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@starlitsonnets ( heather collins ) ; Do you ever think about us? About what we were?

THE HELL OF IT ALL WAS THAT THINKING WAS THE ONE THING he never stopped doing. It was the doing he had trouble with—the being, the staying, the holding still long enough to let anything land—but thinking was a current that ran under everything, ceaseless, a river that had carved itself into him so long ago he'd stopped hearing its rush. He thought about a great many things he had no business thinking about. He thought about Adamson. He thought about it more than he would ever say aloud to a living soul: the gray of the man's face going slack, the way the monitors had kept insisting on their flat indifferent truth while Robby's hands did all the right things in all the right order and it hadn't mattered, none of it had mattered, competence rendered obscene by the sheer arithmetic of that year. He thought about how many people he could keep alive in a twelve-hour window if he simply refused to stop moving, refused to sit, refused to let the silence find him the way it was finding him right now—because the silence was where it all lived, the grief and the rest of it, the whole black-water reservoir he kept dammed behind motion. Keep moving and the floor stays a floor. Stop, and it becomes what it really is: a surface tension over something with no bottom.  He thought about the boy he'd been at eight, standing at a window with his forehead against the cold glass, learning a lesson he'd spent the rest of his life pretending he hadn't learned—that you could love someone with the whole undivided animal of your heart and they could simply not come back, that the car could pull away and the street could stay empty and the world could go right on being a place where that was allowed to happen. He'd built so much over that goddamn wound. A career. A reputation. ( And under all of it, still, that boy and that window. ) And yes, God help him, he thought about her.

❛ . . . You're asking me that now? After everything? Christ, your timing hasn't changed a bit. ❜

𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. Not with words, at least. But he didn't need to. Heather had learnt, long ago, to read the truth he tried so hard to bury. It was written in the fine creases at the corners of his eyes, crow’s feet carved deeper by every night he refused to sleep. It was in the fleeting, vulnerable smile, the poor shield against the bone-deep exhaustion that clung to him. Behind it all, behind the stoic veil he wore for the world, meant to protect every raw and trembling part of himself, she saw it clearly. He thought of them. Just as she thought of them. So no, he didn't need to say anything. Heather knew. Because that was what it meant to love someone, to see them for everything they were, to learn every idiosyncrasy and habit that said more than words ever could. Loving Michael had meant to decipher the heavy meanings of his silences; the way his shoulders tensed when he carried too much, the precise timbre his voice took when he was holding back a flood, the restless rhythm of his fingers against his thigh when stillness became unbearable. She had memorised him, and the years since their breakup had not dimmed the vivid colour of those memories.

God, they had been good together, there had been so much promise. But life’s cruelties had never cared for such poetry. His grief over Adamson had hollowed him out, leaving emptiness where light used to live. Meanwhile, she had carried a secret that grew heavier with each passing day — the knowledge of the life they had created together, the one she had chosen to end because she hadn’t been ready. Heather hadn’t regretted the choice itself, but it had shattered something in her all the same. Looking into his eyes afterwards had become its own torture, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to tell him. The guilt and fear had eaten her alive, whispering that he would despise her for her selfishness. So she had buried it. The secret had fractured their relationship, and Heather blamed herself ( still, sometimes ) for its inevitable collapse — the unstoppable drift of two people too wounded to hold each other steady. Yet here they sat, years later, shoulders only just grazing, the bittersweet ache of it all a constant companion she carried without complaint.

❛ Better late than never, right? ❜ She replies with a laugh that was halfhearted, self-deprecating almost. The sun had begun to wave, painting everything in rich amber, gilding the edges of his profile in soft light. Silence lingered between them for a moment; not uncomfortable, but bittersweet. Eventually, Heather broke the hush, ❛ For the record . . . I think about us too. More often than I probably should. ❜ Her gaze dropped to the familiar grain of the concrete step beneath them — the same steps she had climbed countless times. This hospital had been home once, its chaotic pace as familiar as her own pulse. It had been less than a year since she’d left for Portland, ten months to be exact, yet it felt like several lifetimes ago she had belonged here. Her best friend’s combined wedding and baby shower had brought her back, and Heather hadn’t been able to stay away from her old workplace. From him. After all, he had been home too, once. Which was why she couldn't leave without asking — without making sure that the sabbatical Dana spoke of wasn’t the dark thing the charge nurse feared.

Her gaze lifted until it met his — and she didn't let go.

❛ Dana told me you’re going on sabbatical, ❜ Heather said; carefully, as though she knew how easy it would be for him to close up, to retreat behind his thousands of walls and shields. ❛ A three-month-long date with your motorcycle, huh? Overachiever. I could barely get you to take a single weekend off back then. Kinda offended, actually. ❜ She paused, let the halfhearted joke settle, before she continued, ❛ What's your plan? ❜

THE LEMONADE IS TOO SWEET, THE SUN IS TOO HOT, and Amy is watching him with an expression he has spent the entire drive out here preparing for and is still not ready to meet. Dennis is suddenly very aware of the glass in his hand, the condensation tracing slow paths down his knuckles and dripping onto the packed earth between his boots. He could give her the easy answer. Because you needed help or Because that's what people do, but, Amy is looking at him, and her eyes are too honest for the easy answer. ( They always have been. ) He remembers it from the very first time, that afternoon on her porch three weeks after Teddy died, when he'd driven out on a Sunday with no real plan and no defensible reason, holding a casserole dish. He'd stood on the top step with the dish growing heavy in his arms and she'd opened the door and looked at him with those searching, devastated eyes, and he'd understood with a clarity that winded him that she could see that her husband's death had hollowed something out of him too, and despite that he carried it differently than she did, without the legitimacy of marriage or shared history or a child to raise alone, that he carried it all the same. He has never told Amy about the nights after Teddy. The way he'd sat in the parking garage after his shift ended, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, unable to drive home. The way he'd pulled Teddy's chart three separate times in the weeks that followed, reading through his own documentation, searching for the error, the missed window, the moment where a different decision might have bent the outcome toward something survivable. ( He never found it. ) The injury had simply been incompatible with life, and Dennis had done everything correctly, and Teddy Miller had died on his table anyway, and the world had continued in its ordinary way as it always did. 

Theo shifts against Amy's chest, one small foot pressing outward against the carrier's fabric; the baby's toes curl and release, curl and release. 

❛ It's not about guilt, ❜ He clears his throat and sets the glass down on the fence post beside him. ❛ I know that's . . . I know that's probably what it looks like. And maybe that was part of it, in the beginning. I don't know. ❜ He pulls his hand across the back of his neck, fingers catching on the sunburn he can already feel building there, the skin tight and hot beneath his palm. The honest answer is sitting right at the base of his throat, dense and unwieldy, and he doesn't know how to just say it. His jaw works once, twice, the muscle at its hinge tightening visibly beneath the stubble he hasn't bothered to shave. The heat presses down on both of them, thick and still, and somewhere in the middle distance a truck shifts gears on the county road, the sound muffled by the trees and the heavy, unmoving air. He is aware that he is standing at an edge, a line between what he has been to her and what he might become, and he can feel the ground softening beneath him the way it does before it gives. ❛ It's quiet here, ❜ he adds, but that's not the whole of it, and they both know it. He risks a glance at her, brief, unguarded in a way he doesn't intend; his composure slipping just enough to show something beneath it that is raw and startled by its own existence, and then he looks away, out toward the upper field where the grass is starting to go gold at the tips and the tree line shimmers faintly in the rising heat.

❛ I like being here. ❜

✫ 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆. It fattened itself on her grief and bloomed into choking vines of anxiety, into nights spent staring at the ceiling while the empty farmhouse creaked around her. Amy had been turning the thought over for weeks now; that perhaps she had been dodging the most harrowing parts of her sorrow by letting Dennis carve a place for himself in her daily routine — a steady, living distraction. The notion was absurd, and definitely cruel to him if it carried any truth. Amy liked to think it didn't carry any truth at all. But the thought persisted like the damn stubborn weeds in the backyard anyway. Because the actual truth was simpler, and infinitely more terrifying; when Dennis was here the shadows did not loom quite so dark, the air moved a little easier in her lungs, the suffocating weight on her chest lifted for a few precious hours, long enough for her to be present with Theo. To be be an actual mother instead of a grief-stricken ghost. A mother who comforted him when he cried, who laughed at his tiny fists waving in the air, who delighted in every little milestone. Deep, deep, deep down she knew what this was. Knew it wasn't her actively taking advantage of his kindness to dull her own ache. There was something else here, something neither of them had dared vocalise because to name it would be the final feast her already rampant guilt was hoping for. It made her feel like the worst kind of traitor. Because Teddy had been meant to be her reprieve. Teddy was the one who should have been out here cursing at the fence, the one whose voice should have floated from the nursery at dawn as he rocked their son back to sleep. Teddy was supposed to be the one who made her laugh until her ribs hurt, who made her feel warm and safe and seen. Not Dennis. Dennis wasn't supposed to be the one who made everything easier, who made breathing easier. But he was. And part of her was terrified of losing it. Him. Losing him. God, she couldn't handle more loss.

❛ I—we like having you here too. ❜ she said at last, voice soft and threaded with a nervous tremor she had no control over. The sun beat down in relentless waves, the heat pressing against her skin until her brow glistened, or maybe it was the tension between them that made her skin damp and her chest tight. Amy's gaze faltered, drifting from him as though shame had coaxed her away, before she forced it back. She searched his eyes for anchor, for evidence of everything unspoken. What she offered him was a small, uncertain smile, fragile at the edges yet carrying everything she felt; gratitude, uncertainty, grief, and that strange, inexorable fondness that had rooted itself in the most impossible soil. She shifted her weight, gravel crackling beneath her shoes, and swallowed against the dryness in her throat. A single bead of sweat traced a slow path down the nape of her neck before disappearing beneath the faded denim of her dungarees, cool against skin flushed from more than just the heat.

❛ Please—please promise me it isn’t about guilt. Or because you feel bad for me being alone out here with all of this. It can’t be that. You can’t feel forced to be here. You don’t—you’ve got nothing to be guilty about. I know you did everything you could to save Teddy. ❜ Amy could barely speak his name without feeling the tide turn; the heavy ache in her chest, the familiar choking pressure in her throat, the burn behind her eye. She forced it down with a tremulous, shaking breath, blinking hard against the sting, her fingers tightening just slightly against Theo’s back. He fussed then, a soft whimper rising from where he rested against her chest as he balanced on the edge of waking. Amy’s hand moved on instinct, palm settling over the small curve of his back to trace slow, soothing circles through the carrier. She hushed him low and tender, pressing her lips to the warm, downy crown of his head. For once she was thankful he'd stirred; it bought her a few precious heartbeats to gather the scattered, fractured pieces of her courage.

❛ You mean a lot to us, Dennis. To me. And it’s really important to me that you don’t come out here just because you feel obligated to. Because if that’s all this is, it means it can go away. And I don’t—I don't think I could bear it. ❜

HE'D SEEN IT ALL BEFORE the bright ones, the burning ones, standing at the lip of the question of whether the whole shape of their life had been a wrong turn, and Jack had buried enough of them, one way or another, that he wasn't about to lose this one without a fight. He set the mug down on the counter behind him, surrendering, finally, to the truth that no amount of caffeine was going to make that sludge worth drinking. He looked down at the dark, stagnant ring of coffee swirling inside it, using the moment to steady his own thoughts. A mistake. God, how many times had he whispered those exact words to the steering wheel of his car at five in the morning? How many times had he watched a patient walk out the double doors of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, knowing they were just marching right back into the meat grinder of a world that didn’t care if they lived or died? ( Too many to count. ) Samira was still entirely human in a place that treated humanity like a liability. And god, he respected her for it. He respected the way she refused to let the patients become numbers on a tracking board, the way she let herself bleed for a woman who would never be able to repay the debt. It was an incredibly stupid way to practice emergency medicine, a guaranteed shortcut to an early grave or a severe psychiatric leave, but it was also the most beautiful thing he had seen in this hospital in years. His gaze settled on her and stayed, longer than was comfortable, longer than he usually allowed himself with anyone; the curls sprung loose and frizzed wild under the fluorescents; the fists tucked into the crooks of her elbows, the wet shine she was fighting at the corners of her eyes and the stubborn, furious way she was winning, refusing to let herself cry in front of him even now.  Jack reached back out, his fingers curling around his mug of lukewarm, bitter sludge. He took another slow, punishing sip, grimacing at the taste but welcoming the burn of the caffeine.

❛ It wasn't. Robby's wrong, and I'd be happy to tell him so to his face, which, given the night the two of us have had, I might just do. ❜ The smallest dry flicker at the corner of his mouth, there and gone. ❛ The softness isn't the flaw in you, Samira. It's not the bug. It's the whole reason you're any good at this, the reason that woman, wherever she is right now, felt for six hours like she was a person. ❜ He turned his head and found her eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted, dry, wry, the closest he came these days to tenderness in its plain clothes. ❛ The day it stops hurting you . . . that's the day to be afraid. That's the day you'll have lost the only part of this worth keeping. I've seen the version of you that doesn't feel it anymore. Believe me. You don't want to meet her. ❜  

𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃'𝐕𝐄. Each syllable seeping warmth through the walls she had spent a lifetime fortifying around her most vulnerable parts. Somewhere between impostor syndrome and the cold fear of complacency, praise had never been allowed to take root; because what if believing it meant she stopped pushing? What if it made her arrogant, relaxed in ways that would cost patients their lives? Samira had scarcely let herself sit with accolades and revel in them before, not in a healthy way at least. Her relationship with approval had always been a hungry, complicated beast with jagged teeth; she'd spent most of her youth craving it from her parents, in spaces where love had felt conditional on performance and expectations met. Where every late-night study session, every step towards burnout, every sacrifice had been counted as proof that she was worthy of being kept. She had always been kinder to criticism than praise, had welcomed every lashing with open arms because she'd operated on the stupid belief that every scar rewrote her into something stronger, better. Now, even though Dr. Abbot's words reached deeper than any other praise had, Robby's criticism still rang sharper; about how her personality, her way of practicing, was the reason patients waited too long in triage. The whole damn system's booming voice was there too, telling her she was too sympathetic, too soft, too feeling. Logically, she knew how hard she had worked to earn her place here. Logically, she understood she deserved the recognition. But after a night like this one, she wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe she was taking up space meant for someone who could tick every box she couldn’t. Efficient. Impenetrable. Compliant.

The softness isn't the flaw in you, he'd said.

❛ Yeah . . . right . . . ❜ She couldn't stifle the scoff; self deprecating perhaps, or perhaps aimed at Dr. Abbot's threat ( promise ) to march off to set Robby straight. She knew he would. They had known each other for years; two people messed up in their own particular ways, yet still showing up for each other without filters, calling each other on their shit because that was the kind of friends they were. She wasn’t sure she had ever had a friend like that. Wasn’t sure she had ever trusted anyone enough to let a bond like that form. The thought flickered and died under the louder noise already crowding her skull. A sigh left her, long and weary, and her eyes drifted from his face to the mug in his hands, then back again. She dipped her head in a subtle, conspiratorial motion towards the cupboards — attempting half-hearted levity. ❛ You know Dr. Chen hides the good coffee grounds in the top left cupboard, behind the dusty bag of decaf no one has touched since the seventies. ❜ It was lifeline tossed for herself, a futile attempt to ease the stone sitting in her chest, to quiet the chorus that had lived in her since she was a little girl; not good enough, not smart enough, not ambitious enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Samira swallowed, but the weight did not lift. The anxious knot refused to unravel.

❛ Why are you so nice to me? ❜ she asked abruptly, the words rushing from her before she could stop them, a furrow settling between her brows as she searched his face. The shift had hollowed her out, left her edges frayed and raw — she could feel her eyes burn and she hated that she was so close to losing the fight. Jesus fucking christ, how embarrassing. ❛ Yeah, sure, maybe Robby’s wrong about certain things, and maybe I won’t apologise for having compassion for all these people . . . but don’t you think it would be easier if I stopped resisting and just did what the machine wants me to do? It sure as hell feels like that sometimes. Feels like I’d waste less time and resources. I mean fuck, look at us—look at you. You’re in here giving me a pep talk when you could be out there guiding a student through an intubation. ❜ Maybe it was the fact that it was four-freaking-am and the physical and emotional fatigue had worn her to the bone. Maybe it was the lifetime of complex fractures accumulating, simmering just beneath her skin, pressing against seams grown thin from years of holding everything in. Maybe it was her goddamn cycle. Whatever the cause, a brittle desperation threaded through her voice now. She was starving for answers. For relief. For someone to speak the precise, transformative words that would finally land in the hollow places inside her and assure her, without caveat or condition, that she was doing it right.

“i feel safe when I’m with you.”

safe. the word made dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “i want to keep you safe.”

It's not up to you to save me, Jack.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃, and Harwin lets himself in quietly, muscle memory guiding him through the familiar entryway. He toes off his shoes by the mat, sets his keys on the console table without looking, and moves through the house like a ghost. The living room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner. Catelyn is curled up on the couch, a book open in her lap, reading glasses perched on her nose. She looks up when he appears in the doorway, and something in her expression shifts, subtle, but he knows her well enough to catch it; the slight widening of her eyes. The way her mouth softens just a fraction, like she's bracing herself for whatever he's about to lay at her feet. He doesn't sit right away; he just stands there in the threshold, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight. His scrubs are wrinkled, the fabric creased in ways that suggest he's been wearing them too long, since his shift ended two hours ago, to be precise, though he hasn't gone home yet because the thought of sitting alone in his apartment made his skin crawl. There's a faint coffee stain on the left sleeve, and he realizes distantly that he probably looks like hell. ( Feels like it too. ) ❛ I know it's late, ❜ he says finally. ❛ I just—I needed to get out of my head for a minute. ❜ Liar.  He needed to go anywhere but back to his place, where the silence was too loud and the walls felt like they were closing in, where every surface reminded him of Rhaenyra; he needed to be somewhere that didn't remind him of how thoroughly he'd fucked this up. He moves into the room, finally, and sinks down onto the armchair across from her—the same one he always gravitates toward when he's here, worn leather that's molded itself to his shape over the years. His elbows come to rest on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them, and for a long moment he just stares at the floor. The grain of the hardwood; the edge of the rug, fraying slightly where one of the kids must have picked at it. Anything but Catelyn's face, because if he looks at her right now he's going to crack wide open, and he's not ready for that yet. ❛ She's so angry, ❜ he says quietly. ❛ And she has every right to be. ❜ He drags a hand over his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes like he can scrub away the exhaustion, the guilt, the sick weight that's been sitting in his chest since the moment Lyonel let it slip, since the moment Rhaenyra looked at him and asked why his father knew when she hadn't even told hers yet. ❛ And Jeyne, you know—she was there when I called him. She overheard, and I didn't stop her from telling you, so that's on me too, I reckon. ❜ He shakes his head, jaw clenching. ❛ She didn't know I'd told any of you, ❜ he says, and his voice cracks just slightly on the words. ❛ Not until Dad opened his mouth to Viserys, thinking he already knew. Thinking Rhaenyra—❜ He breaks off, swallows hard. ❛ She thought Viserys finding out was bad enough. But then she realized I'd told all of you without asking her, and she just… she looked at me like I'd gone behind her back. Like I'd made decisions about her life without including her. ❜

Because he had. The thought is a knife between his ribs, and he shifts in the chair, leaning back now, head tipping against the cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. His throat feels tight, and his chest, tighter still.

❛ I don't know if she's ever going to trust me the same way again. ❜

𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍’𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄. The late hour was evidence enough of how badly he was drowning, let alone the physical state of him. Wrecked and fraying at the seams, evidently carrying a burden far heavier than the mere brutality of a long shift. So she simply lifted her eyes from her book and stayed quiet, allowing him the safe space to open up whenever he was ready. She knew he would, she knew the confession would rise as soon as he drew his next breath. She read it in the weary lines carved deeply across his brow, in the forwards fold of his shoulders, as though the weight of what he carried threatened to pull him to the ground. She saw it in the desperate glisten behind his eyes ( their mother's eyes, the sacred gaze both Jeyne and Harwin had inherited from Ellyn Strong ). Cat's heart ached, clenching with a fierce, protective fire, the urge to soothe her brother's woes blooming bright behind her ribs. From upstairs came the soft, familiar shuffle of Addam moving room to room; the telltale sign that he wove stories and lullabies to ease each their children to sleep. She nearly scoffed in amusement then, at how conveniently the night had unfolded; how her children had requested their daddy tuck them into bed as though they knew their mama's brother, her infuriating, steadfast, impossibly good brother, would need her.

By the simple collision of his exhausted gaze with hers, she knew the name of his wound. Rhaenyra. The resident whose path had crossed his in the dim glow of a bar mere hours before fate revealed its cruel twist. Cat had met her weeks earlier at their father’s annual barbecue, when the backyard had thrummed with the boisterous, loving chaos only the Strongs could summon. She remembered glimpsing the tension that coiled beneath her skin, the way her violet eyes had darted through the delightful whirlwind of nieces, nephews, and teasing siblings — overwhelm riddled with traces of something that looked an awful lot like yearn. She remembered the fleeting relief that softened her features when little Samwell had whisked her away. But most of all, Cat remembered the stolen glances; the way Rhaenyra’s gaze had lingered on Harwin when she thought the realm wasn’t watching, and how his had answered mere seconds too late to seize hers. Cat had seen. Cat knew what neither of them wanted to admit. Souls did not burn this intensely for just anyone. She shifted on the sofa, closing her book with a quiet thud and laying it aside as Harwin sank into the armchair. A childish, sisterly spark flickered —some teasing remark about his filthy scrubs ruining her velvet, the same playful barb she had hurled at him a hundred times before. But she let it die on her tongue. Tonight the air was too raw for sibling warfare.

❛ Oh, Harwy, ❜ She murmured, voice threaded with warmth and sympathy, ❛ I won’t lie to you—it’s a messy pickle for sure. I’d be spitting fire too if I were in her shoes. But . . . I also would've done the exact same thing if I were in yours. ❜ She continued, a sharp brow arching in that little idiosyncrasy of hers that emerged whenever she spoke truth. Nymeria, the white ragdoll who sauntered their house as though she were its sovereign, decided then to leap with graceful, haughty flair into Cat’s lap. Purring in audacious demand to be pet as she curled tight, surrendering to sleep. Catelyn obeyed, of course, though her eyes never left Harwin as he sank deeper and deeper into the armchair. ❛ You’ve always been everyone’s anchor. You're steady and dependable, and as much as it pains me to admit — often the voice of reason. This time you were drowning. You needed support. There's nothing wrong with that. It's not your fault dad's the absolute clumsiest with secrets. ❜ Her head tilted, her lips curving into a gentle smile, her gaze teeming with tenderness and a ribbon of amusement. Because she saw it so clearly — how completely, utterly lost her brother was to this silver-haired blaze of a woman. Quietly she wondered how long until they both gave in; she hoped it would be soon, she ached to tell him I-told-you-so.

❛ You have to remember she’s carrying a fuck-ton more than just that baby, ❜ Catelyn continued, her fingers brushing slowly down Nymeria’s back, ❛ Pregnancy is heavy enough on its own. Hers is made more complicated by the fact that it's your kid, and by the threat of watching the career she fought her whole life to claim slip through her fingers. Beyond that, and I'm just guessing here— ❜ She paused briefly, rising to her feet and lifting Nymeria with infinite care before settling her on the ottoman the little queen had claimed as her throne. ❛ —she’s never had bonds like ours, Harwin. The kind where you can tell your family how badly you messed up without worrying they'll turn away. She doesn’t have that instinct wired into her bones the way we do. To lean on and trust others. That's maybe why she's struggling to understand why you turned to us so quickly. Hell, I'd even be bold enough to claim you're the closest thing to that kind of trust she's ever come, and it probably terrifies her. ❜ Cat crossed to the liquor cabinet, the floorboards pleasantly cool beneath her warm, bare feet. She poured two generous measures of bourbon ( the very last of Addam’s favourite bottle — he'd understand ), and turned back, offering one crystal glass to Harwin.

❛ She’s overwhelmed, big brother, as you well know. And right now, you're not her favourite person. Right now. ❜ she emphasised, the words gentle but heavy with meaning as she sank back onto the sofa, ❛ She needs time. She needs space. And as desperately as I know you want to storm in and mend every shattered piece for her, you can’t. Not until she asks for you. But she will, Harwin. She will. Trust me — woman’s intuition. ❜

THE POST-HOLE DIGGER HITS RESISTANCE TWO FEET DOWN—rock, probably, or clay compacted hard enough to feel like it. Dennis adjusts his grip, drives the blade down again, and the impact judders up through his shoulders. Sweat soaks through his t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his spine in the late morning heat. He's been at this for an hour, maybe more, working his way down the fence line where winter rot has taken out half a dozen posts. Behind him, the screen door creaks, and he tracks Amy's approach by sound; footsteps on gravel, the faint clink of ice in a glass. She appears in his peripheral vision, and he straightens, using the back of his forearm to wipe sweat from his forehead. The gesture smears more than it clears, leaving a streak of dirt across his temple. 

❛ Thanks, ❜ he says when she extends the glass of lemonade toward him, and he drinks half of it in three swallows, the cold shocking against the heat lodged in his throat.  When he lowers the glass, Amy is watching him with an expression he can't quite parse. His stomach tightens. He doesn't know what question is coming, but he knows instinctively that he's not prepared for it. She glances toward the fence line, the posts he's already replaced standing straight and new against the weathered ones still waiting. Theo is asleep in the carrier she's wearing, his face slack and peaceful against her chest, tiny fist curled near his mouth. He shifts his weight, the post-hole digger's handle rough under his palms. The wood is old, probably original to the farm, worn smooth in some places and splintered in others. His father had a post-hole digger like this, and his father before him. Tools that lasted because they were built right, maintained properly, and used for their intended purpose. Behind him, a crow calls from somewhere in the upper field. Theo makes a small sound in his sleep, and Dennis watches as Amy's hand moves instinctively in soothing circle on the baby's back. 

The silence stretches; he can hear his own breathing, heavier than it should be from just fence work.  ❛ . . . I probably won't be able to finish all of this today so I'll have to come back on Sunday. That's my next day off. ❜   

𝐀𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 . . . 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. This domestic thing that had once belonged to the sun soaked space between her and Teddy — not with the gentle doctor that had called her husband's time of death. Yet the impossibly difficult days following her darkest had carried them here anyway. Dennis had taken her up on the invitation to come spend time on the farm sometime, and somehow they had arrived at this; five months after Theo’s birth, her softly pressing a cool glass of lemonade into his callused hand while he stood, brow glistening with sweat, over the very fenceposts Teddy had always meant to fix. She still felt the guilt, and frankly she probably always would; it was a cruel thing that both slithered quietly beneath her skin and struck her square in the chest with relentless force. It was particularly cruel on the nights he slept over. Those nights the farmhouse bed stretched too vast beneath her and she would roll towards where Teddy used to lie, only to meet nothing but cold sheets and a visceral yearning to be held. As bad as the guilt was then, it cut deepest in the soft light right before dawn; when Theo’s cries rose from the nursery and before her feet could reach him, Dennis was already there, having tiptoed from the guest room to the nursery just to let her have a few more moments of rest. His voice low and soothing, lulling her son back to peace with a tenderness that made her treacherous heart soften even as it broke. That should be Teddy, it whispered, and the sight shouldn't make you smile — but it did.

❛ We don’t mean to hog all your off days, ❜ she began, her lips curving into a smile coloured uncertain by everything unspoken, both hands returning to settle gently against Theo's spine, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles to coax him back into deep sleep. ❛ I bet you’d rather have peace and quiet after spending so long in the ER, and Theo definitely hasn't learnt the art of either. It's alright if you'd like a break. ❜ A nervous little laugh slipped out before she quickly added, ❛ Don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful for everything you’ve done for us. It’s been—it’s been hard since . . . yeah. But we appreciate you. And Theo adores you. ❜ Amy continued, her gaze fleetingly drifting off, following the fenceline to the distant field. She knew how long the drive was from the city to the farm, the drive he made even on days when exhaustion clung to him. He made it every weekend, even when it was a total inconvenience, because he was stubborn and kind and generous, leaping into the suffocating fog of her grief and creating small pockets of light without ever asking for a single thing in return.

The why had been gnawing on Amy for quite some time; why he did all of this. Whether it was because he was trying to soothe some internalised guilt of his own, trying to absolve himself of feeling responsible for Teddy's death even though she knew he wasn't . . . or if he did it simply because he cared. She swallowed against the knot growing increasingly tangled in her throat, pressing her lips to the warm crown of Theo’s downy head for courage.

❛ Hey, Dennis? Uhm . . . why—why do you do this? ❜

halloween hexathlon 2025 ➴ day 2: w.i.t.c.h. by devon cole

IN TRUTH, SHE HAD REHEARSED THIS CONVERSATION no fewer than a dozen times, and it had gone considerably better in every version that did not contain Simon Basset. All at once, she raised to her feet, and Daphne felt the heat bloom upward through her throat before the cool merciful tide of indignation rose to smother it wholly. She did not traffic in dramatics; she left such indulgences to Hyacinth and the more theatrical members of the ton who had not been raised beneath Anthony's severity and therefore understood nothing of true composure under siege. The most maddening quality of him was that Simon was, beneath all of it, so devastatingly legible to her, and he did not know it, and she could not tell him without handing him the very weapon she was most determined to keep from his possession. If she were being earnest with herself, she found him interesting in the way she found very few people interesting, with a quality of attention that did not fatigue. She found his mind quick and his silences thoughtful and his rare unguarded moments so startlingly, unexpectedly tender that the memory of them had a way of returning to her at inconvenient hours without invitation or apology.

And she found all of this absolutely unforgivable. ❛ . . . . You would redirect the conversation rather than acknowledge the merit of my concern, ❜ she said. ❛ A masterful deflection. I shall note it as further evidence of your considerable talent for everything except the matter at hand. ❜ Her fingers sought the carved edge of the mantle and rested there, an anchor for which she was grateful. ❛ You hold yourself apart. Every time we are in company, every time genuine warmth is required of you, the sort the ton will actually believe, you retreat behind that. You know precisely what I mean. ❜ She had not intended to say it so plainly, but she pressed on:  ❛ I am not asking you to be someone you are not, ❜ she breathed, softer now, ❛ I would not know how to ask that, and I suspect it would do neither of us any good if I tried. I am only asking you to stop punishing me for your own reservations. Whatever war you are conducting with yourself, and I have no illusions that there is not one, I did not begin it. I am not its cause, and I will not consent to be its casualty. ❜ Her chin lifted in wordless defiance to level his gaze. ❛ You are not the only person in this arrangement who came to it with something at stake. ❜ A pause, brief, the span of a single breath. ❛ I should like you to remember that, occasionally. When it is not too great an inconvenience. ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒; 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘. Miss Daphne stood before him with her chin held high in defiance that refused to waver, eyes bright with unyielding Bridgerton courage that both infuriated and enchanted him. She was flame given mortal form — every utterance that fled her lips breached the defences he had so meticulously raised, every utterance so discerning it seared him. Indignation stirred in his chest; a spark that scorched where his heart beat. How dare she perceive the conflict he had spent a lifetime burying beneath ducal hauteur and sardonic smiles? How dare she see him so clearly? Simon had answered her summons expecting to be amused by a scolding over some trifling social misstep, not an incision into the very soul of him. Not to battle until he bled in order to upkeep the artifice he hid behind. Not to stand there with an ache in his chest that bordered much too near a forbidden realm. Daphne was not supposed to matter. She was a convenience, a shield, a pretty illusion to be discarded when the season ended. She dismantled him in ways that left his pride ruined. Yet, he could not tear away.

Tension gathered in his jaw; the muscles drawing taut, his hands clasped tighter at his back and his gaze flashed at the audacity of her. In the amber bath of lamplight, her skin glowed ( she always glowed ), the delicate hollow of her throat rising and falling with each fragile breath. Simon was swift to halt his mind's wanderings afore they drifted to what she may feel like against his palm without the silk of her gloves. God help him. The accusation of deliberate punishment struck its mark with cruel precision; an arrow piercing the tender flesh neath his ribcage. What cut him deeper, still, was that the truth was far form it. Every measured distance he kept, every cool glance he offered in company, every time he failed to allow the performance bloom into something warmer — it was no punishment, but self-preservation. The walls he had built after years of his father’s contempt were not meant to withstand someone like her; someone who looked at him not as the Duke of Hastings, not as a prize or a mere cautionary tale, but as Simon. Simply Simon. And that terrified him more than he might ever admit. His gaze fell briefly to the line above her collarbone, where her pulse fluttered as some bird sent to lure him to his pyre. When his eyes next met hers, they were ablaze.

❛ You ask me to remember that you have stakes in our ruse, as though I could forget it for even a moment. You think I do not see how the ton watches you? How the men covet even a fleeting moment with the diamond of the season? ❜ The title appointed by the Queen fell from him with a derisive scoff, ❛ I assure you, Miss Bridgerton, that I do not forget what it is you desire from this arrangement, nor my role as your stepping stone. ❜ His eyes narrowed ever a touch as he took one slow step forward, then another, until the space between them crackled with unspoken things. ❛ Very well. Let us ensure I do not disappoint come our next promenade, for the line of suitors is evidently not yet long enough to satisfy your insurmountable standards. ❜ He continued, challenged, voice laden with sardonic concession, ❛ If my performance lacks conviction, then teach me, Daphne. Show me how a man is meant to look at the woman he is supposed to be courting when the eyes of the ton are upon them. Instruct me on the warmth you require, rectify where I err. ❜ He held her gaze without flinching, the air between them thrumming with matters too complex to name; desire, fear, the first treacherous fissures in the fortress he had sworn would never fall.

THE BREAK ROOM AT 4 A.M. had the hollow quiet of a church after mass; all that frantic energy spent, nothing left but the smell of burnt coffee that had been sitting since midnight. Jack leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Samira paced the length of the small room; her scrubs rumpled, her bun half-collapsed, dark curls escaping in wild tendrils around her face. Jack said nothing. He'd heard it all before, from idealistic residents, from burnt-out attendings, from himself, once, another lifetime ago. But coming from Samira it landed differently. Maybe because she still believed it could be different. Maybe because she hadn't yet learned to swallow the anger down. Ten minutes later, she was still talking, something about Medicaid expansion and prior authorizations and the grotesque calculus of who got to live and who got to suffer, but Jack found himself less focused on the words and more on the way she burned with it, refusing to let it go even when letting go would be easier, cleaner, kinder.  Jack took a sip of his own coffee, grimaced. Still terrible. ❛ . . . You're not wrong, ❜ he said finally. ❛ About any of it. The system's broken. We're putting band-aids on gunshot wounds. And she will apologize the next time she comes in, and the time after that, because that's what poverty does; it teaches you that your suffering is your own fault. ❜ He paused, met her eyes. ❛ But you know what else is true? For the six hours she was in that bed, her blood sugar was controlled. For six hours, someone gave a damn. You gave a damn. And maybe that doesn't fix the system, and maybe it doesn't save her, but it isn't nothing, Samira. ❜

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌, 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄. Each footstep against the sterile floor harmonised with the hum of the fluorescent lights — a requiem for the hope she’d carried in at the start of this endless shift. The patient hadn’t been able to afford staying. No insurance to cover the insulin, the glucometer, the monitoring, the war her body was losing against diabetes that had already claimed too much. Even the hospital’s meagre aid had crumbled under the weight of the bill; an insurmountable mountain built by a system that siphoned money from the most desperate into an already boundless pool. Meanwhile, patients like the one they'd just discharged slipped through the cracks, the same cracks Samira's father had once fallen into — unseen and unheard until it was too late. Her dad had been the reason she'd gone into medicine to begin with. And god, she loved this work, she really did, with a fierce devotion that scared her. She loved helping people; loved the way a life could steady beneath her hands, loved the elegance of science coaxing chaos into order. But right now, with anger and frustration seething through her blood, she wasn’t sure she could bear to be part of a system that claimed to heal while turning people away for the crime of having nothing left to give. She ran a palm over her face, brushing aside the unkempt curls that had slipped from her bun and frizzed amid the shift's relentless chaos.

❛ It doesn’t matter though, does it? ❜ Samira replied, indignation burning through every syllable, yet never aimed at him. Never at Jack. His steady presence this whole brutal shift had been the only anchor keeping her from fully losing her mind. ❛ Sure, we helped her for six hours, but the meds we sent her off with are going to run out. She’s going to be back exactly where she was when she was brought in. Only difference is she might not come in at all next time. She might die simply because the system is too fucking greedy to look out for those who need care the most. ❜ She stopped mid-stride at last, the fight draining from her bones in one heavy, defeated sigh. Leaning back against the table, she curled her fingers around its edge and devoted a lingering moment to the simple relief of squeezing her eyes closed, shutting out all visual stimuli in an attempt to give her overstimulated, over-exhausted senses a second of rest. When her eyes opened again, they caught first on his coffee mug; half-full of that bitter, old sludge. Samira couldn't stop the small grimace that tugged at her mouth. She'd claim she had no idea why he still drank that stuff except that would be a lie — she knew exactly why. Caffeine was caffeine at this place, and you’d swallow poison if it kept your hands steady enough to save one more soul. But what if she no longer wanted to endure it? What if she simply wasn’t strong enough to swallow it down the way he did, night after night?

❛ Maybe I'm the problem, ❜ She murmured, the confession weighed with shame she hated that she held on to; each word completely wrecking the overachiever within. She almost didn't lift her gaze to meet his. Almost. ❛ Maybe I’m not cut out for this system. Too soft. Too sensitive. Robby thinks so, that's for sure. So yeah— ❜ She crossed her arms tight over her chest; as if protecting herself against every damn brain ghost that grew particularly loud at this hour. ❛ Maybe going into medicine was a mistake. ❜

HER THIGHS CLENCHED INVOLUNTARILY AROUND HIS HEAD, the muscles trembling so violently she couldn't have stopped them if she tried. She could feel the strength in them giving way, turning liquid and useless, held together only by the iron grip of his hands splayed possessively across her skin. The heat of his palms burned through her, grounding her even as she felt herself starting to fracture, coming apart at the seams in a way that was both terrifying and inevitable. Every nerve ending felt exposed, raw, hypersensitive to the point where even the brush of air against her flushed skin registered as sensation. The scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh; the wet slide of his tongue; the fullness of his fingers, thick and perfect and curled just right. The obscene sounds filling the room—her wetness, his mouth, her broken gasps, his groans of satisfaction—all of it collided until it was overwhelming. The pleasure built with terrifying speed, no longer a slow climb but a vertical ascent that left her dizzy and desperate. It coiled tighter and tighter in her core, a spring wound past its breaking point. Her free hand clutched desperately at the sheets beside her hip, knuckles white, nails digging into fabric. But there was no stopping it, no slowing it down, not with the way he worked her with that maddening combination of fingers and tongue—the suction, the pressure, the curl and thrust and circle of movements that felt choreographed specifically to destroy her.

 ❛ Jack—oh God, Jack, I'm— ❜ But the sentence dissolved, fragmenting into a jagged, keening cry as the orgasm slammed into her with the force of a freight train she hadn't heard coming.

Her back arched violently off the bed, spine bowing in a curve that would have been painful if she could feel anything beyond the absolutely devastating pleasure ripping through her body in waves. Every muscle seized and released in rapid succession—thighs clamping around his head, stomach contracting, toes curling against the sheets—and she felt herself pulse and clench around his fingers with an intensity that bordered on violent. She could feel the rush of wetness flooding his hand, coating his fingers, his mouth, could hear the obscene sounds of him working her through it with unrelenting devotion, refusing to let up even as she shook and sobbed and fell completely apart. It went on forever. Wave after wave crashed over her, each one stealing her breath, her thoughts, her ability to do anything but feel. Her hips bucked uncontrollably against his mouth, chasing and fleeing the stimulation in equal measure as the pleasure crested again and again, rolling through her in aftershocks that left her gasping. Distantly, she registered her own moans—high and broken and unrecognizable—crying out again and again. Her fingers tightened convulsively in his hair, holding him there against her—or maybe holding herself together, keeping herself from flying apart into a million irretrievable pieces. The peak seemed to stretch impossibly, suspended in that place where pleasure became almost unbearable, where every nerve screamed with overstimulation and yet still craved more. She could feel tears tracking hot paths from the corners of her eyes, streaming back into her hairline, dampening the pillow beneath her head. Her chest heaved with ragged, sobbing breaths that she couldn't quite catch, lungs burning as though she'd run miles instead of lying here coming undone beneath his mouth. When the intensity finally began to ebb—slowly, reluctantly, like a tide going out—she felt utterly wrecked. Boneless. Every muscle in her body had gone liquid, trembling with residual aftershocks that pulsed through her at irregular intervals. Her thighs quivered where they still bracketed his head, the muscles twitching involuntarily. She was dimly aware of the sweat cooling on her skin, her heart hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape, the strange, floating sensation in her head that made the room feel distant and dreamlike.

Jack was still between her thighs, and the realization filtered through the haze slowly. She could feel him pressing soft, reverent kisses to her oversensitized flesh—gentle brushes of lips against her inner thigh, the tender skin where hip met leg, the curve of her mound. Each touch sent little sparks skittering across her nerves, making her twitch and gasp. When his fingers finally slipped out of her, the withdrawal was achingly slow, gentle in a way that somehow made it more devastating. She felt the emptiness acutely, a hollow ache that made her whimper. The orgasm should have been enough. It should have sated her, leaving her drowsy and content and ready to curl into his arms and drift off. Instead, it had only intensified the need, and now it had edges and teeth. Because that had been his mouth, his fingers, his devotion . . . but it hadn't been all of him. 

She blinked once, twice, trying to clear her sight, and then she looked down at him. ( The sight nearly undid her all over again. ) Jack was still kneeling between her spread thighs, and he looked absolutely wrecked. His hair was completely destroyed by her hands, salt-and-pepper strands sticking up at chaotic angles; his face was flushed, a deep red that spread from his cheeks down his neck and probably lower, though she couldn't see past his shoulders from this angle. His lips were swollen and glistening—wet with her—and his chin, his jaw, even the tip of his nose bore evidence of what he'd just done to her. 

❛ Holy shit, ❜ she managed to breathe, and her voice came out barely more than a rasp. Her throat felt raw, and she distantly realized she must have been louder than she'd thought, must have been screaming or sobbing or both while he'd taken her apart. Her hand loosened its death grip in his hair, trembling fingers sliding down to cup his jaw. She could feel the scratch of stubble against her palm, the heat of his flushed skin, thumb brushing over his lower lip—swollen, slick, still wet with her—and the contact sent a shiver through both of them. Her hips shifted restlessly against the mattress, thighs falling open wider in unconscious invitation, and she felt the slickness between them, felt how ready she was despite—or maybe because of—the intensity of what had just happened. She tugged gently at his jaw, urging him up toward her with trembling fingers that refused to be steady. Her other hand reached for him blindly, sliding down from where it had been fisted in the sheets to find his shoulder, his bicep, mapping the solid muscle and heat of him through touch alone. She needed him closer. ❛ Come here, ❜ she whispered, her fingers tightening on his jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge where she could feel the muscle jump and flex. ❛ Jack, please. I need— ❜ Her hand slid from his shoulder down his arm, fingertips trailing over heated skin and flexed muscle, mapping the contours of him with deliberate attention. When she reached his hand—the one still splayed possessively across her thigh—she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged, urging him forward, up, closer. Her other hand was lower still, fingers trembling with urgency now, until she found the waistband of his boxers. The elastic sat low on his hips, and she could see the outline of him clearly, the substantial length straining against the dark fabric, a damp spot visible at the tip where he'd been leaking. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and tugged, looking up at him through her lashes to gauge his reaction. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp intake that made his chest expand against her palms, and his eyes went impossibly darker. She took that as permission—as encouragement—and pulled more insistently, drawing the fabric down over his hips. He helped her, lifting slightly to give her access, and then he was free, springing out to rest heavy and hot against her lower belly. She wrapped her hand around him almost reverently, fingers barely meeting around his girth, and the sound he made—a choked, desperate groan that seemed to tear from somewhere deep in his chest—sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs all over again. He was so hard, so hot in her palm, silky skin over rigid flesh, and when she stroked up slowly, experimentally, his hips jerked forward involuntarily into her grip.

Her hips shifted again, rolling in a slow, deliberate movement. She could feel how wet she still was, how ready, could feel the way her body clenched and ached for him. 

 ❛ I want to feel you, ❜ she breathed. ❛ All of you. Please. ❜ 

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇-𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋. A sound ripped from some primal depth he hadn’t known existed inside him; and perhaps it hadn't always, perhaps it was ignited for her and her alone. Her plea honest to God could’ve killed him right there. The way her voice trembled on the words, the way she looked at him, the way she touched him — it all sent a lightning strike of arousal through every vein, so pure and intense Jack's vision momentarily blurred. And then her hand moved, that sinful, exploratory dance along his aching hardness, and he was lost, restraint and sanity utterly ruined. He was still shivering, reeling from the gloriously divine sight of her coming apart so fiercely and wildly beneath his tongue; her thighs clamped around his head, her cries like sacred music, her release flooding his mouth like the sweetest honey he'd ever had. It had undone him too, left him painfully hard, hips bucking and twitching in blind, instinctive search of any friction at all, his cock pulsing against her silken palm. Every inch of him was burning up with fevered desire; his skin taut over muscle and bone, nerves singing with the bliss of having taken her to those golden heights. And so, her touch alone threatened to hurl him straight over the edge before he’d even had the chance to sink inside her. The thought of it made him groan low and desperate. His gaze devoured as it raked over her face; damp with sweat, flushed and intoxicated with pleasure, lips parted on soft, helpless sounds while she writhed beneath him. The sight detonated something holy in his chest, something impossibly vast and reverent.

He loved this woman. God, he loved her. He couldn’t say when it had begun; maybe the first brutal shift they’d ever worked together, when her brilliance cut through the chaos like sunlight through dark clouds. But it was there now, nestled deeply, consuming him in the sweetest way. This radiant, strong, impossibly beautiful woman who somehow gazed up at him as though he, with all his ghosts and baggage, was worthy of her. His heart leapt in his chest, a wild and powerful thing that galloped without abandon. Then she moved her hand again, applying that gentle, devastating pressure along his throbbing shaft, and a guttural moan tore free from him. He licked his lips, still tasting her, growing increasingly ravenous on the evidence of her pleasure.

❛ Fuck, Samira . . . baby, that's a dangerous game . . . ❜ He said in half-groan, half-chuckle, sparks searing every stretch of skin, pleasure coiling tight at the base of his spine. Insatiable, Jack dove down to claim her mouth in a kiss that was possessive and savouring; devouring yet achingly tender, tongue finding hers in a slow glide that coaxed a delighted hum from his throat. He moved to kiss along the line of her neck, lingering long enough to mark her with a graze of his teeth — a shiver cascading down his own spine, his hips jerking instinctively into her hand. She could easily undo him like this, but Jack craved her, craved above all else to satisfy every need singing through her body. So with one palm braced hard against the mattress for anchorage, the other drifted down to curl gently around hers, peeling her fingers away from his leaking hardness so that he could position himself where they both needed him most. Somewhere in the distant haze of his mind he thought of pausing, of reaching for a condom, but the memory that she was on birth control crashed over him like a wave of pure, lust-drunk relief; he thanked whatever divine power might still listen with a symphony of filthy moans pressed into her skin.

❛ Breathe in, sweetheart, ❜ he rasped, voice rough at the edges yet no less tender as he slowly, gently brushed the swollen crown of his cock between her impossibly slick folds. Breath shattered in his chest as he teased the glistening seam of her without yet surrendering, the effortless slide of him along her so intoxicating, so holy, that his heart thundered madly within his ribcage. He twitched and pulsed in his own grasp, every drop of blood in his body suffused with her, singing her name, begging him to sheathe. ❛ Tell me if it hurts, okay? Tell me if you want to stop. Breathe—❜ Swept in a whirlwind of sensation so intense it sent another violent shudder through his body, Jack slowly, carefully, buried himself in the sanctum of her; mindful through the explosion of pleasure, always attuned to her, always listening to the way her body responded. He eased his girth through the tight, glorious grip of her warmth inch by inch, and a groan ripped from his chest like claws raking up his throat. His vision blurred; he was dizzy, scorched, seeing stars. She was so warm, so sinfully wet that sheathing himself had been obscenely effortless, and he sank deeper until he heard that sweet, glorious hitch of her breath.

❛ Fuck. Fuck, fuck. That's my girl—christ, you feel so good, baby. ❜ he breathed, forehead dropping to the crook of her neck with an incredulous, breathless chuckle; every ounce of his strength siphoned into restraint so he wouldn’t spill right then like a man who’d never known control. He stayed still for a long moment, letting her adjust, letting himself breathe through the immense pleasure. ❛ You alright? ❜ he asked in a low rasp, lifting his head to search her eyes with meticulous care. On the heel of her reassurance, Jack surrendered entirely, becoming sensation itself. He began to move in measured, languid thrusts that never pulled him out completely from her trembling folds; drawing back enough to feel the exquisite friction of her walls clenching around him before sliding home again. His cock pulsed and twitched inside the molten grasp of her cunt, every ebb and flow savouring the heat that clutched him. The blunt press of his pelvic bone brushed rhythmically against her swollen clit with each measured roll of his hips, and the sounds she made in response sent sparks skittering along his very bones.

❛ You are so perfect, Samira. Look at you, look at how well you take me. ❜ Pleasure rolled through him in golden waves as he drank in the feeling of her: memorising the sounds she made, the way she trembled beneath him — it tightened low in his belly, tingling down his spine, setting every nerve alight. Those broken, needy little moans filled him with a fierce, protective pride that swelled behind his sternum; he listened to every hitch, every whimper, adjusting the angle and depth of each thrust until he coaxed the sweetest, most devastating notes from her throat. His hand found the underside of her thigh, lifting it ever so slightly, hooking it higher around his waist to allow a deeper angle that damn near destroyed his composire. The heavenly shift of it evoked a new moan from her that he wanted to bottle up and drink from for the rest of eternity. ❛ There? ❜ he murmured against her neck, ❛ Do you like that, baby? Don’t hold back, I want to hear everything. Tell me what feels good. Tell me where you need me. Is it nice when I bury my cock there . . . like this? ❜ He rolled his hips forward in a slow, grinding thrust to punctuate the question, burying himself to the hilt once more, and the guttural groan that tore from him was sinful worship incarnate.