. I’ll give you a gold star for incredible patient participation.” 

He didn’t laugh or smile at that this time. You continued to fill out his chart: name, birthdate, allergies. Thankfully, most of it was already in the system. Your eyes rose back to his when you finished up, chart getting tucked under your arm as you pulled the gloves off. 

“Okay, let me go get Robby since I highly doubt you’d want anyone else in here—” 

“Can you not tell anyone I’m here?” 

You cocked your head. “What?” 

His jaw tightened slightly, gaze flickering briefly toward the closed door before returning to you. “Don’t want people knowing.” 

Concern replaced every single weird feeling. Embarrassment after injuring wasn’t uncommon, especially with doctors, and even so more with attendings who weren’t used to being the ones under care. God knew Jack hated appearing vulnerable in front of his coworkers. 

“You do know they’re not going to make fun of you for getting a concussion. Robby might poke fun, but you are like his best friend.” Your eyes glanced toward the door. “Okay, maybe his only friend,” you added on with a mutter. 

He didn’t answer right away. 

You leaned against the counter, studying him for moment. The intensity was still there in the way he watched you, but his eyes held a sadness you’d never seen before. The hazel hues dripped with a scarcity that made your heart clench.

After a moment, you conceded. “Okay. Fine. Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Abbot.” You pointed at him with your pen. “But only because you’re looking at me like that. Special privileges are frowned upon here.” 

The faintly cracked almost-smile appeared again. 

And God help you, it looked surprisingly pretty on him, making you want more of it. 

_______________________

Purgatory had ended the moment you stepped out of the room and went diving head-first into the incoming trauma after Robby grabbed you by the shoulders and physically steered you into Trauma Room One. The entire department had gone from irritatingly busy to borderline catastrophic after a minor highway pileup flooded intake with a dozen patients and emergencies that clogged up the CT scan because their necks felt “a little weird.” 

Softened and concussed Jack Abbot fleed from your mind as you called out BP’s and administered correct dosages. You’d spent most of the last hour speed-walking between rooms with granola bar shoved into the pocket of your scrub jacket, half-finished notes beneath your arm, and a headache steadily building behind your eyes by the sterile light that never gave up buzzing for even a second. 

At one point, Dana moved you toward the break room and ordered you to eat something before you passed out in front of a patient. 

At another, Whitaker had nearly stepped into a pile of vomit while reading a chart, which honestly might have been the funniest thing you’d seen all week.  

Through it all though, you kept thinking about softened and concussed Jack. Every time you passed through the hallway leading toward his room, your eyes drifted toward the closed door, checking without meaning to whether he was still there. And honestly, you were surprised Robby hadn’t yelled at anyone—you—for taking up a room and not having a resident check in. 

When you finally nudged the exam room door open again with your shoulder, two awful vending machine coffees balanced carefully in your hands, the room was dimmer than before. He must have lowered the lights while you were gone, and you silently cured yourself for not doing that on your way out. 

To your surprise (or horror) he was sitting exactly where you’d left him on the exam bed, shoulders straight, back even straighter, hands still glued to his thighs like he didn’t know he was allowed to touch the bed beneath him. 

His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, hitting you with that look before you could even mentally prepare for it. 

Most people only half paid attention after hours in an ER room. Patients looked tired, distracted, and uncomfortable; doctors were worse. Jack especially had always operated at a hundred miles an hour, his attention split between six different thoughts at once even when he focused on you. Here in the exam room, he looked at you completely like he was tracking every little expression crossing your face the second you walked into the room. 

The familiar warmth climbed embarrassingly fast into your chest and sat there. 

“Oh, good,” you said quickly, mostly because the silence suddenly made you self-conscious. “You’re still alive. I was starting to think you’d turn into a statue or died sitting up in here. That would really make my paperwork worse, so I’m very glad you’re still breathing.” 

His gaze dropped to the coffee cups in your hands before dragging up back to your face. 

“You brought me one.” 

The way he said it almost made it sound like he couldn’t quite believe why the hell you’d go out of your way to get one for him. 

You shrugged, cross the room toward him before holding one out carefully. “I use the word coffee loosely here, because I’m pretty sure the machine actually dispenses motor oil, but you looked miserable earlier, and caffeine fixes at least eighty percent of human suffering.” 

His fingers brushed yours when he took the cup. The contact lasted maybe a heartbeat, but it sent chills ripping up your arms. You turned away before he could possibly notice, pretending on the monitor beside him while taking a sip of your own coffee and instantly regretting it.

“Damn,” you muttered. “That’s genuinely horrific. I change my mind; this only fixes about 30 percent of human suffering and adds to the other percentage.” 

A faint hint of amusement crossed his face, and the sight made you beam. 

“You look handsome when you smile,” you blurted before you could even stop it. Your hands clapped over your mouth to the point it hurt. “I don’t know why I just said that.” 

Jack cocked his head, eyes still burning into your face. “Do I not normally?” 

Your heart clenched as you lowered your hands. “Um, I mean you do? But normally it’s when you’re about to say something so sarcastic it makes me want to pull my hair out.” 

His brows pulled together slightly at that, like he was trying to remember through the lingering fog of his concussion. 

You kept talking before he could say anything, words spilling naturally into the quiet space. “Actually, let me rephrase that. Usually you do smile, and it’s very nice, but it’s not normally after something I say. Also, is your head still hurting? You’re still staring at me like I’m a dessert you just want to eat, and that’s so unfair because I normally look at you like that and—” 

Another hand slap to your mouth. 

“Please ignore everything I’ve said in the past fifteen seconds. Or better, I’ll just stand here and wait for the floor to swallow me up. I’m talking way too much.” 

You found yourself fidgeting under his stare before stepping closer, coffee cup placed gently on the counter. “Is your head any better? Or still hurting?” 

“Hurting a little.” 

“Have you gotten dizzy?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Still feeling nauseated?” 

He nodded once instead of answering, and you wondered if he had hit his word limit for the hour. You sighed sympathetically while typing notes onto the chart. 

“If I had to spend hours in a chair listening to daytime TV and screaming children, I’d probably feel that way too. Your concussion doesn’t help either.” 

Another tiny smile quirked his lip even though he didn’t say anything else. You “allowed” him to stare at you while you finished updating the chart, his silent presence settling under your skin as you worked. The way he looked at you should have made you reach out for Robby the minute Jack started acting this way, but the intimidating way his droopy eyes never left your figure felt strangely calming. 

Which probably said concerning things about your taste in men, but the whole ER was pretty much putty in Jack Abbot’s hand. You were the white sheep in the flock, and you’d follow Shepherd Abbot anywhere. 

You turned away from the chart and leaned against the counter. “You know, Dr. Abbot, you’re allowed to talk in here. I know I tend to carry the entire social interactions, but this is kinda exhausting for me. Usually, I can barely get a sentence in around you.” 

His mouth twitched faintly. “Why’s that?” 

Your cheeks burned. “Well, um, medically that’s not important.” 

His eyes lingered on your face and the small area around your mouth longer than necessary, and once again you felt like melting and dramatically draping yourself across a Victorian fainting couch to blubber about your feelings for the concussed attending. 

To compensate for these feelings and the sterile quiet, you started talking more. 

“So chairs officially became a nightmare while you were hiding her, by the way,” you told him. “Some guy tried convincing triage he needed immediate treatment for a paper cut, which would’ve been annoying enough on its own except he kept trying to squeeze blood out of it like he was in a Victorian tuberculosis ward. Then Dana yelled at me for skipping lunch again, which, in my defense, I fully intended to eat until somebody—probably Ogilvie, that fucker—stole my yogurt from the fridge. Again. At this point I think he’s specifically targeting me.” 

The entire time you rambled, Jack listened without interrupting. He watched you pace while talking, energy buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin from the nonstop pace outside. 

“And then this woman asked if I was old enough to be a nurse, which somehow turned into her husband asking if I were single while she was standing right here! Emergency medicine should qualify as psychological warfare.”

The last tidbit made a quiet laugh escape, and the sound pulled your attention back toward him. 

“At least you think I’m funny,” you said, pointing at him with exaggerated triumph. “Robby never thinks my jokes are funny. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think someone’s swapped him with a robot or AI engine that’s trying to convince everyone he’s a functioning person under all that brooding trauma.” 

His face softened, and for some reason that affected you more than the laugh had. The warm in your chest spread outward before you realized you’d been talking almost nonstop for several minutes. 

“Oh fuck,” you groaned, dropping your head briefly into your hands. “I’m doing it again.” 

Jack sat up a bit straighter if somehow possible. “Doing what?” 

“Talking too much.” You laughed awkwardly. “You’d think after enough years in medicine I’d learn when to stop speaking, but apparently not.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly embarrassed by how much space you’d filled with your own voice. “Sorry. You probably have a splitting headache and want to nap, but I’m over here narrating my entire day.” 

When you finally looked back up, his gaze was still resting on you with steady attentiveness. 

“I don’t mind it,” he admitted, tone close to a whisper. 

You blinked rapidly. 

“Your talking.” 

Something about the way he said it in the sincerest and honest way made your chest tighten. He glanced down at the coffee cup in his hands before looking back into your eyes. 

“Room’s less quiet when you’re here.” 

A bright smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you for listening then.” 

_______________________

The night shift always arrived like a storm rolling through the Pitt. 

While the ER was the ground, and the day shift staff floated around with enough caffeine to possible kill a small animal, the night shift trickled in like the rain, refreshing and very much welcomed to take over the atmosphere. The residents, including you, handed over your charts with sluggish movements, desperate to go home and sleep the day and loss of patients away. 

Normally, somewhere in the middle of all that transition, you and Jack inevitably found each other. Sometimes it was purely by accident; others it absolutely wasn’t. He’d appear beside you while you were finishing your charts just to bother you. You’d steal his coffee when he stopped paying attention. Always, there was some running commentary between the two of you, whether it be playful arguing or just an update on how social life outside the Pitt was going. 

Tonight, though, you barely noticed the shift change happening around you since you’d ended up back in his room again almost without realizing. Through the last few hours, checking on him had stopped feeling entirely professional. You still used plenty of legitimate excuses, of course; his concussion needed monitoring in case his symptoms changed. You were also technically responsible for him until discharge, but if you were being honest with yourself, looking after him had become dangerously easy. 

While the rest of the Pitt felt loud in comparison, his room felt quiet. 

You’d sit perched sideways on the rolling stool near the exam bed, updating charts while absentmindedly talking through how your shift was going. He listened quietly from where he sat on the raised bed, legs swishing back and forth now, his hoodie abandoned sometime during the last hour. 

Still, every now and then, your brain caught onto his staring and stumbled. 

“You know,” you said while typing notes, “Dana threatened to physically drag me into the break room earlier because apparently surviving on caffeine and spite isn’t medically advisable. Which honestly is very hypocritical considering more than half the staff here are one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.” 

You looked up from the chart in time to catch a small smile. 

“I’m glad you still think I’m funny even with brain damage. The cryptic staring can only last for so long.” 

His eyes stayed steady on you. “Maybe.” 

You giggled. “Still terrible at conversations, though. Truly tragic.” 

While you were keeping him company, across the department, Jack Abbot had just walked into the Pitt, dressed in his scrubs and already talking. 

“Tell me somebody restocked trauma two, because if I have to hunt down another chest tube tonight, I’m filing a formal complaint against humanity.” His voice carried easily across the department. 

He shrugged out of his jacket while walking, salt and pepper curls slightly windblown from outside, already grinning at something Dana said near the nurses’ station. 

“Four minutes late, by the way,” Dana informed him when he got closer. 

“Still counts as on time in emergency medicine.” 

“For an attending, you sure are incredibly wrong some of the time.” 

“Key word being some and not all the time.” 

Robby looked up from a chart with visible exhaustion. “I need you both to come down from a level eight to a level zero.” 

Jack chose to ignore him, eyes already scanning around the room. When he didn’t find who he was looking for, he frowned slightly. “Where’s she at?” 

Dana smirked before Robby could respond. “Interesting that you looked for her before your patients.” 

“She’s less mean to me,” he replied without thinking, tossing his bag onto the counter. 

“She’s been in one room half the afternoon,” Dana responded casually. “Concussed male.” 

The minute her words ended, something subtle shifted in Jack’s chest. It probably wasn’t noticeable to people who didn’t know how Jack Abbot ticked, but Dana noticed, and her smirk turned downright evil. 

“Aww,” she drawled. “Somebody jealous?” 

Jack scoffed a tad too quickly to sound convincing. “I’m not jealous; I’m concerned.” 

“Sure you are.” 

Jack rolled his eyes hard enough to qualify as a medical even before pushing away from the counter. “I’m going to make sure she hasn’t adopted another emotionally damaged patient.” 

Even as he said it, irritation had already begun creeping unpleasantly under his ribs. 

One room all afternoon.

He knew how you got with certain patients; you were too soft-hearted for your own good sometimes, despite how hard you tried to pretend otherwise. But something about imagining you tucked away somewhere for hours giving another man the kind of attention you usually guarded carefully made something territorial and irrational bubble under his skin. 

Back inside the room, you were still smiling down at your chart when you finally pushed yourself upright from the stool. 

“All right,” you sighed. “I should probably go check whether the Pitt has fully descended into anarchy without me.” 

His eyes followed you as you moved toward the door. “You’ll come back?” 

You stopped for half a second, turning lightly and fully surprised enough by the quietness of his question that warmth spread through your being. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come back.” 

Your stomach flipped when his expression changed from a tight, worriedness to a soft, placated expression. Needing to escape before you could embarrass yourself further, you swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, holding the chart to your chest while talking over your shoulder toward him. 

“Seriously, though, if you try sneaking out before I get back, I’ll actually—” 

You voice cut off when your eyes landed Jack standing halfway down the hallway staring directly at you. It was almost like your brain hit the power mode and shut down completely, because Jack Abbot—your Jack Abbot was standing right in front of you. 

Alive. 

Healthy. 

Definitely not concussed unlike the Jack—now not-Jack—you had spent hours sitting beside. 

Your pulse dropped so hard it almost hurt. 

Behind him, Robby slowed slightly, noticing the way all color drained from your face. Jack’s teasing grin faded into confusion as he took in the way you stared at him like you’d just seen a ghost. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said slowly, concern beginning to edge beneath the nickname. “You okay?” 

You couldn’t answer as your eyes darted toward the closed room behind you, then back to Jack, then back again, then back to Jack one more time. Him standing there was impossible, so entirely impossible. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat. 

Jack took another small step closer when you failed to answer. “Hey. What’s wrong?” 

You blinked once before bolting back into the room. 

“What the hell—” Jack muttered, following after you without hesitation while Robby moved right behind him. 

He was the first through the doorway and stopped right as he went in. The air dropped almost noticeably. The man sitting on the exam bed had lifted his head slowly at the sound of the door opening, and for one disorienting second, it genuinely looked like Jack was staring at another, younger version of himself. 

The man’s auburn hair caught warmly in the lighting while bruising shadowed one side of his face. He sat completely still on the bed, one hand loose around a cup Jack knew you had brought him at some point, his expression unreadable as he stared back at Jack. 

Jack didn’t move, and you stood frozen near the corner, chest rising too fast while your brain desperately tried to recover from the fact that somehow—somehow—you had spent nearly an entire shift accidentally flirting with a completely stranger wearing Jack Abbot’s face. 

Silence stretched painfully. 

Behind Jack, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not,” he muttered under his breath. “Secret twins are above my pay grade. My sabbatical cannot come sooner enough.” 

And before any of you could stop him, he turned around and walked directly back out of the room, letting the door click shit behind him, leaving only you, Jack, and the stranger sitting on the exam bed staring at one another in stunned silence. 

_______________________

Nobody moved. 

You still stood frozen near the corner clutching the chart so tightly your knuckles were white, while across the room Jack remained rooted just inside the doorway staring at the man like he genuinely could not process what he was seeing. 

The resemblance was worse with both of them in the same room. They weren’t identical, but close enough that your brain kept trying to overlap them anyway with their same eyes, same mouth, same build. The now-stranger looked like someone had taken Jack and stripped ten years off him, softened the gray from his hair, and carved away some of the sharpness age and multiple years as an ER attending had left behind. 

And suddenly you felt violently aware of every single thing you’d said over the last several hours. Heat flooded your face so quickly you thought you might actually die from humiliation right then and there. 

To break the cursed silence, Jack finally spoke first. “What . . . the hell . . . is this?” 

The stranger’s gaze shifted toward him calmly. Unlike you, he didn’t seem particularly unsettled by the situation. If anything, he looked mildly tired. The concussion probably wasn’t helping matters, but even beyond that there was still the same strange unwavering presence about him. You found yourself staring at him helplessly. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you blurted, voice climbing in disbelief as you looked at him. “I spent like almost twelve hours calling you Jack.” 

He looked back at you for a moment before answering. “My name’s Andrew.” 

Jack let out a sharp disbelieving laugh. “Andrew?” 

You shook your head. “Okay, no. You had so many opportunities to correct me, and you’re just now telling me your name?” 

Andrew’s expression shifted slightly into something more apologetic. “Tried to.” 

“You absolutely did not!” 

“A little.” 

“You said maybe four words all day!” 

“You talked fast.” 

You dropped your face into one hand, mortification crashing over you in waves now that the shock had worn off enough for your brain to start replaying the day in horrifying detail. “I told you that you were handsome.” 

Jack’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical. “You what?” 

“Not talking to you Jack,” you shot back. 

He stared at you in open betrayal. “I walk in here and find out you’ve been flirty with my concussed doppelganger all day?” 

“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WASN’T YOU! HE’S LITERALLY WEARING YOUR FACE! WHAT WAS I SUPPOED TO DO?” 

“Um, I don’t know, sweetheart, check first that it was actually me? 

Andrew watched the entire exchange quietly, and to your absolute horror, there was the faintest hint of delight on his face. 

You looked between the two men. “This is actually my worst nightmare.” 

“Mine too,” Jack muttered before his eyes narrowed slightly when he looked back toward Andrew. “Hold on. You seriously never corrected her?” 

Andrew was quiet as he kept looking at you. “I liked listening to her.” 

Something fluttered in your chest. His words weren’t necessarily romantic, but he said it with such earnest that you couldn’t help but melt a bit. Jack clearly felt something too because his mouth pinched in irritation. You recognized it as the look he got whenever another one of the radiologists flirted with you for too long at the nurses’ station. 

Jack Abbot was reeking with actual jealousy. 

He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly before he exhaled through his nose and pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “Sweetheart.” 

You tore your gaze from Andrew to look at him. “What?” 

“Go do your handoffs.” 

Your brows lifted. “Jack—” 

“Go,” he repeated, still watching Andrew instead of you. “Before Dana starts a manhunt.”

You hesitated, sensing the almost openly hostile vibe Jack was giving off. It was certainly heavy enough that you suddenly felt like you were standing in the middle of something private. Andrew sat watching Jack with the same unreadable stillness while Jack looked back at him with visible suspicion. It genuinely felt like watching two wolves silently size each other up. 

You pointed between them uncertainly. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” 

“No promises,” Jack muttered. 

Your eyes rolled back deeply. “You are unbelievably exhausting.” 

Then, after one last glance toward Andrew and a silent wave goodbye, you slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you. 

Jack crossed his arms slowly over his chest, leaning back against the closed door while studying the man in front of him more carefully now that the initial shock had worn off. Up close, the differences stood out more clearly, but enough resemblance lasted to make the situation deeply irksome. 

Andrew continued to stare, though his lips had quirked up well before you had left the room. 

Jack exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You know, most people would correct someone after the fifth time they got called the wrong name.” 

Andrew’s gaze drifted over his shoulder like he could almost see you through the wooden door. “She was nice. Didn’t want to upset her. She looked like she was enjoying the idea of getting to take care of you.” 

An unpleasantly possessive feeling twisted deep in Jack’s gut at the quiet sincerity of his answer. He understood why the man in front of him had gotten such a reaction from you. Andrew didn’t deflect; he said simple truths in a low steady voice that was somehow worse than flirty in his eyes. 

Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Did you flirt back?” 

Andrew considered the question for a moment. “Didn’t have to since she did all the talking.”  

And to his credit, he didn’t smirk afterward or act smug about it. If anything, he almost looked sad as he stood slowly from the exam bed. Even concussed, he carried himself with a height that made Jack very aware of the man when he moved. Jack puffed his chest out without meaning to, an instinctive reaction to the man who had held your attention for an entire day. 

Andrew stepped close enough that now they both could look each other in the eye at the same height, making Jack almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You have a good girl,” Andrew said quietly, never looking away from hazel eyes that mirrored his own. “Don’t let someone else get to her first.” 

The fact that Jack could picture you getting swept off your feet by another man felt like a punch directly to his chest. He’d been hiding behind teasing remarks and heavy sarcasm and blatant flirtation because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you. He couldn’t fathom the idea of someone, much softer and gentler than he might ever be, taking the chance he was too scared to. Andrew was an example of that man, someone who sat still long enough and quiet enough to let you feel seen and heard without interruption. 

Because while he was falling behind, some concussed stranger who happened to share his exact face had managed to make you blush just by listening carefully. 

Jack stared at Andrew for another long moment before muttering, “You know, I really don’t like this.” 

“Do you not like this because I’m making you uncomfortable? Or do you not like this because I’m finally a wakeup call?” Andrew answered before stepping past him toward the door. 

Jack whirled around. “Where are you going?” 

Andrew opened the door with one hand. “To get discharge papers. Even though I enjoyed hearing her talk, I do not want to sleep in a hospital bed.” He paused. “You could probably go talk to her. Never know if another one of us might waltz through that door.” 

The door swung shut behind him a second later, leaving Jack standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. For maybe three seconds, he stayed there staring at the empty doorway before he swore softly under his breath and headed out after you. 

He found you near the nurses’ station halfway through handoff, leaning over a chart while Dana talked beside you. The second you noticed him approaching, your entire expression shifted somewhere between lingering embarrassment and outright panic. He didn’t slow down. 

“Dana,” he interrupted the blond charge nurse mid-sentence. 

She stared at him over her nose. “What?” 

“I need her for a second.” 

Her eyes tracked between him and you for a beat, and disappeared, though not before throwing you a deeply interested look over her shoulder. The moment she was gone, silence settled between you and Jack in a rather awkward way. 

You looked down at your hands. “So.”

“So,” he echoed. 

A soft groan pushed through your lips while your hands covered your face. “I cannot believe I spent an entire afternoon thinking your doppelganger was you with a concussion.” 

“I can’t believe you called him handsome and still thought it was me when he didn’t do anything.” 

“Hey,” you whined, lips jutting in a pout. “I was under emotional distress because I thought you had a severe concussion!” 

“You know he liked you,” Jack teased with a smirk for half a second before his face dropped into a more serious look. “I don’t blame him, though.” 

You swallowed once. “Jack—” 

“I’m serious. And honest? I’m jealous as hell that he got to spend an entire shift with you.” 

Warmth rushed to your face. “You’re jealous of your own face?” 

“I don’t think that was my point, sweetheart.” He stared down at you. “I think I’ve been screwing this up for a while and seeing him just made me very aware of it.” 

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he said slowly, “I keep joking around with you because if I actually said what I’ve been feeling, I’d probably mess it all up.” He ran a hand through his curls, almost frustrated by the lack of words to describe his feelings. “I like you,” he admitted finally. “Like . . . really like you.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath in disbelief. “It took your twin from another universe getting a concussion for you to finally say that?” 

“Apparently, yeah.” 

Your smile widened helplessly, and Jack’s gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

The fact that he asked nearly ruined you on the spot. You nodded once before your brain could catch up enough to overthink it. But apparently that’s all Jack needed because the next moment, his warm hands slid carefully against your waist as he pulled you closer. Unlike all the teasing flirtation that existed between you for months, the kiss itself felt so intensely severe your knees almost buckled. 

There were no games, no smug comments, just Jack kissing you like he’d wanted to for a very long time, his concussed double finally being the last straw to do so. 

By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling a little stupidly. 

And somewhere down the hallway, you were almost certain you heard Dana yell, “FINALLY!” 

The place smells like weed. You know it's because Tammi is smoking in the bathroom even though you've been working at home so you take Richter out for a walk, calling Sammy. 

“Hey asshole.” You say when he picks up the phone. “Your wife's smoking again. It's giving me a headache.” 

“Fuck, I'm sorry.” Sammy is so sick of Tammi's bullshit. “I told her so many times to stop doing that now that you live with us.”

He knows you get really bad migraines from weed, since he used to smoke so much of it in high school and it would waft into your bedroom window from his. The two of you were neighbors growing up. He stopped smoking at home after you told him it made your head hurt. 

Sammy has always been very considerate of you and he wishes his wife would be too…

“Yeah, she doesn't give a fuck about how I feel. I know she hates that I'm crashing at your place.” You've only been here for two weeks and it has already become a hostile environment. 

You need to get out fast but you haven't found a place just yet. 

At least not on your freelance graphic designer budget…

Sammy agrees that Tammi hates you but not for the reason you think. She hates you because you're Sammy's childhood friend. 

The cute little neighbor girl that he always speaks fondly of. 

She hates that Sammy smiles when he talks to you on the phone and she hates that Sammy will talk to her about you with so much pride, like when you designed a logo for a company now worth millions. 

It makes her feel insecure because you are everything she isn't. 

So, of course, Tammi hates that Sammy let you live with them without asking her first. He reasoned with her that it was only temporary and that you're a good friend of his and he would do this for any of his friends. 

Though, there are things he wants to do to you that friends definitely don't do.

Sammy shelves that thought immediately.

He's married, albeit not happily but still, he has a commitment to his wife. Plus, you surely wouldn't be interested in him. 

Sammy felt so nervous meeting you again after all these years. Time has not been good to him, at least in his opinion. He may be a detective, but he worries that he has let himself go due to the stress of his home life. 

Little does he know, you love him. You have always loved all of him, especially now with how nice it feels to hug him. 

That first hug when the two of you met again after all these years was one of the best hugs of your life, feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and the squish of his belly pressed up against your own. 

You wish he'd press more of himself against you, but you have to shed away those desires. After he married Tammi, you told yourself you'd keep your distance, out of respect.

Sammy has always kept his distance from his feelings for you because in his mind, you were always “out of his league” and he could never fool himself into thinking you'd be attracted to him when guys were flocking to you left and right the moment you hit puberty. 

So, he settled for Tammi, who liked him enough to marry him. 

And now he has to suffer through her toxic behaviors…all because he didn't have the confidence to pursue you. 

At least Sammy gets to come home to you, even for a little bit. He'll enjoy it for as long as it lasts. 

“I'll make sure she stops. Don't worry, kid, I've got you.”

“Ugh.” You groan into the phone. “Quit calling me “kid”. You're barely older than me.” 

“Quit acting like a kid and I'll stop calling you that.” He teases and you wish he could see your glare.

“Fuck you, asshole.” You go to hang up the phone but then Sammy starts talking again.

“Want me to come pick you up and we get something to eat?” He asks, trying to sound casual. “I figure you have Richter with you, right?” 

“Aren't you at work?” You know he clocked in early today but can he leave this early? 

It's mid-afternoon. The sun is dipping but still blaring in the sky. You're not used to the hot weather just yet. You and Sammy grew up closer to the mountains, where it actually got cold. 

“The case got shut down. Too tired to pick up another one and the guys wanted to go to some strip club. I'd rather hang out with you.” Sammy wishes he hadn't said that. It makes him sound so desperate for quality time with you. “Unless you don't want to. I can bring something home instead.” 

“Actually, there's an apartment I wanted to look at. Do you mind taking me there and we can grab a bite after?” You'd love not to have to take the bus. 

“I'll meet you at the dog park by the house.” He tells you before hanging up, smiling to himself.

Then, Sammy snaps out of it because there's no way he can explain to anyone passing by in his department that he's this happy to spend some time alone with you. 

Tammi hasn't let you and him go out alone since you moved in but she's high out of her mind right now so she can't get mad since he's mad at her for smoking in the house again. He's not excited for the inevitable argument when he gets home. 

So, Sammy is going to focus on enjoying his quality time with you instead. 

The apartment ends up being perfect for you. You can imagine yourself living there so you put down a deposit and your new landlord gives you the keys right away, saying you can move in any time. 

You might have to take up that offer because you want to throw up the moment you and Sammy step back into his place after dinner.

Tammi is passed out on the couch when the two of you get home. You note the disappointment in Sammy's eyes from the smell of weed. It's like once Tammi realized you had Richter out, she decided to smoke out in the open. Your head is spinning from how badly it reeks in here… 

“I don't think I can stay here tonight, Sammy.” You clutch your head and your stomach. “I'm going to hurl if I do.”

“You've got nothing in your apartment, though.” Sammy wouldn't want you to sleep on the carpet floor. “Take some of the guest room stuff and I'll take you to buy an air mattress.” 

“Thanks.” You nod then tell him, “I'm going outside for a bit then I'll grab my stuff.”

After you help Sammy put Richter in his kennel for the night, you stand out in the fresh air, trying to gulp in as much as you can. You don't understand what Tammi is thinking. She doesn't do anything around the house. She barely goes grocery shopping and never does it correctly. All she does is smoke weed and bother Sammy. 

You can't believe she acts like that when Sammy is truly such a nice guy. He packs all of your things up for you into his car and pulls it out of the driveway. 

You notice your stuff and go, “aw, Sammy. You didn't have to do all that.” 

“It's my wife's fault you feel bad right now. I'll take responsibility. Come on, let's get you to your place.” He gestures for you to hop in the car. 

You and Sammy drop all your stuff off at your new place then go out to buy an air mattress. You decide to get a queen sized one, since you probably won't be getting a bed for a while. 

In the back of his mind, Sammy is already planning to surprise you with a bed and a mattress. He knows it can be expensive but he wants to get you something for the trouble. Though, that's just an excuse. He wants to buy you things. 

Like a drink at the bar near your place, which you invite him to since he doesn't want to go back home right now.

You happily take his offer to pay, drinking something yummy while he nurses a beer. 

If he drinks any more than this, he won't be able to stop himself from wanting to get closer to you. 

It's already agony for him that the two of you are seated side by side at the bar, your knee playfully nudging his thigh to mess with him. 

“Want to do a shot?” You ask him. “To celebrate my new place?”

He should say no. He already reasoned it out in his head why he shouldn't lower his inhibitions.

But he says yes anyway. 

And when he's three shots in and delirious, you're giggling so beautiful at his flushed cheeks and red ears as the two of you walk back to your place where he parked his car. 

“You have always been such a lightweight. You could've said no after the first shot, dumbass.” You let out with a laugh into the quiet night that has his heart racing in his chest. 

You look so beautiful, all giggly and happy in the moonlight. Sammy loves staring at you and he doesn't even try to hide it. He's too out of it to care about appearances right now, when you're this close to him. 

You definitely bullied him into drinking more than he usually would and you find him so adorable when he's all flustered like this, his eyes drifting up and down your body. 

“I'd never say no to you.” He mutters, his words slightly slurred but you hear them clearly. 

You don't know what he means by that. “What, like if I told you to kiss me, you'd do it?” 

Sammy doesn't answer you. He just leans in and kisses you, grabbing a hold of your face with his hands. He presses you up against the wall of a nearby alleyway, slipping into the darkness of it. 

He smells like liquor. You do too. 

So, you can blame it all on that. 

You can blame the alcohol for why you kiss him back with the same hunger he has for you. You grip onto his shirt, pulling him towards you, wanting to feel his chest and his belly against your body. 

You're both breathless by the time Sammy pulls away from your lips.

“What else do you want me to do?” He asks, every exhale so warm against your skin.

You bite your lip. You shouldn't let him do more than this. He's married. 

You're not a homewrecker…are you? 

“I-I think we should forget this happened.” You tell him, swallowing your nerves. 

Then, you choke on your gasp when Sammy kisses you again in response, his tongue dipping into your mouth this time, taking up room. You can't help putting your hands in his hair, keeping him close even though you shouldn't be leaning into his kiss, letting it get deeper. 

“I'm going to fuck you.” He says so matter of fact that you get chills. “Whether you want me to or not.” 

“Sammy…” You've never heard him like this before. Usually he's so sweet and a bit overly friendly. 

But now that he knows you want him too, there's no stopping him. Sammy refuses to lose out on the opportunity to know what you feel like beneath him with his cock buried inside of you. 

“You asked a married man to kiss you.” He nips at your bottom lip, tugging it towards him with his teeth. “What did you expect to happen?” 

“It was just a joke!” You tell him, even though you're lying. 

You had asked it on a whim, to see what drunk Sammy would say back. You never thought he'd kiss you so readily…

“Then can we fuck as a joke?” He grabs you by the hips, pinning you to the wall of the building. “We can do it right here if you want.” 

You shake your head. “Sammy, please, we shouldn't do this.” 

Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his hands slide down the length of your body, grabbing your ass so he has the leverage to grind himself against you. You can feel how hard he's getting, rubbing up on you through his pants. 

“Stop it!” You try to shove him off of you but he crashes his lips back on yours again, silencing you. 

He keeps grinding himself against you and you hate the moan he pulls from your lips when he rubs you just the right way. He feels too big, his body pinning you down in place, overwhelming you. 

You can't stop him from slipping his hand into your pants, feeling his fingers go past your underwear to dip inside of you. You squirm when he thrusts two fingers so deep, curling them as he palms your clit. 

Then, he pulls off your lips and says, his voice so low and menacing, “do you like the feel of my wedding ring while I finger you?” 

You cum so hard from his words that your body shakes in his grasp. He smiles at you, loving the look of shock and depravity in your eyes. He never thought you'd be so into this. 

“Do you feel the metal kiss your entrance with every thrust?” He makes you very aware of his wedding ring, your pussy swallowing the full length of his fingers as he fucks you with them. “You're really going to cum again? On someone else's husband's hand?” 

“Stop, Sammy, please.” You can't let him make you cum again. “I don't want this.”

“Then why are you milking my fingers?” He presses his other hand against your lower belly, massaging you right there. “You're so tense, like you're about to burst. Let go and cum for me.” 

You do. You can't stop it. You cum all over his hand, drenching it, filling the air with wet sounds because he won't stop fingering you. You cling onto him, burying your face in his shoulder, muffling your moans as he keeps pounding his fingers into you. 

Then, you hear him say, “move along.” 

Your eyes snap to the sound of footsteps scurrying away, like someone had just walked by and seen the two of you. 

“Sammy, did someone—”

He just smirks. “It's okay. If they call the cops, I'll respond.” 

Sammy has his walkie with him. He'd hear something if dispatch radioed into this area. 

“We can't do this. Not out here.” You can't be seen like this by anyone else. It's humiliating… 

“But you want to do it?” He slows his fingers to a stop, waiting for your reply. 

You know you shouldn't. But you love Sammy. You always have. 

And now that you've tasted the way he could make you cum, your body wants more. 

“We shouldn't.” You tell him, your body tensing around the feeling of his ring inside of you. “You're married.”

“I hate my wife.” Sammy says back to you. “And I love you.” 

“What?” You must be hallucinating. “You're drunk, Sammy. You don't—”

“I have loved you since we were kids.” He pulls his hand free from you, making you miss his touch already. He grips your sides, his hands trembling, unsteady, unsure of his next words. But he says them anyway, “I wish I married you.” 

You're stunned into silence. Your mind is swirling and you can't even blame the alcohol anymore. You've completely sobered up now. 

“But you didn't marry me. You chose her. I went to your wedding. I watched you marry her.” You don't hide the pain in your voice. 

“I didn't choose her.” His eyes stare back into yours with such intensity that you feel your throat close up from the nerves. “She chose me and I…I decided that was enough. That was all I deserved because I couldn't have you. You were too good for me.” 

For the second time tonight, Sammy renders you completely speechless. You never realized how insecure he was.

“Oh Sammy…” You reach up to cup his face, watching him lean into your touch. “That's not true. If you had told me how you felt…”

“Don't tell me that now.” He won't be able to live with it, with knowing he could've had you this whole time if he was just confident enough to take you… 

But Sammy decides in this moment to find the confidence because you tell him, “I've always loved you too.” 

“Really?” He asks, just to be sure. 

Because what he's about to do next will rely on it.

“Really.” You confirm the feelings you've always had for him. “You're my first love, ever. I never wanted anyone like I want you.” 

“Then why are you pushing me away?” Sammy won't let you anymore. 

“Because this is wrong.” You have more integrity than this, don't you? 

You think you do, until Sammy says, “you came so hard knowing how wrong it was.” 

He grabs your wrist then, dragging you behind him back to your apartment. You want to scream for him to let you go but you don't want the neighbors calling the police. He would know if they did.

Sammy sets his walkie down after he gets you through the door. Then, you watch as he steps towards you, making you feel so small with how scary his gaze is. 

“We can do this the easy way.” He tells you your options. “You can let me have you like I've always wanted. Or, you struggle and I'll have to deal with you.” 

He pulls out his cuffs, twirling them around his finger. Your heart stops in your chest. 

He can't be serious…

But you've never seen Sammy like this.

It's like you've awakened something dormant inside of him. A darker side of him, the one he needs to tap into so he can feel strong enough to do what needs to be done. 

Like make you his. 

“Sammy, let's talk about this, okay?” You attempt to reason with him and it draws a frightening chuckle from his lips. 

“If you wanted to talk about it, you wouldn't have told me you love me.” He stalks towards you until your back is pressed up against the wall again. 

Only this time, he leaves just an inch of space between the two of you. Your chest grazes his with every heavy breath you take in and out. He likes that you're nervous and your eyes keep darting to the gun at his side.

So, Sammy puts the cuffs away and grabs his gun instead. You whimper when you feel the tip of it against your chin. 

“I didn't know you'd like so many filthy things, kid.” He flicks the safety off, watching a tear stream down your face in reaction. “Do you really think I'm going to shoot you?” 

“Sammy, you're scaring me.” You swallow, feeling the way your skin pushes against the gun when you do. “Please put the gun away.” 

“I don't think you're in the position to make demands.” It's like a switch flipped in his head and his desires are leaking out uncontrollably. 

Sammy has this horrible need to punish you for making him waste years of his life unhappy when this whole time, he could've had you. He could've married you. He could've been fucking you instead of imagining it was you while he fucked Tammi. 

He won't have to imagine it anymore.

He's going to fuck you right now. 

Whether you want him to or not.

But he knows you do. 

For once in his life, Sammy is confident about something. You may be looking at him with fear in your eyes but your pussy is aching between your legs. 

“Tell me your choice.” He holds the gun steady. “Are you going to keep fighting me?”

You close your eyes, pinching away the tears that threaten to drip out. You have to stop him. You can't let him do this.

It will ruin you forever… 

“I-I don't want to fight you, Sammy, but…” You try not to sound so anxious but your words come out so wobbly, “I-I'm not a homewrecker.”

“You were a homewrecker the moment you agreed to move into my house.” He's so direct with his words. “You knew what you were doing. You wanted to drive a wedge between me and Tammi. You wanted this.” 

“No!” You shake your head at him. “I would never want to—”

You can't speak another word when he pushes his gun harder against your skin. He's probably left a mark under your chin by now. 

“When did you become such a liar?” He shakes his head back at you, feigning disappointment. “You seriously don't think I know how Tammi got all that weed?” 

That freezes you up real quick. Sammy smirks, leaning in, brushing his lips against yours.

“You're so good at acting innocent. But you brought that weed into my house. You wanted her to smoke it. You wanted me to be angry with her. Because you like seeing me mad.” Everything clicks for Sammy then. 

Tammi was never all that brilliant. There's no way she'd be able to buy weed without getting caught. But she stumbled upon some one day walking Richter. He had sussed it out in the spot you had left it for her to find. 

And this whole time, Sammy was trying not to think you were behind it. But he found it odd that the moment you moved in, Tammi started smoking again. 

He is a detective, after all.

You should've known better than to try to hide something from him…

You feel him drag the gun up along your chin then he presses the tip of it against your lips before demanding, “open up.” 

Sammy is not going to take no for an answer. This is your punishment for testing him for this long.

So, you listen, opening your mouth, letting the harsh metal slip pass your lips. 

“Now get on your knees.” He commands and again, you listen, kneeling in front of him. “Good girl. Now pull my cock out.”

You reach up, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. You're not prepared to feel how hard and heavy his cock is in your hands when you pull it free. The weight of it makes you dizzy when you imagine how it would feel inside of you. 

Sammy moved your hands off of him, wrapping his free hand around his cock. Then, he tells you, “I want to watch you touch yourself while you suck off my gun like it's my cock. Now pull off your pants.” 

It's not like you have much of a choice with his gun in your mouth so you tug off your bottoms, tossing them aside. 

You hate how turned on you are, kneeling in front of Sammy, the carpet beneath you digging into your knees as you look up at him hovering above you. Like he owns you.

Because he does, in this moment, have full control over whether or not you live or die. 

One pull of the trigger and your life is over. 

“Don't make me kill you.” He wants you to hurry up. He needs to stroke his cock to the sight of you. 

You slip your hand between your legs, your fingers grazing your sensitive clit. You start to play with it, moaning around the metal in your mouth. Then, you just give fully into this fucked up depravity, sucking on the barrel of his gun, imagining it's his huge cock instead. He stuffs more of it down your throat, gagging you, making you cum on your fingers from how forceful he is. 

Sammy sees the way your legs are shaking. “Did you cum already?” 

You don't answer him. You just thrust your fingers inside of yourself, focusing entirely on giving him quite a show. He's going to etch this memory in his mind so he can remember it forever. 

You stare at him, stroking his cock, seeing the way he can barely wrap his big hand around it. You wish it was inside of you instead of your fingers. You want to know what his cum tastes like. 

“Look at you, sucking my gun off. Do you wish it was my cock?” He asks, reveling in the way you nod in response. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? To know what my cock tastes like? I can show you what something else tastes like.”

Your eyes widen when his finger moves to the trigger. You start to panic and he smacks your face with his cock, trying to get you back in line. 

“Keep sucking. Don't stop. Unless you want to know what a bullet tastes like.” He threatens and your hand is soaked between your legs from how afraid you are of him. “Good girl, I'm almost there. Don't cum until I give you the signal.” 

Sammy has you on the very edge for what feels like forever, your pussy clenching so hard around your own fingers. You've been sucking on the barrel of his gun for so long that saliva is dripping down the sides of your lips. You want to cum so badly, it's torture. 

Then, when you hear Sammy press down on the trigger, you can't hold it in anymore, cumming so hard that you squirt nonstop all over your fingers, soaking your carpeted floor. Hot ropes of cum cover your face and you can't contain the sudden rush of pleasure that fills your senses. 

He just shot you, didn't he?

But you don't feel any pain. You don't taste any blood. You're just cumming over and over again from the sudden shock of almost dying with his release coating your face. 

Sammy pulls the gun out of your mouth then shows you the empty clip. “Did you really think I'd put a loaded gun in your mouth, kid?”

Relief makes you pull your fingers out so you have the ability to grab onto the carpet below you, trying to steady the shakes that are consuming your body. 

He tosses his gun aside and you're on your back in an instant. He throws your legs over his shoulders, not giving you a second to breathe before his tongue is lapping up your orgasm. Your hands are in his hair and you're so far gone that you don't care anymore about how any of this might seem. 

You just grind your pussy against his face, wanting him to make you cum like that again. Sammy eats you out until he's hard, drawing so many orgasms out of you that you've lost count. You're in such a daze that you don't protest when he tugs off your shirt and unhooks your bra. He uses your shirt to wipe his cum off your face before tossing it aside.

He wants to be able to see your pretty face while he fucks you.

You do finally pay attention when he fully undresses, looking his naked body for the first time. Insecurity flashes through his eyes for a moment and you catch it, so you reach up, pulling him down towards you by his neck.

“I love the way you look, Sammy.” You run your hands all over him, marveling in the soft feel of his skin. 

That restores the confidence he almost lost. “You'll love the way I look fucking you too.” 

You don't have it in you to reject him anymore. Not after he made you cum so much. You want to know what his cock feels like inside of you, so you don't stop him from lining it up and sinking it into you raw. 

You nearly cum when he tells you, “watch me get you pregnant before Tammi.”

You decide to play into this, to just enjoy being a little fucked up. “No, Sammy, I'm not your wife. You can't get me pregnant, please!”

“You could be my wife.” He says as he thrusts more and more of himself into you so easily. You take him so nicely, no resistance, because your body wants him that much. You're perfect for him. Always has been. “I want you to be my wife. Do you want me to leave my wife for you?” 

Your toes curl when he hilts inside of you and that influences your words entirely, “yes, please.” 

“You don't like fucking someone else's husband?” Sammy pulls out of you just a tab before ramming his cock back inside of you, the tip pressing down on your womb when he does. “You want me to be your husband?” 

“Yes, yes, Sammy, please, I want you.” You cry out as he starts fucking you harder. “Oh fuck, you're going to make me cum, I'm going to cum—”

You dig your nails into the carpeted floors so hard that you tear into the fibers, needing to because he's pounding into you with such force that your back is scraping back and forth on the carpet with every thrust. He's fucking you like an animal in heat. 

He might as well be one, because he pulls his cock out of you, rubbing your clit furiously with the tip of it, watching as you squirt all over his cock when he does. 

“Flip over.” He snaps at you and you do without a second thought. “Good girl.” 

You moan his name so loudly when he's back inside of you that you're sure your new neighbors are going to complain tomorrow but you can't help it. 

You scream, “please keep fucking me, please, Sammy!”

“You're begging a married man to fuck you?” He laughs at you before he degrades you further, “do you like fucking someone else's husband?” 

“Yes.” You don't deny it anymore. “I love that you're fucking me instead of Tammi.”

“I'm never fucking Tammi again. Your pussy is so much better than hers. So tight, milking my cock so well.” He smacks your ass hard before he continues ramming his cock into you from behind, driving you further into the carpet. 

You don't even care about the marks it's leaving all over your skin. 

You're too lost in the pleasure of Sammy finally making you his. 

“God, I'm going to cum so much in this perfect little pussy.” He lets out with a groan, pumping into you harsher, his belly slamming into your back over and over again with every rough thrust. “Would you like that?”

“Yes, Sammy!” You muffle your scream into your hands when you cum from his cock burying so deep as he empties all of his cum inside of you, drowning you in the heat of it. 

You collapse onto the floor when he pulls out, panting from the intensity of it. You slip your hand between your legs, feeling the cum that leaks out of you. 

Sammy watches you touch yourself as his cum drips out of you, basking in the orgasm that has you convulsing so beautifully in front of him. 

He knows he can never leave your pussy empty ever again.

He needs to see you overflowing with his release, just like this. 

“I'll file for divorce tomorrow.” Sammy climbs over you, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead. “Then I'm moving in with you.” 

“You really are a dumbass.” You pinch his chubby cheeks, smiling at him. “You want to live in a tiny studio apartment when you have a house?” 

“I can't afford that mortgage alone and neither can Tammi. So, we'll sell it in the divorce and then you and I will buy a nice place together.” He nuzzles your nose with so much affection, making you giggle. “You're so fucking beautiful. How did I miss out on years of hearing you laugh like that?” 

“If we're going to do this, you have to promise to be nicer to yourself.” You cup his face in your hands and he happily kisses your palms, nodding into them. “Also, you have to be nicer to me, asshole.”

“What did I do?” He feigns ignorance and you glare at him. 

“You held a gun in my mouth!”

“And you liked it!”

“Shut up…” You say with a groan before pulling him in for a big kiss. Then, you say against his lips, “you better do that again soon, Detective Bryant.”

“Mmm.” He smirks, nipping at your bottom lip. “Next time I'll handcuff you too.” 

“You're lucky there's going to be a next time.” You tug at his bottom lip with your teeth, biting it until it bleeds. “That's your punishment for being such an asshole in bed.”

“You love it when I bully you, kid.” He gives you a soft kiss on the cheek. 

“I love you.” You tell him, feeling a bit anxious about it but you let it out anyways. “I want this to work. Will it?” 

Sammy nods. “It will because I love you too. So much. I always have.” 

“Then, help me blow up the air mattress and let's make love before bed?” You say with a big smile on your face. 

“You're killing me with how cute you are.” Sammy pulls you in for a hug, breathing in your comforting smell. “I can't believe I could've had you this whole time. I could've been so happy.” 

“I think you did your time.” You pat him on the back, referring to his time spent with that hell of a woman, Tammi. 

He chuckles into your neck. “Now I get to spend the rest of my life with you.”

You nod into his embrace. 

Because that's how it was always meant to be.

So when people ask how the two of you got together, you simply tell them that he was your first love and you were his and you both were just lucky to have met again after he divorced Tammi.

Sammy Bryant will always be your childhood sweetheart.

And you wouldn't have it any other way. 

a/n: did i go into this planning to make sammy absolutely nuts? of course not! did it happen? well…yes LOL! who could've seen that one coming ♡ 

The bullpen was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, the kind of lull that settled over the station when everyone was either out chasing leads or buried beneath enough paperwork to make conversation feel like extra work. The overhead lights filled empty spaces while phone calls and distant voices drifting in from another room. You sat at your desk with a half-finished report open and front of you, through your attention had long since wandered elsewhere. 

Namely, to Sammy Bryant. 

He, like your other fellow detectives, sat across the room hunched forward as he stared at a case file. His tie had been loosened hour ago, sleeves rolled up his thick arms, and there was a deep crease between his brows that hadn’t left all day. You weren’t even sure he’d touched the lunch he’d brought that morning. 

It wasn’t necessarily unusual for him to be this way. Lately, nothing about Sammy looked easy, especially when his phone rang and rang and rang and rang and—

The flip phone next to him started buzzing loudly on his desk, and you watched the change happen before he ever reached for it. 

A minute earlier, he’d been laser focused on the report in front of him, distracted enough that he’d nearly missed the call altogether. Then his eyes narrowed, almost like he knew exactly who was calling—he did—and whatever small amount of peace he’d managed to find over the course of his afternoon disappeared completely. Tension returned to his shoulders so quickly you almost winced as it settled like a familiar weight. You noticed that he didn’t look annoyed, because you of all people had seen Sammy annoyed way too many times. An annoyed Sammy usually came with a sarcastic comment, a muttered complaint, and a dramatic roll of his eyes that had always been capable of drawing a laugh from your chest. 

Annoyed Sammy never looked as exhausted as the one across from you did as he answered the phone. He had the kind of expression people wore when they already knew how a conversation was going to end before it had even begun. 

You lowered your gaze back down toward your report, not wanting him to catch you watching, though your ears remained turned toward the other side of the room. Eavesdropping was never intentional; at least that was what you told yourself. 

But you were a detective. 

Being nosey was part of the job description even if it wasn’t explicitly written in the fine print of your contract. It was simply difficult not to pay attention when Sammy spent so much of his day carrying the weight of everyone around him and so little time allowing anyone to carry any of his. 

“Hey, Tammi,” he said after opening his phone, voice gentle like it always was. 

You never understood how he managed to do it. 

The response that crackled through the speaker wasn’t loud enough for you to make out every word, but it was loud enough that you caught the tone: sharp, frustrated, and accusatory. Whatever was going on, it clearly wasn’t any good. 

Sammy listened for nearly thirty seconds before speaking again. “No, I know.” He paused, sighing quietly away from the speaker. “I know.” His eyes squeezed shut tightly, and the fingers of his free hand drummed once against the desk before curling into a fist. “No, that’s not what I said.” 

Around him, the station continued moving as if nothing was happening, as if Sammy arguing with Tammi was a normal part of the schedule (which, in a way, it was). Nate looked unphased as he flipped another page of whatever he was looking through. Behind you, the printer whirred to life and spat out a few pages. The normal rhythm of the day continued uninterrupted while Sammy sat perfectly at his desk, absorbing every word coming through that receiver like a man standing in the rain with no intention of finding shelter. 

You hated that. 

People got upset; Tammi got upset. Relationships, romantic or not, were always known to at least have a few complications down the line. 

What you hated was that their conversations never sounded like two people solving a problem together and always sounding like one person apologize for existing. 

Sammy huffed. “Tammi, I was working a homicide. I let you know that I’d be late hours earlier to make sure that you were aware.” A pause. “No, I can’t just up and leave in the middle of a case just because you made dinner for once! Why would you even make that when you knew—” 

His voice remained calm even if there was a detection of strain beneath it. He had the careful balancing act of a man choosing every word with surgical precision because one wrong phrase would turn an argument into a war. For the next several moments, he didn’t speak at all, simply listening to her go on and on while his expression grew tighter and tighter. When he finally leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face, you found yourself wondering when the last time had been that you’d seen him look genuinely happy. 

The answer disturbed you because you couldn’t remember, and it made things worse when you were sure Sammy probably didn’t remember either. 

His gaze drifted briefly across the room, hazel eyes landing on nothing in particular, and for just a second, you caught a glimpse that washed over into defeat. It made your heart hurt. 

Sammy Bryant was one of the better guys you knew. He was polite, never throwing around crude remarks about women like the rest of the men of the LAPD seemed to do. He was loyal to a wife that seemed to loathe his existence while your boss was running around with another woman behind his wife that actually loved him. And while he might not have been the dictionary definition of hot with his stomach pudge that spilled over his belt and puffy cheeks that grew when he ate, you found him endearingly handsome, someone you wouldn’t mind taking to meet your parents. 

Your lips tugged into a frown at the thought. 

He remained frozen in place; eyes fixated on some invisible point on his desk. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his chair backwards, hand now rubbing the back of his neck in smooth motions, his skin bunching under his thick fingers. A beat later, he pushed himself to his feet and disappeared toward the break room. 

“I don’t know how he deals with her,” Nate muttered after briefly glancing up at you. 

Your pen caught between your teeth. “He loves her.” 

He snorted in response. “I think love flew out the window a long time ago. He deals with her cause she’s familiar. He needs to go find someone for a night.” 

Your eyes rolled far into your head. “Sammy’s not that kind of guy, Nate. He’s loyal unlike the rest of you pigs.” 

Across from you, Russell coughed your name loudly. “Tell us how you really feel.” 

“Oh we’d be here all day if you let me,” you said with a large smirk. 

“Amen, sista,” Lydia called out as she passed. 

Nate finally looked at you for more than a second. “So, you’re saying you’d rather have our Sammy boy here miserable for the rest of his life with that woman?” 

“That’s not what I said,” you shot back, eyes going back down to your report. 

By the time Sammy returned, he was carrying a fresh cup of coffee; you’d lost count if that was his third or fifth. The cup joined his growing collection of bad coping mechanisms as he settled heavily into his chair once more, fingers reaching for a case file despite the fact that he hadn’t even finished the last one. 

“You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ulcer,” you called out, eyes still cast downward.

He blinked up at you. “What?” 

You pointed your pen toward the coffee. “That.” 

“Oh.” A tired laugh bubbled. “Pretty sure I’m already past that point.” 

“How’s the missus?” Nate asked, earning him a glare from you. 

Sammy shrugged indifferently. “Same old, same old. Feels like lately everything I do pisses her off.” He started listing with his fingers. “I’m working too much, but if I’m home, I’m not helping enough.” Another finger. “If I’m helping, I’m doing it wrong.” Another. “If I miss a call because I’m working, it’s because I’m shaking up with woman; or, if I answer the call while I’m working, she gets mad because I should be more focused.” 

You truly wondered if he was going to run out of fingers. 

Nate let out a low whistle. “If you’re shaking up while I’m driving, let me know next time, man.” 

At least his partner was able to paint a small smile on Sammy’s face, his cheeks pushing up to partly hide his eyes. 

“You ever try not trying so hard?” you found yourself asking before you could stop yourself, and even Sammy looked shocked that you had. “Don’t give me that look, Bryant.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not giving you a look.” 

“You’re definitely giving me a look.” You pushed back slightly from your desk. “Look, if trying so hard gets you in trouble, what will not trying look like? Instead of giving your all to a woman who seems to not appreciate it, why not put that energy into yourself?” 

“You always hand out life advice like a shrink, L/n?” Nate asked before you threw him a middle finger. 

Sammy stayed quiet, almost as if were mulling over your advice. He clicked his pen a few times before setting it down. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked, a bit quieter. “What if it all just stays the same.”

You tilted your head. “Then I guess it’s time for a bigger change until something sticks.”

“Did you ever have to change?” 

A loud snort flew from your nose. “How do you think I ended up here in this dump?” 

“Hey!” 

“Shut it, Moretta,” you snapped. “LA is a dump, and you know it.” A sigh pressed from your lungs. “My last job wasn’t doing too much for me, so I tried a bunch of different things until I found something that worked.” 

Sammy looked entirely unimpressed. “Being a homicide detective in Los Angeles was it for you?” 

“It was.” You went back to scribbling something on your report before standing from your chair. You lightly tapped him with the stack of papers as you passed. “You’ll find yours soon enough.” 

You didn’t know, but Sammy’s eyes tracked you until you disappeared around the corner, his chest blooming with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. When he looked over to Nate, the man was already wiggling his eyebrows at him. 

“Think that’s her signal man. She wants youuuuuu,” he teased, eyes alight with humor. 

Sammy scoffed. “She does not. Knock it off.” 

Nate held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever floats your boat. Just saying she won’t be available for much longer. Not when she looks like that.” 

Before Sammy could really think about it, Nate’s phone buzzed. His partner jumped to his feet and nodded his head toward the door. Sammy scrambled to his feet, hands grabbing at his suit coat on the way out. 

But even as they rushed down the freeway, your words were stuck in his head. 

_______________________

The call was nothing special, and by the time you arrived on scene, patrol had already secured the area, the initial statements had been collected, and all that remained was the tedious process of sorting through details. You knew this was going to be the kind of case that filled far more paperwork that excitement, and as you climbed out of your car into the hot California sun with your badge clipped to your waist and a clipboard tucked under one arm, you found yourself mentally calculating how long it would take before you could reasonably justify grabbing lunch from the Mexican stand on the way back to the precinct. 

Sweat trickled down your back and made your blouse stick slightly to your skin as you approached the cluster of officers gathered near the patrol cars. Most of the officers loitering around were unfamiliar faces since enough transfers and promotions had shuffled people around that it felt like every week brought someone new in during the past several months. You barely glanced at them, wanting nothing more to do than get this case translated into paperwork to do at your desk with decent AC. 

But then, your attention snagged on a familiar laugh, and the sound stopped you before your brain caught up. For a second you simply stood there, gaze searching through the gaggle until your eyes landed on the source once before looking away. 

Every muscle in your body went tense because there was absolutely no way that the man laughing was Sammy Bryant. You took another look, and then another before you finally let your eyes roam over him. 

That was definitely Sammy Bryant, with the same brownish-red hair, the same crooked-toothed smile, the same easy way he carried himself when talking to people. That man was the same man you’d spent years knowing and silently pining after. 

Yet, at the same time, somehow, he wasn’t the same man at all either. 

You stared at him all dressed in his uniform. 

The sight wasn’t that jeering; you knew he’d transferred to patrol almost a year ago. But it was the fact that it fit him differently than his suits ever did. Where his button-up shirts always pushed out across his stomach before disappearing into his pants, the blue fabric ran almost loose and straight down below his utility belt, soft plush around his hips completely gone. His face also looked leaner; jaw more defined every time his neck stretched just slightly. His arms bulged in places that hadn’t before, and instead of fat around his biceps, your eyes traced the distinct muscle lines instead. Even his skin held a darker tint from being outside more, a large comparison to the whiter shade he had while the majority of his time had been spent at a desk. 

In simple terms, he looked absolutely delicious. 

However, that wasn’t what kept your attention. 

Plenty of people lost weight; plenty of people changed how they looked; plenty of people seemed to be happier after a big change. 

The thing that nearly knocked the breath out of you was how happy he looked. 

Long gone was the crease that you used to trace when it showed between his brows. His shoulders weren’t hunched. His smile actually reached his eyes. Even standing under the hotter-than-hell sun in a patrol uniform dealing with a tedious call, he somehow looked mentally lighter than you’d ever seen him, like somebody had finally removed a weight he’d been carrying for years. 

“And then, I told him to drop the gun, and you know what he did? He fell to the ground and then dropped it,” Sammy’s voice boomed through the small group, earning a few chuckles from his fellow officers. 

“Hey, Bryant, you gotta bomb ass snack detective staring at you,” one of them said. “Did you get a girlfriend and forget to tell us?” 

Sammy’s brow pinched in confusion, and his head snapped over in your direction. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough to look away in time and continued to stare right at him. For a split second, you wondered if he’d pretend to not notice and go back to joshing with his friend. But then, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

He said your name so loudly and genuine that your heart literally fluttered. “Hey!” 

He excused himself from the group without hesitation and started toward you; the officers sent out a few cat calls and jumbled garbage, but Sammy looked like a man on a mission. The closer he got, the more your cheeks flushed under his sunglasses-covered eyes. 

The patrol uniform should not have been doing whatever it was doing. His sleeves were tight around his biceps. His radio rested against his shoulder and wavered with every step. His hand—left hand you noted was missing a silver band—reached up and tugged the sunglasses off his face and tucked them in a slat between buttons. 

Above all, your brain stopped functioning when Sammy stopped in front of you, arms raising like he wanted to bring you in for a hug before dropping back down to his thighs. 

“I didn’t know you’d been called,” he said, grin still wide as ever. “Thought this’d be handed off to Gil or Ben.” 

When you failed to say anything, still staring up at him with intense eyes that made him want to melt, his smile dropped a bit. “You okay? Did someone say anything to you?” His eyes glanced over toward the group. “Those guys were just joking—” 

“Bryant.” 

He blinked rapidly. “Yes?” 

You raked your eyes over him for good measure. “When did you get so fucking hot?” 

As the world slowed down around you, for one second you seriously considered throwing yourself into traffic during busy hour. An officer who had hear chocked on his coffee. When Sammy seemed stunned before he burst out laughing. His head dropped back, and the noise was loud enough to draw attention from half the squad nearby. 

“That’s one way to say hello,” he snickered. 

You shoved weakly at his shoulder, briefly feeling the tight muscle underneath. “Just wasn’t expecting Sammy Bryant turned Adonis. I’m guessing patrol has been good to you?”

He smiled shyly. “Just doin’ what you told me to. Did a lot of changing before I found something that stuck.” 

“I’m glad,” you breathed through a wide smile. “You look good, Sammy.” 

He tisked and shook his head. “I think I recall you saying hot specifically?” 

“I think you recall incorrectly, officer. Maybe need to get your hearing checked if you want to continue field work.” 

From behind you, someone shouted your name, causing you to turn away from Sammy for a split second. Your partner waved you over with a head tilt toward the body on the ground. You held up your pointer before looking back at Sammy. 

“Duty calls, I guess,” you muttered. “But it was good to see you.” 

You took one step back before Sammy’s hand jutted out and caught your forearm between his large fingers. He had a nervous look on his face, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“We both have work, but uh, would you want to argue over what you called me during dinner?” 

Your head bobbed before you could stop it. “Hope your phone still has my number. Call me when you’re off shift.” 

A blush crept up his neck. “I will.” 

“Then I will see you very soon, Officer Bryant.” 

Sammy couldn’t help but laugh softly as you sauntered away, hips swaying under your dress pants that—in his opinion—hugged your figure in the best ways. When he turned back toward his buddies, the whole lot hooting and hollering at him, he couldn’t wipe away the smile that spanned his face entirely. 

He’d missed you during this season of finding himself, your words always ringing in his ears as he stopped arguing, as he signed the divorce papers, as he chose to leave detective work and join patrol, as he walked over to say hi after not seeing you for close to a year, and finally as you blurted you thought he was hot even if you denied it right after. 

Sammy missed out on a lot of things, but this time, he wasn’t going to miss out on you.

_______________________

“Fuck, Sammy,” you whined as his lips pressed deeply into your neck. 

Dinner had been a wonderful ordeal; almost right out of a dream you’d almost given up on. Sammy had picked you up, brought you flowers, paid for the meal, and offered to walk you back up to your door. 

Which, in hindsight, you should have known it wouldn’t take long for you to invite him inside or even longer for him to crowd you into the nearest wall and have his way with you. 

Your fingers shook as they unbuttoned his shirt one by one before they tentatively grazed across his now-visible abs. The sound you pulled from his lips—a small whimper—made you crave him even more. While you were busy mapping his body under your palms, Sammy was busy attacking your jaw and neck, tongue lapping to taste your perfume you’d sprayed hours earlier. 

“Do you wanna give up and say that you think I’m hot now?” he teased in a hot breath. “Or should I cuff you and get my confession that way? Would you like that? Couldn’t ever do this when I was a detective.” He groaned loudly when your hands squeezed his pecks. “Didn’t imagine I could have you like this.” 

The idea of him placing the cold, metal bracelets around your wrists shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did, but just thinking of Sammy that way had you tightening your legs around his hips. 

Drunk on the feeling of him, you couldn’t help the next sentence that flowed from your loose lips as your head thunked against the wall. 

“Could have,” you panted. “Wanted you even back then, but you were married, and I’m not a homewrecker. Always thought you were handsome, Sammy.” 

He froze against you; his face tucked into your shoulder. You took the moment to lower yourself back down to the floor and place your hands on his face, fingers gently pulling him away so you could look into his confused eyes. 

“What?” he asked. “What do you mean you wanted me back then.” 

You licked your lips. “Sammy, you were happy, and I—” 

“I wasn’t happy,” he interrupted. “Far from it. Only fucking time I was happy was when I got to see you at work, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes fell down to your shoes. “Sammy.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours. “Thought about you all the time,” he whispered. “You were always there. Been kicking myself for letting you slip through my fingers. I really thought that when I could get in shape and get in a better place, I could have you; I could deserve you.” 

That had you looking back up at him with a frown. “No, Sammy, no.” Your hands dragged down his front and settled under the flaps of his shirt against his warm skin. “That’s not—that was never it. I was never going to overstep, but Sammy, please understand it took everything against myself to not jump you in the bullpen.” 

In that moment, a wave of humiliation washed through you, but Sammy looked absolutely delighted at your confession. He dipped back down and pressed his lips back against yours. You quickly reciprocated it and opened your lips to let his tongue dive into your mouth. Air was sadly a necessity, causing you to pull back panting. 

“So,” you gasped. “You said something about handcuffs.” 

Sammy smirked wildly, and in the next moment, you were squealing as he hoisted you over his shoulder, stalking to your bedroom with intent. 

Time for naked twister you reasoned. The plot thickens.

His strong thighs are the first thing you notice about Pope Cody. You’ve imagined running your hands along those same thighs; those thighs bracketing your head as you lick and suck at his cock; imagined leaving hickeys on the soft sensitive skin of his inner thighs as he begs and whimpers above you. Imagined grinding down on one of those thighs as you finally, finally taste the inside of his mouth. “Yo,” A long shadow cuts across your line of sight. You blink and you’re back in your body, sunbathing poolside at the Cody house, and the object of your desires is nowhere to be found. 

Craig whistles before he snaps his fingers in your face as he calls your name, “You comin’ or what?”

You roll your eyes, “I’m not a fucking dog, jackass. I can hear you fine.” You get up and stretch before hustling to catch up to Craig. “And slow down! I don’t have fuck-you-long legs like you.” “Have you considered growing taller?” He asks fondly, sliding into the car with ease. “Sounds like a skill issue.” “oh, fuck off.” Irate, you hop into the passenger seat of the green jeep as he starts up the car. “Why are we going to this spot again? And are Pope and Deran meeting us there?”

“Didn’t I tell you this stuff earlier?” “Yeah, but you know that sound the adults in the Snoopy cartoons make whenever they speak?” At his confused look, you begin to make trumpet noises at him before gesturing as if to say this is what I hear coming out of your mouth. Craig levels you with an unimpressed look as he speeds off.

—

So, yeah. Job. That’s why you’re at this western themed bar at the ass end of Oceanside.

And you’re not particularly impressed by the kitschy look of the place until you get inside. Tucked into a corner, beneath the hallowed glow of a spotlight, a mechanical bull. Your mind starts blessing you with the image of Pope Cody riding that mechanical bull, his thick thighs clutching on as he undulates with it.

You feel your cheeks get hot at the thought and you quickly take a sip of the beer Craig slides in front of you, his eyes following your line of sight. “Oh, you gonna take a ride and give us a show?” He teases.

You shove him, “Hell no!” At that exact moment, Pope walks in with Deran and, like he just instinctively knows where you are, he turns and finds your table. The pair walk over, and in a fit of pique, you say, “I’ll do it if Pope does it.” “Does what?” Pope asks in his usual detached manner, pulling the seat next to you, eyes roving the space. You can tell he’s already mapping all the exits to this place. 

The heat of his thigh pressing against yours is unbearably distracting.

“Ride the mechanical bull.” Craig says, and shares a laugh with Deran. Pope pauses, and looks at you as you shake your head and mime a knife going across your throat. You see a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“What do I get out of it?”

Pause. What?

“All drinks paid for.” Craig says quickly. “20% of your cut from this job.” Pope responds.

You feel your eye twitch as the pair of them negotiate and Deran catches your eye, rolling his eyes at Craig’s antics. You mouth a “please make it stop” and almost miss when Pope says, “deal.” 

“What?” You say in disbelief as Pope drains his beer before his hand encircles your forearm, tugging you out of your seat and towards the mechanical bull. “Pope, you know that I wasn’t being serious, right? I’m not getting on that thing.” “Well, I made a deal with Craig,” Pope says as he nods at the operator. Behind you, you can hear Craig and Deran’s laughter. You dig your heels in, trying to stop him. He feels you resist and turns, looking at you with his serious, hazel eyes. 

He leans in close, and you can feel his breath against your cheeks. You can feel your face heat up as the space between you disappears. He says quietly in your ear, “I’ll split the money with you.” And just as you think your heart might burst out of your chest, he adds, “and I wanna see how you ride.”

What.

Cool air rushes in where his face used to be, and you allow yourself to be led along. Pope pays the mechanical bull operator and lets go of you with a quiet, “stay.”

You nod, and gulp as he climbs onto the mechanical bull. It’s your fantasy come to life, and you lean against a post as you try to commit the image of him to memory for later. He looks powerful, his thick thighs astride the red saddle. His eyes are trained on the wall as he wraps the rope around his strong hand. The light above makes him look holy, his deep brown curls burnished auburn. 

And then the bull begins to move. 

Everything seems to move in slow motion. 

His thighs tighten as he fights to stay on, hand tugging on the rope hard. The skin at the base of your skull tightens as you picture his hand tugging your hair instead. 

The bull bucks and spins once.

Suddenly, with a grunt, Pope is on his back on the ground, looking as if he can’t quite comprehend how he ended up there. 

You can’t help the laugh that comes out of your mouth as you clap. The timer on the wall reads 2 seconds. Deran and Craig laugh and whoop for their brother. You hear Craig call your name as he yells, “Your turn! Better hold on for dear life!”

Pope steps out of the ring and you can’t help but notice him favoring his side, “You okay?” You touch his arm. He grimaces, “I’ll be fine. Your turn.”

You take a deep breath, and ask, “You’ll watch me, yeah?” He looks confused for a moment before saying, “Where else would I be?”

You give him a smile before you step into the ring. Somewhere in the bar, you hear the familiar strains of Ya Ya by Beyoncé begin to play. You do a little wiggle to the melody as you approach the bull. You hop onto the saddle with ease, your cut off jean shorts riding up as your own bare thighs settle on the bull. You flip off the general direction of the table where Craig and Deran sit as you hear Craig whoop and holler. You can feel Pope watching you, and you straighten your back. The bull begins to move under you, and you remind yourself to move like water. You let your body roll, hips moving as the bull bucks and spins, riding for your life. Pope is watching, do NOT fuck this up.

When you finally fall off the bull, a respectable 45 seconds later, you get up and skip over to Pope, who has an unreadable look on his face, “Well?” He says, “I wish-“ when a particularly loud whistle from Craig interrupts his thought. You both look over to Craig waving you over. 

Pope then simply says, “Great job,” Before turning and walking back to the table. Your heart sinks a little at the terse response, trailing after him to the table where Craig and Deran tease Pope for his poor showing on the bull. 

—

Later that night, you’re sitting on the couch back at Smurf’s, icing your thighs as a nature documentary plays on the TV. Background noise. 

You spot some movement out of the corner of your eye, and look up to see Pope joining you on the couch. The concern in his face as he spots your developing bruises is endearing, and you can’t help but explain, “I bruise easy. Don’t want my legs to look like Pollock paintings tomorrow.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to get on the bull?” Pope asks quietly. 

“Nah. I mean, partly. I also just didn’t want to give Craig the satisfaction of watching me on the bull.” 

Pope’s fingers play with the frayed edge of the colorful throw blanket. You let the silence wash over the pair of you. “How are your thighs doing?”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

You look over at him, so stoic in the evening light, and set aside the frozen bag of peas. “I don’t believe you.” He looks up at you in suspicion. “Show me.”

Suspicion morphs into confusion. “what?” his voice goes up, incredulous. 

“I think you hurt yourself more than you let on.” you say firmly as you stand up and walk over to him. “take off your pants and show me.” 

“My thighs are fine, I was barely on the damn thing.”

“Pope…”

He frowns at you, and you frown back, trying to show him how serious you are about this. 

“Take them off for me.”

You freeze. “what?”

“You wanna check my thighs out so bad, you do it.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.” he gestures to his fly, leaning back and spreading his legs as he crosses his arms. Brat.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and your cheeks grow warm. Never one to back down from a challenge, you kneel between his legs and begin to unbutton his pants. The denim is soft and warm under your hands. The room gets awfully quiet, the snick of the zipper loud in your ears as you pull, slowly revealing his black boxer briefs.

You can’t help but notice the bulge underneath the cloth. 

Your hand brushes over it as you reach up to pull his pants down by the waistband. He says nothing, lifting his hips to help you on your mission. Slowly, dark denim moves down, revealing more and more of the pale skin of his muscular thighs to you. Like a gift, you unwrap him slowly, until his pants are pooled around his ankles.

His thighs. Pale skin wrapped around thick muscle. 

You spot some redness closer to his knee, a blooming bruise. You tsk and run your hand over it, feeling the warm skin there. You look up at him, and find him looking down at you with a heat in his eyes. His chest rises and falls as you look at each other. You run your hand up his thigh, and still looking up at him, you ask, “Can I make you feel better?” He nods slowly.

You press a kiss to the bruise, and then another up his thigh, and another. As you reach the hem of his boxer briefs, you pause, looking up at him, face hovering close to where the bulge has grown significantly. Your cunt clenches around nothing as you hear his quiet whimper. “May I?” You whisper against his skin.

“Please,” he breathes out.

You smile up at him before nuzzling the length of his cock with your cheek. One hand slips under your shorts to circle your clit as you mouth at him, finding the tip and sucking on it through the cloth. He moans, and you moan around his cloth covered length, the material soaking up your spit. 

Somewhere deeper in the house, a door opens.

You pull back, face beet red. You pull his pants up quickly, and throw the blanket over his lap before getting up to move to the other side of the couch. Or you try to, but Pope pulls you down so you’re half sitting on his lap. 

“Pope!” You whisper, trying to wriggle away, but his arm wraps around your waist and keeps you in place, his hand settling at the top of your bare thigh.

“Stop.” He whispers in your ear.

J appears in the hallway, eyeing the pair of you suspiciously as he walks past. He looks at you, and asks, “You good?” You nod. He nods back, eyes lingering on the arm around your waist. He continues into the kitchen without another word. 

You pretend to watch TV, though Pope’s making it difficult as he flexes his thigh under your legs, and the hints of friction against your center are making you want to grind against his leg fully.

J reappears with a glass of water in his hand. “Night.” He says as he walks past and back down the hallway towards his own room.

The door closes with a creak.

“Jesus, that was-“

“I wished it was me.”

“What?” you turn so you’re facing Pope. His hands move to your hips as your legs bracket his right thigh.

“The mechanical bull,” he says, cheeks pink as his hands begin to slowly push and pull at your hips so you’re grinding against him. “I wished it was me you were riding like that.”

He says it breathlessly, and your face heats, the warmth rushing down to the skin of your chest. “Yeah?” you whisper as you let your hips move against his thigh like you’re back on the bull.

“Yeah,” he whines as your own thigh presses against his hard cock. The friction is delicious as the pair of you grind against each other, and you’re sure the gusset of your shorts is soaked from how wet you are.

One of his broad hands glides up your body and slips into your hair, tightening right at the base of your skull and pulling. You gasp at the feeling, hips picking up speed as you feel yourself get more turned on. He leans up and begins peppering kisses on your neck. 

Your own hands slip into his soft curls, nails scraping against his scalp. The hand on your hip slides up your back, anchoring you against him. You’re so lost in the sensation of his thick thigh tightening and relaxing under your cunt that you almost miss his whispered babbling.

“…fuckin’ obscene… wished it was just the two of us… wanted to be… inside… you… ngh”

You feel a warmth spread beneath the thigh pressed against his clothed crotch, and the thought that he came just from the thought of being inside you helps you right over the edge. you push your face against his forehead as you cum, whimpering quietly against the skin there.

You stay like this, holding each other in the darkened living room as your heart rates slow back down. He leans against the back of the sofa, and you allow yourself the indulgence of leaning down and tucking your head under his chin. You listen to his breathing slow.

“So, you wanna try that again, preferably without clothes?” You ask as you nuzzle into his neck. 

He says nothing, the only reaction is his breath hitching. He cups your chin and moves back so he can see you. His eyes have a slightly glazed quality to them. Despite this, he looks at your face intensely, as if committing the individual parts to memory. His eyes land on your lips, flicking back up to your eyes briefly before turning his focus back to your lips.

He leans in, and you follow suit.

Laughter comes from the foyer as the front door opens.

You startle and fall off Pope’s lap, landing on your butt with a thud and a groan. Pope’s hands reach for you as you scramble to the other side of the couch. 

Craig and his squeeze of the night stumble into the living room. “Oh, uh, occupado…” Craig says drunkenly as he spots Pope first, then you. “Let's go to my room baby.” The pair stumble off to Craig’s room, the door not doing much to hide the sounds of what was about to happen next.

You can’t help the giggle that comes out of your mouth. Pope looks at you, perplexed, and you mimic Craig’s voice, “Occupado… I mean, Christ, were they about to fuck on the couch?” You see Pope open his mouth and quickly say, “Don’t answer that. I don’t need to think about Craig’s bare ass on these cushions.”

Pope grimaces, and says, “Come here.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking about Craig fucking someone on this couch and I think my vagina just shriveled up and died.” You stand and stretch, knowing Pope is watching as your shirt rides up with the movement. “I’m going to bed.”

You drop the bag of peas back off in the freezer before walking back to the living room, where Pope sits stiffly in the dim glow of the TV. You walk over to him and press a kiss to his forehead.

“Good night Pope.” you say, and quickly add, “I’ll leave my door open if you want to join me…”

You spin playfully out of his reach before you walk down the dark hallway to your room. Behind you, you hear the TV turn off, and as you slip into the covers in your room, you can already hear Pope’s quiet footsteps as he moves to join you.