Whatever happens, happens…

The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.

“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”

Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”

Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”

“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”

“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”

“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”

“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”

“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”

“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”

Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”

“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”

“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”

“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.

The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.

Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.

He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.

Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.

Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.

Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”

Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”

“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”

“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”

They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.

Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.

Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”

“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.

Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”

Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.

The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.

Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”

“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”

Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”

Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”

“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”

Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”

The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.

“You fix fence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know your way around a baler?”

“Can learn quick.”

Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”

Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”

A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”

He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”

Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”

They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.

As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.

Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”

Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”

“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”

They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.

The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.

“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”

Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.

Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”

Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”

“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”

“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.

In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.

He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”

Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”

“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”

“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”

Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.

Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”

“You have a mood?”

“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.

Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”

“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”

Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”

Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”

A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.

“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.

Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.

“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”

Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”

Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.

“Evenin’, boys.”

Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”

You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”

You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.

Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”

“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”

Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”

Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”

Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”

“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”

The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.

Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”

Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”

You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”

Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.

The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.

Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.

You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.

Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”

“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”

“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”

Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”

“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”

“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”

“For God’s sake—”

“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”

Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.

You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.

Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”

Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”

“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”

Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”

Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.

The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.

Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.

“Y’all look parched.”

Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”

“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”

Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”

“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”

Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”

Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”

“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”

“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”

Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”

Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”

“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”

Steve’s ears coloured; Bucky’s grin stretched wolf-wide.

You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”

With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.

Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”

Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”

“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.

Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.

The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.

At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.

You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.

Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”

Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”

Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”

Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”

Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”

Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”

Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.

“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”

The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”

You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”

Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”

Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”

You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”

Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.

Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.

Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”

Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”

You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”

Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”

Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.

Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”

Relief flickered across Steve’s face. Bucky grinned outright. “Much obliged, sir.”

“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.

Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”

You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”

Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”

You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”

“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.

Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”

“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”

Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”

Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.

Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”

Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”

“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”

“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”

Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”

“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”

Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”

“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”

Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.

Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”

Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.

Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.

Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.

The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.

Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.

You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.

Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.

You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.

Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.

Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.

Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.

In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.

“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.

You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—

A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.

He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.

A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.

He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.

He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.

He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.

Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.

The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.

Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.

“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”

You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”

Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”

“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”

“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”

You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”

“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”

“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”

Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”

Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”

“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”

You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”

“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”

Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”

“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”

“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”

Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.

“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”

“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”

“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”

“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.

“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”

His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”

“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”

He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”

“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”

“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.

“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”

Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”

You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.

Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.

The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.

“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.

Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.

Last option, water.

He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.

That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.

He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.

He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.

Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.

His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.

He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.

Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.

“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.

You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.

“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.

Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.

Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?

But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.

He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.

Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.

“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.

You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.

His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.

Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.

Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.

He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.

Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.

“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.

He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.

Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.

Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.

“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.

Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.

It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.

Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.

Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.

Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.

Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.

Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.

“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”

No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.

“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”

The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”

“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.

The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.

“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”

Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”

“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”

Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.

Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”

“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”

“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”

Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”

Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”

Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”

“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”

A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”

“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”

“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”

Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”

“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”

“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”

“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”

Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”

“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”

Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”

“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”

Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.

“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”

Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”

The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”

Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”

Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”

Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”

“Steve—”

But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.

The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.

You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”

He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”

Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.

“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”

His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”

“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”

He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”

Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”

“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.

“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”

The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.

Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”

The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”

“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.

“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”

Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.

“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”

He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”

He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.

You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.

So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.

The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”

His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.

Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”

Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.

You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.

“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”

You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”

Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”

“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”

His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.

“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”

Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”

You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”

Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.

“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”

“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.

“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.

Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.

You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.

Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”

His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.

“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”

Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.

He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.

Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.

The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.

With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.

Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.

Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.

His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.

Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.

Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.

You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.

“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.

His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.

Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.

You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.

“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”

Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.

Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.

“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”

He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.

“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.

The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.

Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”

The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.

The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.

You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.

“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.

He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.

“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.

“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.

Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.

“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”

Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.

“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.

The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.

He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”

Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.

Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.

You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”

He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”

You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.

“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”

You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”

His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”

“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”

He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”

“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”

His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.

“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”

A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”

“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”

He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.

Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”

That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.

“Better?” you asked, softer.

Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”

Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.

Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.

Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.

They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.

Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.

If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.

A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.

“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.

“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”

“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.

Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”

Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.

Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.

Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”

Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”

“Night, Buck.”

The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.

Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.

Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”

Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”

Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”

“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”

For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”

The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”

Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”

Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”

Steve winced. “Yeah.”

Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”

“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”

“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”

“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”

“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”

Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”

“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”

“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”

“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”

“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.

“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.

They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.

Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”

“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”

Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”

The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.

Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.

Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.

The ladder creaked.

You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.

Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.

“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.

You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”

Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.

You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.

Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”

You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”

Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”

“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”

You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”

The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”

Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”

“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”

You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”

You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.

“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.

“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”

A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.

Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”

Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.

“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”

Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”

“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”

They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.

You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”

Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.

Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.

Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.

Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.

“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.

He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.

When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.

“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”

Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.

“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”

Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.

You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.

The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.

Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.

Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.

Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.

“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.

It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.

He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.

You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.

Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.

A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.

Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.

The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.

Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.

Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.

You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.

Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.

You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.

You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.

Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.

Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.

“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.

Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.

Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.

They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.

Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.

Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.

“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.

Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.

It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.

“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.

The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.

They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.

Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.

He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.

“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.

He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.

You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.

“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”

Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”

Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.

“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.

“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.

You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.

Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”

He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.

You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.

Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.

“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.

“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.

But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.

“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”

Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.

You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.

Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”

Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”

You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.

Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”

“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.

But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.

“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.

You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”

Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”

Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”

You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”

Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.

Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”

Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.

The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.

Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”

You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”

Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.

Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”

“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.

“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”

“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”

Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.

You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.

Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.

Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”

The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.

You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.

“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.

Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.

They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.

You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.

But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.

Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”

Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”

You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.

You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.

Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”

Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”

His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.

That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.

They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.

Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.

Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.

Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.

“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.

You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.

“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.

Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.

“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”

You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.

Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.

Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.

Because now “you good?” had more weight.

Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.

The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.

But you had made them look too closely.

Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.

He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.

And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.

At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.

Only this time it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.

It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.

He didn’t want to name that.

So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.

His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.

“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.

Then he kissed you.

Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.

You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.

Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.

“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”

That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.

You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.

And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.

He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.

He should’ve hated that.

Instead it felt… like relief.

It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.

And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.

You’d done that. To both of them.

Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.

“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”

You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.

The warmth in the loft went cold.

Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.

Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.

Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.

But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.

He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.

Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”

“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”

Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.

Steve felt a tug in his chest.

You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”

Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”

Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.

Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.

Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.

You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.

Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.

Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”

You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”

Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.

Bucky shifted beside you, restless. “So we’re just… waitin’ on weather?”

“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”

Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.

You didn’t even have to tug it.

You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.

You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.

Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.

Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.

You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.

“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”

And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.

And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.

a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica

also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot

Jack hadn't moved from the chair for hours. He was still wearing his blood stained scrubs, the dark patches now stiff against his skin. His eyes were fixed on the monitor above your head, watching the green line of your heart rate as if his own pulse depended on its.

Tucked under the sheets of the ICU, you looked like a broken doll glued back together.

"Police is at his house. He’s gone." Robby said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. "We pressed charges. Lena and a few nurses are testifing, you should too."

Jack didn't look up. "I let her walk out," Jack whispered, his voice heavy with a guilt that would never leave him. "Every morning. I watched her get into that car."

"You couldn't have forced her to leave him, Jack."

"I saw her a week ago. I saw him grab her. I saw the fear in her eyes and I let her tell me it was fine because I didn't want to overstep."

"You’re her attending, not her bodyguard," Robby countered gently.

"I’m a doctor," Jack snapped. "I’m trained to see the signs of a failing system. I saw her fading. I saw the isolation, the excuses, the change in her performance. And I didn't report it. I didn't call it in."

Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "She had a bus ticket," Jack whispered into his palms. "It fell out of her pocket in Trauma 1. A ticket to her mom's town. I think she was trying to leave. She finally found the courage to run and that fucker tried to kill her."

Jack looked at your hand. It was swollen, the knuckles bruised where you must have tried to shield your face.

"I told her I couldn't help her if she didn't let me," Jack said, a lone tear finally escaping. "But I was wrong. I should have helped her even when she fought me."

He let his hand rest over yours, his thumb tracing the only patch of skin that wasn't purpled by trauma.

"Please wake up," he whispered, looking at your closed eyes, his voice cracking. "Wake up and finish your residency. Or take that bus ticket. Go wherever you want, doll. Just don't leave me with the silence of this room. I can't handle this silence."

-

For you, there was no light at the end of a tunnel, only the sudden intrusion of reality. You were ripped from the darkness by a sensation of suffocation. You tried to take a breath but your lungs refused to cooperate. Instead of air, you were met with an uncomfortable tube forcing its way down your throat.

Panic surged through you. You tried to scream but the tube made it impossible, only a gagging sound escaped. Your hands moved desesperatly with no direction, the pain in your chest was blinding, it felt like fire, but your mental terror was worse.

Where were you? Why was so dark? Where was he? He’s gonna attack you. He’s in the room. You could feel his presence coming to hurt you. To end what he started.

Every monitor in room began to shriek.

The line of your heart rate spiked, jumping into a frantic one.

"She's waking up! Get a sedative!"

"She’s going to tear the tube out!"

You couldn't see clearly but you saw shapes moving. You reached for whoever was over you, your fingers twitching, your mind screaming for someone to pull the thing in your throat out, to let you breathe, to save you but the hands that pinned your shoulders to the bed weren't gentle.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, you have to stay still," you swear to God that you heard Jack’s voice talk to you but it sounded like it was coming from miles away.

A rush of cold fluid hit your veins and the world began to tilt. The last thing you saw before the darkness reclaimed you was Jack’s face.

When you woke the second time, the world felt softer. The tube was gone. Your throat felt raw as if you’d swallowed acid and every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass.

You shifted your hand and, immediately, a chair beside your bed snapped.

Jack was there. He looked like a ghost of the man you worked with, his eyes hollowed out by a exhaustion that twelve hours of sleep wouldn't fix. He stood up slowly and helped you to sit.

"Hey," he whispered. "Easy. Take it easy."

You tried to speak but your throat locked. You just stared at him, your gaze searching his face, looking for a safety you’d been searching for days. He took a glass of water from the hospital table and gave you some through a straw.

"You’re at ICU," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You’ve been... you’ve been through a lot. You’re safe, I promise you. He’s not here."

The mention of he triggered a tremor. The memory hit you with violence. You felt the grip of his hands. You remembered the pressure of his fingers winding into your hair, the sharp jerk of your head back and the hollow pain of his boots against your ribs.

You checked the room, making sure nobody was there to hurt you.

"Do you remember what happened? He did this, didn't he?" He asked as soft as he could, trying to ease the panic in your eyes.

"I.. I left him, Jack," you whispered, your voice trembling as the tremor grew into a full body shudder. "I actually did it. I’d been staying at Sarah’s apartment... just two blocks away from here. I thought I was being... careful. I only went back to get my extra pair of scrubs the morning before he appeared."

Jack’s jaw tightened but he stayed silent, letting you speak.

"I bought a ticket," you continued, your eyes fixed on a nondescript point on the room as if you were watching a movie of your own life. "A weekend at my mom’s. To figure out how to fix things and ask her if I was doing the right thing. I thought if I could just get away for a few days to... breathe, he would, I don't know, miss me and be better."

You let out a nervous huff of a laugh that turned into a wince as your fractured ribs protested. "During days, I kept trying to think about what I did wrong. And then he was just... there. Waiting by the side gate. I didn't even see him until he had his hand in my hair. I remember thinking Why is he hitting me? Maybe if I hadn't stayed at Sarah’s? Maybe if I’d just talked to him one more time before leaving? He was always so sensitive about being left behind. He used to say I was the only thing that kept him level."

"He wasn't level," Jack said. "He was a ticking clock and you were just the one holding it."

"But he had such a hard year, Jack," you argued, your mind desperately trying to bridge the gap between the man who bought you flowers on the first date and the man who had just tried to crush your skull. "His dad’s illness, the layoffs... he was just so lost. I thought if I was a better partner, if I was more patient, he wouldn't feel the need to... to lash out. I told him I was going to my mom's and we fought and I end up breaking up with him. Why couldn't he just let me go for the weekend? It was just a few days."

You looked at Jack, begging him for a logical explanation that didn't exist. "Was it because I didn't answer his texts during my last shift? I saw them, but I was in a trauma... I thought he’d understand my job. Do you think that’s what did it? That he thought I was ignoring him?"

Jack’s hand tightened over yours. The warmth of his presence was the only thing keeping you from spiraling into the what-ifs.

"It wasn't the texts," Jack said with protective intensity. "It wasn't the weekend at your mom’s. He did this because he wanted to break what he couldn't control. You’re sitting here trying to excuse him but it’s... a simple logic. He just wanted to hurt you so he could keep breaking you."

You flinched at the words, reality slicing through your denial. You wanted to believe it was a misunderstanding, a terrible explosion of grief and stress. If it was a mistake, it could be fixed. But if it was who he was... then the world was a much scarier place than you were ready to face.

"I just ne- needed a few days to breathe," your thin voice broke as you sobbed, the tears finally overflowing. "I just wanted to come here and work. And- and- and then be with my mom." you hiccuped, letting the sadness overwhelm you. "He di-didn't have to be so cr-cuel... I- I didn't do anything to h-him."

Your heart raced and one of the machines started beeping, making you jump. Jack silenced it and signaled to one of the nurses who appeared in the doorway, indicating that physically, everything was okay. Your state was simply that of someone finally coming to terms with the reality they had long denied.

Jack held your hand while you collapsed, his heart breaking as he was stroking it with his thumb, a comfort as your soul shattered. Tears streamed down your face; you no longer understood why you were crying, if it was from the pain in your ribs or the ache of realizing that the person you loved only wanted to hurt you. But you felt the weight of a year's abuse leave your body.

-

The door creaked open and Lena stood there. Her eyes were fixed on your face, specifically on the way you flinched when you heard a loud sound.

You swallowed hard. "Lena, I—"

"Don't," she cut you off, not out of cruelty, but because she couldn't stomach the excuses. She moved to the side of the bed. "I saw you in the breakroom for months. I saw you checking your reflection in the mirror, trying to see if the makeup covering your bruises was holding." She looked up then. "We all saw it."

"It's not your fault," you whispered.

"It feels like everyone’s fault," Lena snapped. "You were living in a war zone and coming into work to... treat paper cuts and drunk people."

"He's still out there," Lena said, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt like ice. "The cops found his car by the river but not him. Half the night shift is at the station giving statements about every bruise they saw over the last two months."

Jack looked up at her, his jaw tightening. "Lena, stop, she just woke up."

"She needs to know what she's waking up to," Lena countered. "Police is going to ask her questions today. She needs to be ready."

"I know you mean no hurt but, please, leave. Don't make it harder than it is for her." Jack snapped when he saw new tears forming in your eyes.

Lena sighed and left; the door slid shut, leaving you with Jack’s hand caring yours while you cried and fears clouded your mind. He's coming back, he's going to hurt me, he is waiting for me to leave the hospital.

-

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand but the movement was clumsy and stiff. "I felt... I felt a crack. " You took a breath that sent pain through your side. "When I was on the floor. I felt it when he kicked me."

You looked at him. "Please don't give me a you're safe speech. I've been a resident for two years. I know why my breath feels like this. What’s my diagnosis? The doctor didn't say anything earlier. Just checked my vitals."

Jack’s didn't want to say it. He didn't want to voice the reality of how close he’d come to loose you.

"You have four fractured ribs," he started. "Two were displaced. That’s the crack you felt. It caused a bilateral pneumothorax, your lungs collapsed, which is why we had to intubate you."

You nodded slowly. "And the abdominal pain?"

Jack took a shaky breath, his thumb tracing the back of your hand again, a small gesture of comfort in the middle of the hard data. A gesture that now seemed to calm you both.

"Grade 4 splenic laceration. You were hemorrhaging internally when you walked through those doors. We had to do an emergency splenectomy. You... you lost a lot of blood. I still can't believe you run two block in that state."

His eyes flickering to the bandage on your forehead. "Moderate TBI, along with a deep laceration above your left eye. And..." He stopped, his voice failing him for a second. "And some significant soft tissue damage. You been out for like ten days."

The silence that followed was heavy. It was a trauma sheet for a high speed car wreck, not a night walk to work.

"I almost died, didn't I?" you asked, the words feeling strange.

"You flatlined," Jack said, intertwining his fingers with yours. "We had to shock you three times. I thought… I-" He looked away, his jaw working as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. You took his face on your unbruised hand and whipped his tear with your tumb.

You felt a fresh wave of tears, caused by the honesty in his voice. You looked at the man who usually demanded perfection completely undone by your fragility.

"Four ribs," you breathed, a small sad smile appearing on your torn lip. "No wonder it hurts to breathe."

-

Days later, the morning of your discharge arrived.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt Jack had brought from his own home. It smelled like him. You were staring at the plastic bag containing your personal objects.

A knock at the door made you flinch, a reflex that hadn't left you yet.

"It’s just me," Jack said, pushing the door open. "My car is downstairs. Robby and Lena are, too. They wanted to see you off."

"I don't know where I'm going, Jack," you whispered. "My apartment... the police processed it cause he spend time there but the locks are broken. And Sarah's place... I can't put her in that kind of danger. If he finds out I’m there..."

"You aren't going to Sarah's. And you're sure as hell not going back to your apartment." Jack walked over, taking the bag from your hand and setting it aside. "You’re on medical rest for at least three weeks. You can’t even lift a gallon of milk, let alone run a code."

"I can't go to a hotel. I don't have enough money. And I don't want to distress my mom."

"Stay with me."

You looked up, startled. "What?"

"My place. It’s a secured building. Doorman, cameras, filled up refrigerator," he said, looking nervous. "I have a guest room. You’ll have your own space. I’m out for twelve hour shifts anyway, so you’ll have the quiet you need to heal. But you won't be alone."

"I can't ask you to do that. You've already done too much."

"I'm not asking as your attending," he said as he reached out, he gently tucked a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on the fading yellow bruise near your temple. "I'm asking as... as Jack. I spent days watching you breathe through a tube because I was too afraid to loose you. If I let you go to some anonymous apartment right now, I’m not going to be able to function."

The angst of the last days seemed to pull at the room: the memory of the blood on the floor, the "what-ifs" that haunted your dreams, the tears you couldn't stop.

"But I'm a mess, Jack," you said, your lip trembling. "I wake up screaming. I can't even hear a door slam without shaking."

"Then, we'll be a mess together," he murmured. "I'm the one who talks about arterial repairs in his sleep, remember? We’ll be a pair."

He reached down and took your hand, his thumb tracing the back of it, a gesture that had become a safety thing for you by now. "Let me do this, baby, please. I don't want to be at my place knowing you're out there feeling like you have to hide."

You looked at him and something changed in the way you looked at him.

A new feeling emerged, no longer seeing him as just your attending.

"Okay," you whispered. "Okay. Take me home, Jack."

He just let out a breath of relief, leaning to press a kiss on your temple. One that made the rest of the world, and the shadows waiting in it, feel just a little bit further away.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

(the part where reader tries to understand why he did it broke my heart) (she just wanted her mom) (I cried a little while editing) (bring the tissues)

the pitt masterlist

You adjust the angle of your hands instead, shifting slightly over bone and cartilage, trying to find some better position, some better leverage, like maybe all that stands between this woman and another few minutes of life is a matter of inches.

“Call it,” Robby says.

“One more round.”

You are already pressing down again when you say it. Your voice comes out breathless, raw around the edges. Somebody at the head of the bed is squeezing another bag of fluid. Someone else is reciting numbers you are no longer taking in. The nurse nearest the cart glances toward Robby and then away just as quickly.

“We’ve been at this for thirty minutes.”

“I know.”

The words leave you sharper than you mean them to. You still don’t look at him. You are staring at your hands like if you focus hard enough, if you do not let your eyes leave the task in front of you, then nobody can make you quit yet.

“Just one more. Her rhythm was changing.”

“Her rhythm was V-fib for twenty minutes before it went flat.”

That one lands. You hate that it does.

Your arms keep moving for another few compressions before the sentence catches up to you properly. Your elbows start to lock. Your shoulders ache from effort and from refusal. The woman’s skin is cool in a way that does not belong to somebody who had been talking less than an hour ago.

Robby steps around the table. You can feel him there even before you look. The shift in the room gives him away. It always does. Attention folds around him without anyone meaning it to. He stops across from you with his arms crossed and his expression already set in that closed-off, unmovable way that means he has made a decision and will not be moved from it.

“The dissection was too extensive,” he says. “The bleed was too fast. There was nothing more to do.”

“You don’t know that.”

His eyes lift to yours for the first time in the last minute. “Step back from the table.”

You keep your hands where they are.

There is blood on the sheet. Blood on your wrist. Blood drying dark at the edge of one glove. You can hear your own breathing under the monitor, under the suction, under the noise of the bay outside the curtain. Your chest feels too tight to hold all of it.

“Robby—”

“Step back.”

The room stills around the order.

You don’t know what finally does it. His tone, maybe. Or maybe it is the look on the nurse’s face when you glance up and find her standing there with the next thing already in her hands and nowhere to put it because there is no next thing anymore. Maybe it is the woman on the bed herself, who does not move beneath your hands no matter what you do.

Slowly, you let your arms fall.

The absence of motion feels obscene.

You step back from the table because he told you to, because someone had to be the one to stop, because your body has reached that ugly point between exhaustion and disbelief where following an order becomes easier than fighting it. Your hands hang uselessly at your sides.

She had been awake when they brought her in.

That is the part of this your mind keeps circling back to with a kind of sick insistence. Not the open cavity. Not the sound the monitor made when the rhythm changed shape and then lost it altogether. Not the smell of cautery and blood and antiseptic clinging to the trauma bay. Just her face. Pale and frightened and trying so hard not to show it. The way she had looked from the gurney to you as they rolled her through the doors, eyes glazed with pain and still searching for someone to answer her.

She had told you her name.

As if that mattered.

As if you could keep hold of it for her.

As if there was some dignity left in being known when your body had been torn open from the inside.

You had leaned down so she could hear you over the rush of the bay and said it back to her, and for half a second she had looked less afraid.

Then, just before they pushed the sedation, she had caught your wrist with surprising strength and asked if somebody would call her kids.

You had said yes without thinking.

Of course you had.

“Time of death,” Robby says, glancing toward the clock on the wall, “22:14.”

The monitor answers him with its long, unbroken tone.

Nobody says anything after that.

The room has that terrible, familiar quiet to it now. Not silence. It is never silence in the ED. There is always noise somewhere. Phones ringing at the desk. Shoes against linoleum. A paramedic giving report in the next bay. Someone laughing too loudly at something down the hall because life keeps happening even here. But inside the trauma room, there is that suspended sort of stillness that settles when a body becomes a body again and everyone standing around it has to remember what comes next.

One of the nurses lowers her eyes to the chart in her hand with far too much concentration. Another moves toward the back counter to busy herself with wrappers that do not need gathering yet. Nobody looks directly at you.

You tug your gloves off one finger at a time because your hands have started to shake.

“Are you crying?”

Your head comes up too fast.

Robby is looking straight at you, not cruelly, that would almost be easier to absorb. There is no contempt in his face, no overt softness either. Only hard steadiness that makes everything he says sound like fact whether you agree with it or not.

Your eyes sting all at once. You hadn’t even realized it had gotten that far. Everything had felt too hot, too pressurized, too tight in your throat to separate one sensation from another, and now a tear slips over before you can stop it.

You wipe it away with the back of your wrist so quickly it smears.

“No.”

His gaze drops briefly to your face again, then back up. “You’re crying in my trauma bay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are standing in the middle of my trauma bay in tears,” he says, flat and matter-of-fact, “and you are not useful to me right now. Step out.”

Your mouth parts. Nothing useful comes out of it. You hear yourself say, “I just need a minute.”

“I don’t have a minute.” His voice is not loud, but it sharpens enough to make you tense.

“There’s a man in bay three who has been waiting twenty minutes. I need doctors who are present. Not standing over a body feeling sorry for themselves.”

Heat rushes through you so quickly it makes your face burn.

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”

“Then what would you call it.”

The answer swells up in you so fast it almost chokes you. You can feel every pair of ears in the room pretending not to listen. Your throat tightens until speaking hurts.

“I would call it that she came in conscious, Robby.” Your voice catches in the middle of his name and you hate yourself for that more than anything. “She told me her name. She asked me to call her kids and I told her I would, and I think I’m allowed a second to—”

“You’re not.” The words are immediately thrown back.

You stare at him and he doesn’t look away.

“I’ve watched you do this since your first week here,” he says. “Every bad outcome. Every patient that doesn’t make it. It’s all over your face. You carry it around the department for hours after the fact, and I’ve let it go because you’re a good resident. Technically, you’re very good.”

The bay feels colder all of a sudden.

“But this is a problem.”

You do not move.

His eyes flick over your face in a way that makes you feel exposed in the ugliest way, not seen but rather assessed.

“You are too emotional for this environment.”

There it is.

Not because the sentence is especially dramatic. It isn’t. He says it as evenly as he says anything else. That is what makes it worse. It does not sound like anger or frustration or something thrown out in the heat of the moment. It sounds considered. It sounds like a thought he has had before and finally decided to voice.

The woman on the bed lies between you, silent and still and covered now to the chest.

You swallow around the ache in your throat. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not.”

He reaches for the next chart from the rack beside the door.

“But it’s true. You need to decide whether you can do this job or you can’t, because I won’t have you falling apart every time we lose someone. It’s not fair to the patients, and it’s not fair to my staff.”

“Robby—”

“Get some air.”

He says it like an order, not a kindness.

“Come back when you’ve got yourself together. I won’t have you in here like this.”

Then he turns and leaves.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft mechanical hush.

For a moment, you can’t move.

The room blurs strangely at the edges. Someone passes you on the way to the sink. Someone else starts quietly discussing postmortem tasks with one of the nurses. Life resumes in pieces around you, practical and necessary and horribly normal.

You pull the second glove off and let it drop. Then the first. You don’t look to see where they land.

The walk out of trauma feels longer than it should.

The hallway beyond is all fluorescent light and polished floors and people moving too fast for your thoughts to keep pace with. You keep your chin up because there are only so many humiliations one person can survive in ten minutes and you’ve already endured enough for the night.

Past the nurses’ station.

Past two med students huddled over a chart.

Past a family clustered near the vending machines with the same pinched look everybody gets when they have already been waiting too long and know they will be waiting longer.

Nobody stops you. Nobody says your name. If anyone notices your face, they’re kind enough not to point it out.

“Too emotional for this environment.”

The sentence follows you all the way to the elevator.

You jab the call button and stare at the numbers above the doors with fixed intensity that comes from trying not to shatter in public. Your jaw aches from the force of holding it together. Your eyes burn. You can still feel the woman’s pulse under your fingers from earlier, back when there had still been one to feel, faint and racing and there.

You shut your eyes.

You need to decide whether you can do this job or you can’t.

The elevator opens with a soft chime. You get in before anyone else can.

The ride up is mercifully empty.

You press the button for the roof and lean back against the wall, arms folded tight over yourself like you can hold your insides in place if you just press hard enough. The mirrored panel opposite catches your reflection and you have to look away. Your face is blotchy already. Your hair is half falling out of its tie. There is dried blood near your cuff. You look exactly how you feel, which is never a good sign.

By the time the doors open again, the pressure behind your eyes has turned blinding.

The roof is cold enough to make your lungs seize on the first breath.

The night air comes hard and sharp off the city, smelling faintly like rain on concrete and the exhaust from the streets below. Pittsburgh spreads out beneath you in layers of yellow-white lights and dark buildings and distant traffic.

Somewhere down there, people are ordering takeout, walking their dogs, kissing on couches, sleeping through the night. The thought makes something in your chest twist.

You walk to the ledge at the far end of the roof and brace your forearms against it.

The first sob catches so hard it hurts.

Then another one follows.

And another.

It all leaves you in one brutal rush, like your body had only been waiting for privacy before it gave up the effort of restraint altogether. You bend over the ledge with your face in your hands and cry with all the gracelessness grief ever demands from anyone. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, your nose starts running and you wipe at it angrily with your sleeve and only make yourself cry harder because what else is there to do.

She had asked about her kids.

That keeps returning, cruelly intact.

Not whether she was going to die. Not whether she would be okay. Not even whether she was in the right place. Her kids. She had been terrified and in agony and bleeding out from the inside, and she had still thought first of them.

You had said yes.

The city below you gleams wet and indifferent.

You stay there until the worst of it empties out. Long enough for the cold to creep in through your scrubs and settle against your skin. Long enough for your face to go numb beneath the sting. Long enough that your sobs lose force and degrade into those ugly, hitching breaths that never quite feel satisfying.

Eventually you straighten.

Your palms rest flat against the ledge. Your eyes are swollen and your throat feels scraped raw. You stare out at the skyline and try to match your breathing to something steady.

The door behind you opens.

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, voice rough. You don’t turn around to see who it may be. “I just needed air. I’ll be back down in a minute.”

The footsteps that cross the roof are unhurried. There is a slight unevenness to them that your body recognizes before your mind does.

You close your eyes briefly. Of course.

“I’m serious,” you say, still facing forward. “You don’t have to stand here. Just tell whoever sent you I’m coming back down. I just needed five minutes.”

“Robby told me,” Jack says, “that a certain resident needed some air.”

His voice sits low in the night, roughened by sleep and age and that ever present rasp he seems to carry around even when he’s trying to be gentle. It lands somewhere under your ribs and stays there.

You laugh once, short and miserable. “That sounds like him.”

Jack comes to stand beside you at the ledge.

He doesn’t crowd you. He never really does. He just settles there near enough that the heat of him cuts through the cold a little, his forearms coming to rest against the ledge next to yours. You keep your face turned out toward the city because looking at him right now feels like a bad idea.

“I’m okay,” you say.

It sounds weak even to your own ears.

You try again. “Seriously. I just needed a minute.”

He is quiet for a beat. Then, “What did he say to you?”

Your throat tightens all over again.

“Nothing.”

Jack turns his head. You can feel it without seeing it. “Don’t do that.”

You let out a breath that almost shakes. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah, you are.”

His tone stays calm. That somehow makes it harder.

You keep your eyes fixed on the city. “He’s tired. We all are. It was a bad case.”

“What did he say.”

When you still don’t answer, Jack shifts closer and lifts a hand to your jaw.

The touch is gentle. Warm. Calloused in a way that feels grounding instead of rough. His fingers turn your face toward him with barely any pressure at all, but you follow it anyway because resisting takes more strength than you have left.

The look on his face nearly undoes you.

It is not pity. Thank God for that. You think pity from him would kill you outright.

It is concern. His brows have drawn together, as his eyes move slowly over your face, taking in the tear tracks, the red rimmed eyes, whatever else is left of your attempt to pretend you were coming back downstairs like nothing happened.

“What,” he says quietly, “did he say?”

You hold his gaze for maybe two seconds before your chin starts to tremble.

“That I’m too emotional to be here.”

The sentence breaks in half on its way out.

Jack says nothing.

The silence gives you room to keep going and you almost wish it didn’t.

“He said he doesn’t think I can do the job if I fall apart every time we lose someone.” Your laugh comes out wet and ugly. “Which I wasn’t even doing, not really, I just…” You swallow hard. “She came in awake.”

Jack’s hand stays at your jaw. His thumb shifts once against your cheek.

“She told me her name,” you say, and now that you’ve started, it all spills too fast to stop. “She asked me if someone would call her kids before we sedated her, and I told her yes. I said yes like I could promise that, like I could promise anything, and then she was gone ten minutes later and he just called it and moved on and I know we have to move on, I know that, I know how this place works, but he looked at me like I was weak for even caring and I—”

The rest crumples in your throat.

Jack doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and he draws you into him before you can decide whether to resist.

You go without meaning to.

One second you are standing stiff and shaking beside him, and the next your face is buried against his chest and his arms are around you properly, one across your back and the other up at the base of your skull, broad palm resting there like he means to keep you together by sheer force of will.

The second his hand touches the back of your head, whatever was left of your composure gives out.

You grip the front of his shirt and cry into him like you have nowhere else to put it.

Jack just holds you.

He does not shush you. He does not tell you it’s okay when it very plainly isn’t. He does not offer some empty reassurance about how you did your best and that’s all anyone could have done. He seems to understand, maybe better than most people would, that the wrong words right now would make it worse. So he says nothing and lets you shake against him until the force of it starts to ease on its own.

His chest is warm beneath your cheek. You can smell soap and coffee and that faint musky cologne he wears too sparingly to ever name but that always somehow clings to him by the middle of a shift. His hand keeps moving once every so often against the back of your head, not enough to soothe in any obvious way, just enough that you know he is still there.

By the time your crying slows to uneven breaths, your fingers are bunched in his shirt.

You loosen them immediately, mortified. “Sorry.”

Jack huffs softly above you. “No.”

The one word is almost enough to make you laugh.

You pull back just far enough to look at him. His hands stay where they are for a moment, one at your back, one still cupping the base of your head. He studies your face with that same awful steadiness from before, except there is warmth in his eyes now that Robby’s had lacked entirely. Anger, too, though it sits lower.

“She had two kids,” you say, because it is somehow the only thing left that matters.

Jack’s expression shifts.

“Both their names were on her intake form.” Your voice trembles again, quieter this time. “She wrote them herself. She made a point to spell them out. Like she wanted to make sure nobody got it wrong.”

For a second, Jack doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you.

Then his hand leaves the back of your head and comes up to brush beneath one of your eyes with his thumb, wiping away a damp line you’d missed. He does the same to the other side, slow and unhurried.

“I’ll make sure somebody talks to her husband before the shift ends,” he says.

You blink. “Okay.”

“I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

Something in your chest loosens a little at that. Not much. Just enough to hurt differently.

“Okay,” you say again.

Jack lets his hands settle fully around your face then, palms warm against your chilled skin, thumbs resting near your cheekbones. He tips your head back a fraction so you have to look at him properly.

“You belong here.”

Your eyes sting all over again.

“I mean it,” he says. “Don’t let him put that shit in your head.”

You try to laugh and only manage a watery sort of exhale. “I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

That gets the ghost of something out of you. Not a full smile, but close enough that his mouth softens in answer.

“She asked you to call her kids because she trusted you,” he says. “Patients know when somebody gives a damn. They know.”

His thumbs brush once more beneath your eyes.

“That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you the kind of doctor people remember when the rest of this place starts to blur together.”

You have to look away for a second because the alternative is crying all over again, and you are beginning to suspect you may never stop if given enough encouragement. Your gaze lifts to the dark stretch of sky above the hospital, then drops back to him.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” you admit.

“With what.”

“All of it.” Your throat works. “Them, after. The ones we lose. The things they say before. The families. I don’t know where I’m supposed to put it.”

Jack is quiet for long enough that you think he might not answer.

Then, “You don’t put it anywhere.”

You look back at him.

His expression has gone older somehow. More tired. Like the answer costs something to say aloud.

“You carry it,” he says simply. “That’s the job.”

The cold wind curls over the roof and tugs at the ends of your hair. Somewhere below, a siren whines past the hospital and fades.

“I don’t want to carry it like this.”

“No one does.”

His hands slide from your face to your shoulders. He squeezes once.

“But if you stop feeling it entirely, that’s when I’d worry.”

The words settle deep.

Not because they solve anything. They don’t. The woman is still dead. Her kids are still about to learn something that will split their lives into before and after. Robby still said what he said. The shift still waits downstairs, unfinished and unforgiving.

But Jack says it like somebody who has learned to live with the weight rather than outrun it. Like somebody who knows exactly how much it costs and still thinks it is worth paying.

You draw in a slow breath.

The air still bites, but it fills your lungs a little easier this time.

Jack watches you do it. “There you go.”

You roll your eyes weakly. “Don’t.”

“What.”

“That.”

A corner of his mouth turns. “You want me to stop encouraging you to breathe now?”

You lean your forehead briefly against his chest again, more from embarrassment than despair this time. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

His chin dips to the top of your head for a moment. You feel the shape of a kiss there a second later, absentminded and so gentle it nearly hurts.

You stay like that longer than you mean to. The city stretching below. The roof cold underfoot. Jack standing steady in front of you like he has nowhere else he needs to be for these few minutes, even though you both know that isn’t true.

Eventually he eases back enough to look down at you.

“You coming back?”

You think about it honestly.

Your eyes still ache. Your face probably looks terrible. The thought of stepping into trauma again makes something inside you flinch. But beneath all of that, under the humiliation and the grief and the rawness of being spoken to like that in front of a full room, there is still the sharper thing that got you through med school and internship and every impossible shift before this one.

You are not done.

“Yeah,” you say.

Jack studies your face like he’s checking the answer for cracks. Then he nods once.

“Good.”

He turns toward the door and holds it open for you.

The warmth of the stairwell meets you first, then the fluorescent light, then the familiar smell of hospital air. You step through and start down the stairs beside him, not saying much. There doesn’t seem to be any need for it.

By the time you reach the floor again, the ED has swallowed up the roof and the quiet and those five stolen minutes like they never existed. The board is still full. Somebody is calling for respiratory. A child is crying somewhere near triage. Whitaker rushes past with a portable monitor tucked under one arm and barely spares you both a glance.

You fall back into step because there is nothing else to do.

At the desk, Jack peels off toward another bay with a brief hand at the back of your shoulder as he passes.

You make it three steps toward trauma before Robby appears at the end of the hall.

He is flipping through a chart as he walks, glasses low on his nose, expression as impassive as ever. If he is surprised to see you back, he does not show it. He comes to a stop in front of you and looks up.

“You good to rejoin us?”

The question is so infuriatingly clinical that for a second you cannot answer.

Jack, who had gotten halfway down the corridor, stops.

You see the moment he decides to turn around.

You also see the moment Robby notices him doing it.

“I’m fine,” you say before either of them can speak.

Robby gives a short nod and starts to move past you.

“Hey.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the hallway cleanly.

Robby stops.

A few heads lift at the station. Nothing dramatic. Just that subtle turning of attention that happens in a place where everyone is always listening for the next bad thing.

Jack comes back toward the two of you, slower this time. There is no rush in him at all. That should probably scare people more than shouting ever would.

“What,” Robby says, not looking especially bothered.

Jack stops beside you, close enough that the line of his shoulder almost touches yours. “You wanna explain to me why she came upstairs crying?”

The air around the three of you changes, and you almost instantly regret telling Jack anything, you should have known he wouldn’t have shame in telling him what he did was wrong.

Robby’s eyes flick briefly to your face, then back to Jack. “Because she got attached to a patient and picked the middle of my trauma bay to fall apart about it.”

You feel yourself go rigid.

Jack’s jaw tightens. “That right.”

Robby closes the chart in his hands. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time.”

The station has gone very still behind you.

Robby regards him for a moment. “I said what needed to be said. We were in the middle of a shift and she was no longer useful in the room.”

Jack’s laugh is short and humorless. “Useful.”

“That’s the job.”

“No,” Jack says. “The job is keeping people alive when you can and treating them like human beings when you can’t. That includes your residents.”

Robby’s face does not change, but his eyes harden slightly. “If she wants to be here, she needs to learn how to function.”

“She was functioning.”

“She was crying over a dead patient.”

“She was crying over a dead mother who asked about her kids before you put her under.” Jack steps a little closer. “You think that’s a some flaw?”

A muscle shifts in Robby’s jaw.

“No,” he says. “I think dragging that kind of emotion through every bay in the department is a liability.”

“Bullshit.” The word drops bluntly between them.

You glance at Jack despite yourself. He is looking at Robby now with of cold clarity you don’t often see from him unless something has truly gotten under his skin.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that because you’re tired,” Jack says. “And you sure as hell don’t get to decide she doesn’t belong here because she still has a pulse.”

Robby’s expression shutters further. “This is between me and my resident.”

Jack does not even blink. “Not if you’re saying shit like that to her, it isn’t.”

Somewhere behind the desk, someone pointedly starts typing very loudly.

Robby looks past Jack to you then, as though you are suddenly the only person in the conversation worth addressing.

“Are you able to continue your shift?”

The professionalism of it is almost funny.

You square your shoulders. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He turns to leave again.

Jack lets him get two steps this time.

Then, “You owe her an apology.”

That finally makes Robby stop in earnest.

He turns back more slowly than before. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Robby’s mouth flattens. “I am not doing this in the middle of the department.”

Jack folds his arms. “Should we go somewhere quieter, would that suit you?”

For one absurd second, you think Robby might actually laugh. He doesn’t. But something unreadable flickers across his face.

He looks at you. Really looks this time, something more difficult to parse. You don’t know what he sees there. You don’t know if he sees anything at all besides another problem waiting to be solved badly.

When he speaks, his voice is lower.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

It is not much. It is nowhere near enough. But it is also probably the closest anyone in this hospital will ever get to hearing Robby say he was wrong.

The words catch you off guard anyway.

He adjusts his hold on the chart. “Take five more minutes if you need them. Then I want you back in three.”

You nod once.

Robby leaves before either of you can answer.

The tension goes with him in increments.

Jack exhales through his nose and looks down the hall after him like he is still considering whether to follow. Then he glances at you.

“You okay?”

You let out a tired breath that almost resembles a laugh. “I think so.”

“That was a terrible apology.”

“It was,” you agree.

“But?”

You look toward trauma, where the doors are swinging open and shut around the blur of another incoming patient. “But I heard it.”

Jack watches your face for a second, then nods.

“Alright.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before stepping away. “Go be too emotional somewhere productive.”

This time you actually laugh, small and startled and real.

Jack’s mouth tips faintly at one corner like he’d been aiming for exactly that. Then he turns and heads back into the noise.

You stand there for one more second in the middle of the corridor, breathing.

Then you straighten your scrub top, wipe once under your eyes in case there is anything left there to betray you, and push back through the trauma doors.

The shift is still waiting.

So are the patients.

So are all the impossible, unfinished things that will remain impossible and unfinished long after tonight is over.

You go anyway.

Because the truth, ugly and inconvenient and still intact beneath everything Robby said, is that he was wrong about the part that mattered.

You do belong here.

You’re not really sure how you ended up in the passenger seat of your boss's truck, but God, here we are. This night was doomed from the beginning.

It probably started when you walked into PTMC, absolutely drenched, swept up by the chaos of the city and the relentless downpour of rain that seemed to never cease nowadays.

6:45 PM - WEDNESDAY

“I’m never taking that route again,” you grumble as you walk in, shedding your soaked jacket before you can even reach the lockers.

The rain from the jacket drips onto the floor with a soft ‘plop’, while your boots squeak along the floor with no mercy.

“Stupid city, stupid bus, stupid—” your repeated complaints were momentarily silenced by the sight that was in front of you. It took a moment to process the scene in full, really.

John Shen, newly appointed attending, was engaged in an arm wrestle challenge with two men at once. Right in front of your locker. Blocking all hope of dry scrubs and salvation. You push past them with an eye roll as you hang up the poor-looking coat. One of the men who had been wrestling turned around to greet you, exhaustion rimming his sad eyes.

“Is it still raining out there?” Dennis Whitaker asks, knowing the obvious truth from the way your hair dripped. You just sigh and grab a pair of scrubs before nodding. It was going to be a long, long day.

Shen wins a round, presumably, because the room erupts in cheers, and a very angry ortho resident storms out without saying a word.

“Nice job, Johnny boy!!” you exclaim, coming around to clap him on the back and to grab a donut from his bag. Shen tries to grab it back, but fails before Parker Ellis walks in behind him and kicks him in the back of his knee.

“Stay sharp, Shen. You’re slacking,” Ellis grins, grabbing a donut as well before she collapses against the array of lockers. She took a once-over of your sopping state before raising a quizzical brow.

“New fashion statement burn, or what?” John lets out a howl before you shoot him a glare and grab another donut.

You roll your eyes and shake the new set of scrubs in your hands. “How’d you know? It’s French vintage,” you joked, exiting the locker room to change in the bathroom.

The bathroom, the perfect place of solace for the female staff recently, it seemed. You quickly shed your clothes, not wanting to be late for hand-offs for the nth time this month.

It was a bad habit, but there were worse ones to have. Like staring at your boss, for example. Not that you do that, of course?

You exit, making a beeline for your locker, but end up running into a solid wall of man. A man of many titles, doctor, medic, widow– but only one name: Jack Abbot. You reel back, uttering an immediate sorry and donning an apologetic smile.

“Eaaasy, killer,” Jack laughs, reaching an arm out to steady you as the momentum throws off your balance. He gives you a once-over, maybe twice, but hey, who’s counting? Your hair was still messy from the rain; you hadn’t had a chance to even look at it yet.

“Did you do something different with your hair?”

Jack asks out of the blue, not even bringing up how late you were for handoffs and how Robby would probably make some comment when you saw him.

You reach up to smooth out your frizz and laugh softly. “I mean, technically, yes,” you giggle, wondering how silly it looked, thinking Jack was making a joke. Instead, he just nods and turns, walking over to the nurse station, but not before calling over his shoulder.

“Looks good, Burn.”

You would be lying if you said your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest, but you don’t have time to focus on your hot boss, because Trinity Santos sneaks up behind you before you can.

“My lovely roommate who I haven’t seen in 14 hours! Where have you been?” Santos quips, poking your side incessantly.

You push away her hand and sigh. “The stupid bus stopped short, I had to walk half a mile in the rain.” Santos pouts and makes fake crying gestures.

“My poor baby, late for handoffs again.”

Trinity teases, waving a chart in her hand. This wasn’t out of the ordinary; you weren’t the most punctual resident that PTMC had seen, nor were you trying to be.

“Oh, great, so you’ll just pass your cases off to me? That way you don’t have to stay any longer, and I don’t have to get talked to by Robby?” you plead, not wanting to experience another hallway chat about being on time. Never from Abbot, however.

Trinity rolls her eyes, but hands you the chart anyway as she explains her caseload. Most patients during hand-off were those who needed beds but lacked space upstairs, meaning they stayed in the ED for monitoring.

As Santos gets into the incident of the day involving Whitaker and an elderly woman, your eyes trail off to a certain attending who was talking with Ellis.

“You paying attention? Or are you making googly eyes at our boss again?”

Trinity smirks, looking between the two of you. You smack her on instinct and avert your gaze. It’s not like you had a crush on him or anything; he was just…nice to look at, sometimes. Well, all the time, really.

Santos finishes explaining the patient before walking off to chart, too busy to tease you any further.

​

10 PM - WEDNESDAY

You stare at the countless messages that were plaguing your notifications, most from the work group chat you’ve come to love.

A sharp chill runs down your spine, probably the caffeine from your energy drink coursing through your body. It was an outrageous amount of caffeine to be drinking at 6 PM, but when you work the night shift, you need all you can get.

“Ohhh, Burn~ This girl in chairs has a sewing needle stuck through her finger.”

Shen walks behind you, waving the chart in his hands as if it were some sort of trophy. Your eyes widen. It had been a quiet night and you were *dying* for some sort of excitement.

“John, if you love me–” your pleas were silenced by Shen’s finger. He held the chart over your head, and you already knew he was going to barter.

“One, don’t question my love for you. That’s insulting. Two, I will give you Ms. Needle…If…,” John trails off, motioning for you to come in closer, so that no one else would hear. “If you cover me for the last two hours.”

Your lips part. That would be rough, to say the least. The night shift was infamously understaffed, so missing even one doctor was enough to send the emergency department into imbalance.

“Johnny boy, you’re an attending now, I can’t just cover–”

Shen’s finger is once again on your lips, quieting your worries, literally. He shakes his head with a smile before bringing you close again.

“You’ll be fine, it’s only an hour, and I got Ellis on it too.”

Parker was also just a resident, but the two of you could handle anything, especially with Abbot as backup. You groan and suck in a deep breath.

“God, this better be the best case I’ve ever seen,” you huff, grabbing the chart from Shen as he skips off, most likely to bother Ellis and retrieve his coffee.

“What should be?” Jack appears behind you, shoulders broad and hands in his pockets, coming from an exam room.

The chart that is in your hands feels suddenly heavy as you tuck it under your arm, trying to be nonchalant and not ogle him. You flash him a smile, pointing to the waiting room.

“Needle in finger. Ellis and I are taking it.”

You omit the part about Shen bartering with you, which could stay a secret between friends. Jack nods, looking over to see the kid standing with her mom.

“Probably a wild child trying to keep up with the trends,” Abbot jokes, shaking his head. You roll your eyes.

“Been there, done that,” you laugh softly, missing the way Jack’s eyebrow quirks slightly.  “Wild children make interesting adults, though,” At least, you think they do.

“It seems that way.” Jack's gaze lands on you, but you don’t notice, already heading towards chairs, ready to investigate the patient who just cost you two hours of stability.

2 AM - THURSDAY

Your excitement for the night lasted as long as your ex-boyfriend, the girl already gone, the needle long forgotten. So now, you were doing what you do best– trolling Whitaker about his relationship with Robby while simultaneously defending him from Santos’ siege of questions.

It was getting to that point of the night where everyone seemed to hit a lull, even Abbot, who seemed to never take a break.

Santos and Whitaker eventually go to bed, leaving you to your devices once again. You sigh, spinning the chair by the charting station, hoping something exciting would come your way.

And, boy, did it, in the form of Jack Abbot. The attending suddenly reappears in your line of vision, running with a visibly lethargic young boy.

The child was flushed, sweat clinging to him like he had been sprayed with it. You quickly jump up to assist, calling out for a bed and a room. Jack sets the kid down with the urgency and gentleness that you wouldn’t expect from someone who looked so gruff.

“Kid was found unresponsive by mom, no idea when symptoms started,” Jack mumbles to you, already moving to check his vitals.

You nod and begin to push the bed into the room, locking eyes with Jack, who was wearing a grim expression. Jack takes over assessing him, while you order the remaining tests.

“Mateo, can we get him up to CT right away? And rush his cultures,” you call out the orders before returning to where Abbot was looking the boy over. You lift up the boy's shirt, noticing a blooming rash beginning to pepper his small frame.

“Shit.”

Jack’s eyes rush to meet yours, wide and pressing.

“What? What’s wrong?” He rushes over to your side, peering down to see where your gaze lands. He frowns softly before letting out a sigh and taking off his gloves. “Could be meningitis.”

“I’ll set up for a lumbar puncture then,” you sigh.

It never felt good to do spinal taps on kids. As you call out for a nurse, the monitor starts beeping fervently, and the child starts to seize. Jack immediately is on the boy, holding his head stable and barking out his vitals.

The next few minutes blur together, you and Jack working in tandem as you attempt to stop the seizure. You check the monitor as the waves rise and fall in a disjointed rhythm.

“He’s tachy– keep pushing that 0.5 of lorazepam,” you huff, the caffeine and adrenaline making you lose yourself in the whirlwind of codes and orders being called out.

Within minutes, the monitor emits a continuous tone. Your eyes reach to meet Jacks and you sigh, understanding each other without saying a word. He gives you a soft smile before tugging off his gloves and walking towards you.

“We did our best, okay? You were amazing tonight, always are,” Jack pats your shoulder as he walks out of the trauma room, probably letting the parents know. God, you wish this day would end quicker than it is.

5:45 AM - THURSDAY

Shen had left a while ago, leaving you and Ellis to run around for the last hour, preparing all of the patients to be transferred to the day shift.

You yawn softly, reaching for your small paper cup that held the world’s most disgusting coffee. The delicious iced caramel latte that Shen had been kind enough to doordash for you was long gone, leaving you to drink the sludge that Robby called ‘Coffee’.

“You actually drink that tar?”

Ellis grumbles, making a face like you were personally offending her. Coffee wasn’t something that you were particular about, especially after the atrocities you had to get used to during med school.

You just shrug and take another swig. “Coffee’s coffee, Parker. Any caffeine is good in my book,” Ellis shakes her head and continues to chart in silence.

It was nearing shift change, and with any luck, people would come in to relieve you from your torture. Not that you hated night shift– the opposite, actually, but you craved excitement on boring nights like these.

Your wishes are soon answered, as Mohan walks in 20 minutes to 6:00, looking like she just rose from the Garden of Eden. It was frustrating that the day shift looked so rejuvenated when they came in, while the night shift looked like zombies, but hey, at least someone was enjoying a normal sleep schedule.

The rest of the shift flies by, with Trinity, Dennis, and Robby all arriving not long after, making hand-off smooth and efficient. It was only about an hour later that you caught up on your charting and could finally make your way home.

7:25 AM - THURSDAY

Your fantasies of walking home to the sunrise and grabbing food on the way were quickly squashed when you realized it was still raining, if not harder than when you clocked in last night.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” you grumble, pulling your coat over your head. The bus was going to take forever, and you didn’t feel like walking through what the puddles of Pittsburgh were hiding.

With a groan, you turn around to walk back inside, only to be met with a familiar broad chest.

“You must really like bumping into people today, Kid.”

Jack laughs, steadying you for the second time this shift. It was almost like deja vu, really. You shoot him an apologetic smile before turning back to look at the flooding streets.

“Sorry, sorry. Just wanting to escape–” you motion to the dreary landscape, “this.

Jack looks down at you with his familiar teasing glare. “What, you mean you don’t like when it rains for 12 hours straight?” He shifts his weight, his prosthetic clicking softly.

You roll your eyes, noticing how his eyes crinkled at the corners, his age showing through laughter lines. It was cute, you thought, knowing that he smiled so often in his life that his skin adapted to it.

“Not when I have to walk home, no,” You huff. ‘Maybe Trinity would let me borrow her umbrella,’ you think, trying to brainstorm how to get as little wet as possible.

Before you could think of a solution, however, Jack is already pulling at your arm and leading you to the staff parking lot. You furrow your brow.

“Dr. Abbot?” you call out, not understanding what the rain had to do with whatever he was attempting to do. He leads you to his truck before opening the passenger door, eyebrow cocked like he’s expecting you to be in the seat already.

“Well, get in, Burn.”

Jack motions towards the seat like it was normal that you would be in his truck. It takes a moment to register that he was offering you a ride, and your heartbeat betrays any sort of calm disposition you are trying to have.

You consider just braving the weather, after all, isn’t it not appropriate to ride home with your boss? All hesitations are thrown from the window; however, when you remember just how far you would have to walk. In wet shoes, no less.

So that is how you found yourself in the passenger seat of Jack Abbot’s truck, only mildly wet from the rain this time.

Your fingers were flying across your screen, frantic messages being sent to the group chat you had with Trinity and Dennis, sending out SOS messages. All of your pleas were met with crude reaction pics and laughter at your expense.

With a grumble, you turn off your phone and turn to look at Jack, who seemed to already be looking at you.

“Something on my face, Unc?” you joke, catching Abbot’s gaze. He just smiled and looked away, rolling his soft eyes.

“Nah, just checking to make sure my favorite resident isn’t melting from a little water. That’s all,” Jack bites back a laugh as you hit his shoulder with a playful intensity.

“Aweee! I’m your favorite resident?” you beam with faux positivity. “Not Ellis?”

Jack shook his head and met your eyes. “Ellis is my best resident, but you’re fun too, I guess.” He remarks, the banter rolling off his tongue.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of laughing at his joke, and instead take in the rainy morning and thank your lucky stars you weren’t walking right now. It had been a rough shift; you really didn’t need wet shoes for the second time today.

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you be quiet for longer than 30 seconds,” Abbot jokes, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look at your tired state.

You shrug, feeling the effect of your day hit you like a ton of bricks. You usually felt better about nights like this after a glass of wine with Trinity and Dennis, or during hand-offs when you could see Mel, but you didn’t get the chance due to the chaos Shen created in his absence.

“I can be quiet sometimes, Abbot.”

You scoff playfully, turning your body back towards him. He raises an eyebrow, his expression screaming ‘no you can’t’, but doesn’t correct you. How merciful of him. You tuck your hair behind your ear.

“Do I look so edgy and mysterious?”

“Of course…and it’s Jack,” Abbot says with an all-too-casual tone. The rain seemed to grow harder the longer you were in the car. You furrow your brow in confusion.

“...That’s your name, isn’t it?” you quip, not understanding what the hell the old man was talking about. “Are you going senile already, Doctor Abbot?”

Jack rolled his eyes and gave you his signature frown that was much too pouty for a man in his 50s, but it suited him nonetheless.

“I’m saying to call me ‘Jack’, smartass,” Abbot grumbles softly, and if you squint, there might be a pink tint to his freckled ears. You just laugh softly and nod.

“Just teasing, Jack,” you try the name out. You had always referred to him as ‘Abbot’ to everyone else, or used his title when speaking to him directly (well, besides the casual ‘Unc’ here and there). His name didn’t feel as foreign on your lips as you thought it would. Jack smiles in the driver's seat and looks out the window to see an array of pedestrians with umbrellas.

“Do you always walk to work?” He asks suddenly, turning the radio down until it was just a whisper in the background.

“When it’s nice, otherwise I try to catch the bus. Sometimes the route gets interrupted, though, like today.” You shrug casually, public transportation was a girl’s best friend…mostly. “I used to ride in with Santos and Whitaker before I was put on the night shift, since Trin has a car.”

Mornings with Trinity and Dennis used to be the best part of your days, besides saving lives, you guessed. Whitaker would use his farmboy prowess to cook breakfast that was certainly not AHA-recommended, while you would make smoothies for everyone. Santos was a slow riser; you were lucky if she woke 5 minutes before you had to go in. Jack slows for a red light before turning to look at you.

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow too, how about I swing by before I go in and we can drive together?”

Jack suggests, his eyes confirming that it was an honest offer. Your heart stills for a moment. If you didn’t know better, you would think you died at work, and this was heaven.

“Uhm, that would be amazing actually, but I don’t want to inconvenience you or anything–” Jack gives you a look that screams ‘Please, as if’ before shrugging.

“Not an inconvenience. I offered, didn’t I?” Jack’s voice was so earnest, you think it might kill you. The apartment you shared with Trinity and Dennis was only about two minutes away at this point, your bed so close it was calling your name.

“Thank you, Doctor– I mean, Jack,” you beam, turning to smile at him in gratefulness. Jack’s ears turn an embarrassing shade of pink suddenly as he turns onto your street. He clears his throat and nods.

“Of course, y/n.”

You pull up to your complex a few moments later, the rain still pouring as if it would never cease. However, this new offer made you wonder if you even wanted it to stop. Jack puts the car in park before hopping out, making his way to your car door.

“Wow, who knew the rugged and mysterious Doctor Abbot would be such a gentleman?” you joke, grabbing your go-bag and sliding out of your seat onto the wet concrete. Jack rolled his eyes, closing his door.

“I always am, aren’t I, Burn?” he jokes. The rain was beginning to drip down his face, and if you stood there any longer, you weren’t sure how long it would be before your staring problem was discovered.

“Keep telling yourself that, Unc,” you laugh before turning to run into your complex. You made it about halfway there before hearing Jack call your name from the curb. He was leaning out of his truck, head popping over the roof.

“Pick you up at 5?” Jack calls, his voice booming across the short distance. Your eyebrows furrowed.

“5? Isn’t that a bit early?” you call back. Shift change was typically at 6:30 with 7:00 as a hard deadline to punch in, but you knew Abbot was a bit of a workaholic. Jack shrugs from the truck and smiles.

“Thought we could get dinner before, I wanna hear about this Whitaker and Robby thing I keep hearing about.”

Jack shouts, water now staining his black undershirt. It was almost too much for you to handle; this was truly the most torturous day of your life.

Your expression widens to one of shock, but you find yourself nodding before the words can even come out.

“Oh, uhm, yeah.” you stutter slightly. “But you’re paying,” you joke.

“Always do.” Jack grins, wiping a bead of rain off his forehead. “See you at 5 then, Burn.”

Jack gets into his truck and gives you a wave before driving off into the rainy weather again, leaving you reeling in his wake. It was like all of your grandiose delusions were coming into fruition at once.

You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”

“Extremely,” he deadpanned.

“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”

Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”

Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”

You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot. 

You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.

“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.

Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”

“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.” 

You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again. 

“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”

“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”

“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick. 

You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”

“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’” 

She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.

“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”

You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.

“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”

“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”

“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”

She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”

You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken. 

You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.

You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”

Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.

“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms. 

Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.

“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.

“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”

He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting. 

“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”

“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.

Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”

“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”

“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.

“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.

“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”

You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.

“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. 

A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:

“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan. 

You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips. 

Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)

“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”

“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”

“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.

“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”

“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.

“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”

Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.

“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly. 

Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. 

“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”

Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again. 

“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”

“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?” 

“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do. 

Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”

Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”

“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”

Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”

You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient. 

You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.

“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”

His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. 

Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R. 

Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.” 

Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy. 

You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.

Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room. 

You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.

“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”

The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”

You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.

“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”

He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.

You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”

“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”

“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”

His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”

You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is. 

You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness. 

You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile. 

“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”

“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”

“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”

You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.

“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.

“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.

“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”

Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.

“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.

“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”

“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”

“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”

“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”

“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”

Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.

You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once. 

The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.

You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.

You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him. 

Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.

You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.

“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”

“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth. 

He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.

“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”

You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.

“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.

 “…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.

“Dr. Abbot.”

Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”

His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”

Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”

It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.

“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”

Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call. 

You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better. 

The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.

“You can get that if you need to—”

“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”

The call ends before you can answer it. 

Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”

Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.

“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.

“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”

“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”

You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.

“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”

The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts. 

You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.

Jack smells you before he sees you.

He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder. 

By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.

“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.

“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.

“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.

“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.

“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”

Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger. 

“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”

Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.

Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s. 

“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor. 

“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.

He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.

“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.

Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”

“How was the, uh… The date?”

“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”

“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”

His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.

“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”

“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”

You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.

Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.

Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead. 

“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.

It clicks shut behind you. 

“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”

“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.

“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”

Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.

“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”

“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”

Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.

“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”

The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”

“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”

“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.

Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.

“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.

“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”

“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”

You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.

Jack follows your every move.

“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”

You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”

Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”

Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”

You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin. 

You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.

Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.

“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”

You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again. 

“Crystal,” you quip drily.

You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later. 

Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.

The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.

“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You push the man away from you on instinct. 

“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.

Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.

Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile. 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.” 

  The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Which means I just lost all of my money…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”

It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.

“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”

“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”

You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.

“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”

“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”

He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.

“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug. 

“No?” Jack hums.

“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”

You look around briefly, as discretely as you can as if you didn’t wait around for a moment when he was alone and both Princess and Perlah were off doing their jobs and not lingering around the hub catching gossip.

“I’m going out with some guy my friend really wanted to set me up with tomorrow night,” you pause for his reaction — eyes closing, body tensing, jaw clenching — and smile stupidly to yourself before continuing. “I told her I didn’t want to but…you know how Kathy is.”

He does, he met her at your birthday party last year and he absolutely hated her instantly. You aren’t that good friends anymore but she’s still in your life, much to his dislike.

“So I was wondering if you could call me around eight ish to say there’s an emergency and that I need to come in to work?”

You know about Jack’s crush on you, he’s given up on keeping it a secret ever since you passed out at his place after a team hang and confessed your own crush on him (not that you know or even remember that ever happening).

It’s easier to pretend like you’re both just overly friendly with each other. It’s safe. It’s absurdly intimate and clenches both your thirsts…at least that’s what you’ve convinced yourselves into believing.

So when his eyes meet yours again, stormy and hiding a little mischief, you can only allow for the fluttering in your stomach to take over.

“Sure, I’ll get you out of it.”

“Thank you.” You sing it out as you shuffle back out into the ED flow. He smirk briefly before going back to his charting.

Oh he’ll get you out of it alright.

Of course you're right. This guy is a dud. No life goals, no ambition, no personality other than being unhealthily obsessed with football, drinking beers and hanging out with Kathy's boyfriend.

You've been listening to him talk about his boring job in finance for over twenty minutes, have drank two glasses of wine trying to dull the need to make his life a living hell, and have stuck to only ordering appetizers since you know you won't stick around long enough to eat a full meal.

He seemingly doesn't notice and orders a steak for himself, dismissing the waitress almost rudely as you can't help the way your face scrunches in disgust. She gives you a kind smile, one that reminds you to take back control of your facial features and wait just a little longer for your phone to blast in your purse.

You glance down at your watch, that beautiful gold piece that Jack got you for Christmas staring back at you. Just two more minutes and you'll be free.

And then eight rolls around.

The phone doesn't ring.

He asks you a question. You ask him to repeat it. He does. You answer, mind drifting back to your escape plan.

It's uncomfortably silent. You don't care.

He takes a sip of his drink. You do the same.

The phone still doesn't ring.

Fuck Jack Abbot and the unpredictability of the emergency department.

8:01 rolls around and you start to sink into the possibility that you're going to have to get out of this yourself.

The guy flashes you a smile, shy and clearly confused by your change in demeanor.

You open your mouth to speak, to rip off the band aid, to be the bad guy when--

"I thought we were just taking a break, sweetheart!"

Oh this is so much worse than you could've ever imagined.

Your body flinches instinctively, eyes closing in embarrassment.

He's here, he's actually here in the fucking restaurant, looking fucking phenomenal and gorgeous and so fucking cocky.

You can feel your date flinch at the words but you simply cannot care less.

He approaches your table slowly, amping up the acting as you slide down in your chair, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

"I thought we were going to work through this," he keels down in front of you. "I want to work through this, please--" he sobs, he actually sobs. "Just tell me it's not too late, tell me we can fix this."

He takes your hand in his and brings it up to his lips, kissing your pulse point and feeling just how much it's spiking.

"I fucking hate you." You mumble just for him to hear. He smiles against your skin, desperately trying to catch your gaze with his own.

After a rather long and uncomfortable beat since you refuse to respond to his dramatics, your date clears his throat.

"Uh..." he starts, causing another scowl to come out from you. "I think I'm gonna go?"

He words it like a question and Jack has to hold you down before you lash out at him, as hilarious as he finds it when you do.

"Yes, do you mind?" Jack jokes instead and the other man practically rushes out of the restaurant with no hesitation.

Jack bursts out laughing, the other patrons around you somehow also understanding just how much of a performance this was and going back to their own meals as their free entertainment has come to a close.

"You got all dolled up for him?" he asks, letting you go and sitting down on the now empty seat across from him.

You finally remove your hand from your face and he marvels at the tint that's spreading from your cheeks down your throat.

You sit up straight, matching his energy, not daring for him to see just how hard your heart is hammering even though he knows.

You frown. "Duh, I always have to look hot."

"Smartass."

"Drama queen."

"Saved your ass didn't I?"

"And destroyed whatever dignity I had left."

"No one knows who you are."

An idea sparks in your mind.

"You're right, Doctor Jack Abbot at PTMC," you practically scream as you get up and head out the door. "No one knows who I am."

He bursts out laughing, smacking your ass on the way out, eliciting a yelp out of you.

Two can definitely play at that game.

"Burgers?" he asks as he holds the door open for you.

"You're paying."

"I just paid this tab, if anything you owe me for the favor."

"You owe me for the embarrassment."

You stare up at him defiantly. He searches your eyes for something...but he can't find it.

"Burgers on me."

He relents, he always does. Maybe he'll get you someday.

Robby was nervous.

He had held a human heart in his hands, pumped it back to life; he had been thrown in the middle of a mass shooting; he had raced against many a clock to save patients in the nick of time, and not always succeeded.

But for this, he was nervous. For this, he was jumpy. 

He had never been inside your school before, always hovering in the foyer, waiting to pick you up, or else trapped in the office talking to Patty, the veteran receptionist. Even these interactions had been after hours, nary a child in sight. But today?

Today was Career Day. 

Today, he knew, was your favorite day. More than Valentines, more than Halloween, more than Pi Day, or the spring equinox, though you celebrated those in earnest, too. None of them compared, because on Career Day, any child could be anything they wanted. It was the day dreams were born, you reminded him. And little else was quite as important to feeding a child’s spirit than dreams.

Robby remembered having Career Days at his school, every year. He was always more excited about missing class time than the actual presentations parents gave. Until his friend Tommy’s dad came in, a vascular surgeon who told them all about the hospitals and the people they saved.

“And now look where you are,” you had said.

Yes, here he was. A gruff, stony, steely-eyed ER doctor, shaking at the prospect of facing a group of six and seven year olds.

No parents who had signed up were in medical professions, you had explained to him, just about a week ago. No doctors, no nurses, not even a veterinarian, and you’d asked him to come in. You had absolute faith in him, ecstatic at the prospect of his talking to your class, and had jumped right out of bed well before sunup.

Class started promptly at half past seven, so you always came in early, but on special occasions? You were badging in through the double doors at 5:15. Even Patty wasn’t there yet, just some janitors and cafeteria workers setting up breakfast, to whom you waved cheerfully at. Robby couldn’t help but glance around anxiously as you led him through the dark halls. He hadn’t been in an elementary school since he was an elementary student himself, and he felt strangely too large, too tall, too grown.

It was perhaps due to such a stark comparison with you, practically floating down the linoleum tiles, arms stuffed with only the things he had been unable to carry for you. Your outfit alone emanated welcoming, friendly energy any child would be drawn to. Any adult, either, at that rate.

Your earrings were in the shape of airplanes, your homemade skirt, ruffled edge like piano keys, swayed over your rocket ship shoes and planet socks. Your sweater was stitched with about thirty little characters: a stethoscope, a ballet slipper, a book, each representing a different career. There was almost constantly a hint of a smile dancing around your features.  

He examined your door as you jiggled the key in the lock, for even its plain face was colored with your touch. Big block letters cut out of different fabrics spelled out Miss Moony 1B, and were surrounded by what had to be art from every single one of your students. There was a woven basket with gingham lining the inside hanging below your name, and it was stuffed with what at first glance Robby thought were fake flowers. Upon closer inspection, he realized the “petals” on the end of the “stems” were little paint handprints in all sizes and colors.

He couldn’t help his smile as you finally managed to shove your door open.

“That lock jam like that a lot?” he asked, wiggling the handle as he followed you in.

“Yes,” you said, unbothered. “But I always manage it in the end.”

Making a mental note to come back to that some time, he stepped onto the threshold. If he thought your door was wonderful, it was nothing compared to the rest of the room.

Every inch of the walls was covered in art. Whether it be student made, professional, or made educational with charts of the alphabet, times tables, what have you. In the back corner was your collection of class pictures, stuffed with all the kids from every year since you’d started teaching. 

In the adjacent corner was the reading nook, with headphones, a bin of “reading buddies,” and of course, books. Books of all kinds, from the ABCs, to sensory, to early chapter books. The shelves were decorated with cut outs of your favorite children’s characters, Fancy Nancy, Eloise, Sister Bear, Francis, the rainbow fish. There were books about health, books about school, books about feelings, books of fairy tales. Next to Arthur was a special spot, with the title “book of the week.” Under it sat a lone book, this week Stand Tall, Molly Lou Melon. 

You saw him looking and followed his gaze. Upon realizing the focus of his attention, you lit up.

“Book of the week!” you said, bouncing over to stand with him. “It helps motivate the kids to practice reading. If they like a book, they can nominate it. At the end of the week, we do a blind vote and whichever book wins gets to sit on the special shelf until the next poll.”

He fixed on your elated expression, the one so familiar. It came out without fail, anytime you got to speak about anything that meant something to you. There was no shortage of topics there, but he could never get enough of it.

“What’s Molly Lou Melon?”

“Who is Molly Lou Melon,” you corrected, placing your warm hands on his shoulders and pushing him towards the reading corner. “She is one of the all time greats. I aspire to be her.”

She perched him precariously on one of the tiny button stools and handed him the book. He examined the cover.

“You want me to read it?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, messing with the bed head he hadn’t managed to get rid of yet. 

“But what about setting up?”

“I’ll be doing that,” you said. “You just sit here and wake up a bit, you can help me when you’re done.”

He did as he was told because it was you telling him. Molly Lou Melon reminded him a bit of you. Seemingly naive, an easy target, but strong in the way that you were so self assured. Confident in the ability of yourself and others. Taking whatever life threw at you. He had to admit it was a charming little read.

When he heaved himself off the stool and placed Molly Lou back in her nook, you looked at him expectantly.

“Well?”

“It was great,” he said. “I’m not surprised she got the top spot.”

“Yeah, a couple times,” you said happily. “She was overtaken by Angelina for a while, but she’s back.”

“Angelina?” he asked.

“Ballerina?” you supplied. He shook his head. “Okay, I really could use help now, but after that you’ve got some serious reading to do!”

You put him to work assembling goodie bags for the kids. Each bag got filled with a hand sanitizer, a fun shaped eraser, a notepad, and blank paper doll to be decorated as each kid's dream job.

He hoped at least one kid’s doll would be dressed in scrubs by the end of the day. He glanced around the room as he set out the boxes of colored pencils, crayons, and markers on each group of desks. There were about twenty or twenty five kids in your class, each one of them known well to you. He was meant to be standing up in front of them in a few hours time — what could he say that would captivate first graders for more than a few cursory seconds?

“Hey,” you said softly, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Stop thinking about things that won’t happen.”

“Oh, Honey, I’m not,” he said, wrapping his arm around your waist in response. “I’m thinking about things that definitely will happen.”

You chuckled.

“Alright,” you said, sitting down in one of the miniscule chairs and crossing your legs with impressive ease. “Tell me about these things that definitely will happen.”

You patted the green chair across from you. He looked sceptical.

“I really don’t wanna push my luck with these tiny chairs,” he said.

You waved a hand.

“Oh, no, these things are more sturdy than you’d think,” you said. “Kids are small, but they’re bouncy. They put a lot of strain on them. Now sit.”

He did so, slower and more awkwardly than you. When he was situated, you were looking at him, chin cradled in the palm of your hands, elbows propped up on your bent knee. 

“So. What are you thinking?”

He sighed.

“Well, they could boo me,” he started. “Or fall asleep, or leave, or just in general not give two shits about anything I have to say, ask why the hell you’re dating someone like me —”

“Honey, they’re six,” you said matter of factly. “They might ask about dating me, in their own ways, and they could fall asleep, depending on sugar intake, but they will be absolutely enthralled with you, more than anything.”

He matched your posture, resting his elbows on his bent knees and staring as deep into your calming eyes as he could go. 

“I suppose you would know,” he said.

“I would,” you said. “I do. You’re great with kids. I know them, and I know you, and you will both have a blast.”

You patted his cheek.

He did have tons of experience with kids, mostly good, and playing with a stethoscope was usually enough to distract a child. But with you next to him? There was no real competition.

In his mind, you were the queen. The beloved ruler of classroom 1B, who knew just what to say, how to make booboos disappear, and how to get a room full of hyperactive six and seven year olds to stay still long enough to teach them about numbers. And he was a gruff, bitchy old man coming to steal you off the throne. How could kids like that?

You were interrupted in the middle of writing the schedule.

“We’ll have you go last,” you said, putting numbers one through seven on the board. In rainbow order. “Since you’ll be the real showstopper. We’ll start off easy with Axel’s mom, she —”

There was a knock on the open door. Not just one, but a whole gaggle of three or four women stood in the doorway, all eyes locked on Robby where he sat leaning against the edge of your desk. He straightened up under their watch, pulling at his scrub top anxiously. He wasn’t working today, but you’d both figured the kids would prefer the full show.

“Hey!” you greeted them with your usual beaming smile and excitement. “You guys ready for Career Day?”

“Not so fast,” said a tall brunette at the front of the pack. “Why don’t you introduce us to your friend here?”

Robby wiped his hands nervously on his pants as you turned to look at him.

“Oh right!” you laughed. “Sorry! This is Michael Robinovitch, my boyfriend. Mike, this is Sandra, Jen, Amanda, and Ashley.”

He raised his hand awkwardly.

“You can call me Robby,” he said. “Nice to meet you guys.”

They chorused back their own greetings, but none of them stopped looking at him so intensely. He glanced your way. Your coworkers descended on him like wolves.

“So you’re the doctor boyfriend?” said Amanda, raking over him with her eyes.

“Taller than I thought he’d be,” said Sandra.

“Cuter, too,” said Ashley. “She told us you were cute, but…”

“But what?” he dared ask.

They all laughed.

“Well, you know our little do-gooder,” said Jen, winking. “It’s what’s on the inside, for her. She’s brought back some real charity cases before. Remember Pete?”

They let out a collective groan. You put your hands on your hips, but you didn’t look very upset.

“What was wrong with Pete?”

“Oh, sweetie,” said Jen, patting your arm. “You have such a good heart.”

“Thank you,” you said dully.

Your friends were getting closer, circling him, taking in every inch. He shot you a look over the vulture's heads, and you stepped in with a small smile.

“Okay, well we’ve got lots to do,” you said loudly, checking your watch. “Kids’ll start getting here in twenty minutes. I’ll catch up with you guys at lunch!”

He got several more winks as you corralled them out the door, and he was pretty sure he heard one of them mutter something about his ass as they rounded the corner. He had to take deep breaths, but you looked utterly unbothered as you picked your whiteboard markers back up.

“Sorry about them,” you said absently, scribbling away. “They’re very bored in their marriages. Are you upset with them?”

“Upset? No,” he said absently, coming up to stand behind you and watch your hand flit around the board, somehow leaving perfect print behind. “Overwhelmed? A little.”

You laughed as he laid his hands just above your navel, his chin on your shoulder.

“Yes, they can be a lot,” you said. “But they’re very nice and hardworking people. I’d trust my kids with them.”

Robby leaned some more heavy weight against you, letting nothing but the squeaking of your marker and your slow breaths intermingling with his fill the room. Soon enough, though, there was a slight rumble, and a minute later the familiar pitter-patter of rain against the windows started up.

You sighed dreamily, and Robby couldn’t tell if you were happy or annoyed. Then he got his answer.

“I love the rain,” you said, abandoning the board for the window and dragging him with you. “Don’t you love the rain?”

“If I’m not in it? Love it,” he said, pulling you closer as they peered out.

“April showers bring May flowers,” you reminded him.

“Are you all done setting up?”

“Not quite,” you said. “But let’s just watch the rain for a second.”

The sky was dark over the playground, so dark windows across from it started lighting up. The rain was so heavy it was hard to see through, the people running inside were mere shapes against the downpour. You hummed, another streak of lightning cracking across the sky.

Somewhere, Robby’s eyes turned from the windows to you. You looked so peaceful. So serene. Until —

“Miss Moony, who’s that?”

Robby jumped a mile away from you, locking his hands behind his back before he even saw who the owner of the big voice was.

There was a young boy standing at the door, hair plastered to his head, boots too big and coat dripping, and he was pointing and staring at Robby with his little mouth open. Robby could feel himself flushing already. You just smiled.

“Good morning Diego!” you said, going over to greet him. “This is my friend Dr. Robby! Remember I told you he would be coming in to visit?”

“Oh,” said Diego, as you helped him out of his rain gear. “But why was holding on to you like that? Were you wrestling?”

Robby was approaching burgundy. You tried to stifle a laugh. Whether at Diego’s question or Robby’s response, he didn’t know, because he was looking pointedly at the cat clock above the door.

“No, we were just hugging,” you said. “Like how you hug your friends.”

“I don’t hug them like that,” said Diego, eyes still locked on Robby.

“Oh, how do you hug them?” you asked as he put his stuff in his cubby. “Can you show me?”

Diego finally seemed to forget about Robby as he flung himself at you, and explained his technique. It gave Robby time to cool his face back to normal temperature. It was hard, what with the way his heart sped up just looking at you interact with your students. Perhaps this was all a big mistake for very different reasons.

Soon, more children were arriving. Some alone, some with older siblings, some with parents that said a quick hi before disappearing. Sensing his hesitation, you sent Robby to get grown-up chairs from the auditorium, and he bided his time setting them up near the front of the room.

Now that he was in the background and you were paying all your attention to them, the kids didn’t pay him any mind. He didn’t get a second glance as the room filled up. He did hear part of Diego’s conversation with a small girl that threatened to burn his face once again.

“See that guy, Luna?”

“Yeah?”

“Thats Dr. Robby. Miss Moony was hugging him.”

“Like a best friend hug or a married hug?”

“I don’t know. It looked married to me.”

Eventually, the parents that weren’t staying left, the parents that were sat up front with Robby, and all the little kids were in the seats that had their nametags. The goodie bags were hidden safely under your desk; you knew that giving them something to play with before the presentations would only be counterproductive.

First up was Axel’s mom, who was a train operator for the T. The kids had a lot of fun asking all about trains, and you pulled up a big map of all the lines.

Next was Ellie’s dad, a construction worker who had worked on building the playground outside their window back before they were born. He earned the job title “monkey bar builder” officially.

After him, Julian’s mom, who was a public defender. “Bad guy getter.”

Grayson’s mom, a firefighter. Robby started to question whether he would really be a show stopper after she brought in a real dalmatian for the kids to pet. It did seem a little harder for Jayden’s dad to get their attention back with CEO of an insurance company after that — they had to bring the dog out into the hall.

Then they had Nolan’s dad, a publisher, and Layla’s mom, a data analyst. Then, before he knew it, you were introducing him.

“Ok, remember I told you all about my friend Dr. Robby? Yeah? Well, he was kind enough to use his time off to come in and talk to you,” you said excitedly. “He’s going to tell you all about what he does working at the hospital!”

He swallowed. Twenty pairs of little eyes swiveled towards him, and he had to admit, he froze a little. Maybe it was a mistake to go last. Their energy was running out, he could see fidgeting and restless movements, and literally why would they give a shit about him? What if Diego raised his hand and asked why you guys “married hugged” if you weren’t really married?

He glanced at you, shifting in his seat, and you were smiling at him. You had moved to sit on a little stool next to some students at their desks for the full picture. He tried to mimic your easy grin.

“So,” he started, clapping his hands. “You guys remember going to see your doctors? They look at you, do some tests, give you shots?”

He got nods and yeahs from the crowd.

“Well, I’m not that kind of doctor,” he said. “I don’t do those things in an office, I do them in an Emergency Room in a hospital. That means that if someone needs help really fast, they come in to see me whenever they want. Make sense?”

More nods. A familiar girl with curly pigtails timidly raised her hand, and he smiled at her. She took a deep breath.

“You helped me when I got a shot with my epin-pen!” she squeaked, smiling shyly.

“That’s right, Layla,” he said, and she beamed. “You didn’t have time to call and make an appointment, we needed to make sure you were okay very very quickly, so you came in an ambulance, right?”

She nodded, covering her smile with her hands.

“What are some other reasons someone might need to go to the doctor?” he asked the class. “Anyone have any ideas?”

“SICK!” bellowed a red haired boy in the back, and Robby had to suppress a chuckle.

“That’s right, that’s a good one,” he nodded. “There are all kinds of sicknesses. Usually common colds, and your body can heal on its own. But sometimes, we need medicine to help us heal. Does anyone know what causes sickness?”

Several hands shot into the air, and he looked to you to call on someone.

“Jada,” you said, pointing at a girl with no front teeth.

“Germs!” she said. “Germs get in us when we don’t wash our hands, and we get sick!”

“Very good job!” said Robby. “Yes, germs are little things, living things, that are too small for us to see, and they can get everywhere. Some even live inside us, because not all germs are bad. You just don’t want outside germs getting in. But our body will fight back against these germs, with something called an immune system. The fight between us and the germs is what makes us sick.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a thermometer, one of the hand held hospital ones with a wire and plastic covers. He held it up.

“Do you know what this is?” They shook their heads. “This is a thermometer. It measures your temperature. This one is probably different then the ones you have at home because it comes from a hospital, and we have to see lots of different patients there.”

He showed them how to take out the actual thermometer, apply a cover, and then use it.

“Does anyone want to help me take their temperature?” he asked.

Immediately, every single hand in the room, even meek little Layla’s, shot up and danced in the air. Some kids even stood straight up out of their chairs. He again looked at you, unsure of how to proceed. You looked at the clock, then at the kids, and just shrugged.

“Everybody form a line! No pushing!”

It wasn’t exactly easy, wrangling all twenty-five of them. It was a good thing he had thought to restock the covers or he’d have had to turn half the class away. As he checked them, he explained to them why the covers were necessary. Then, he pulled out his penlight, stethoscope, and reflex hammer, and each child was getting a full workup in the front of class 1B.

Eventually, parents started parting, late for work, but their attempts at farewells were all but ignored by their children. Once each kid was checked up, they hovered near his chair, asking questions and pulling on his hoodie strings.

“Do you do surgeries?”

“Can you give cats medicine?”

“Do you live at the hospital?”

“How do you spell medicine?”

“Look at my scab! Is my immute system healing it right?”

By the time the kids were sent off to lunch, his cheeks were sore from smiling ear to ear. They all waved at him, smiled back, and shouted “Bye Mr. Dr. Robby!” at the top of their lungs. When he turned to look at you, you were smiling almost as hard as he was, eyes dazed and wide, like the ones that gave you your name.

“What?” he asked.

You didn’t answer, just got up from your seat, grabbed his face, and started peppering it with kisses. It forced a surprised laugh from deep in his chest, and he pulled you down onto his lap.

“You — are so — amazing!” you said between kisses. “It happened just like I imagined. Now they’re all gonna become doctors!”

“Well, I don’t know about all of them,” he said, face staining pink, not from your lip gloss. “But I have a feeling about Layla.”

“She’s a smart cookie,” you said, leaning your head atop his. “Whatever she does, she’s gonna be great. All those kids are.”

“It’s because they have you, you know,” he said, gazing up at you with reverence.

You looked down at him, eyes sparkly.

“Thank you,” you said, smoothing his beard. “I need to bring you back next year. All the years. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“So I’ll be around for the rest of your years?” he asked, watching you closely. 

You leaned back to cock your head, confused. Your airplanes swung around with you.

“What do you mean?” you asked. “Where else would you be?”

Careful, Robinovitch, don’t cry in a first grade classroom.

“Absolutely nowhere,” he said.

And when you brought him a big thank you card signed with the name of every kid in the class, so what if he cried? And what did it matter if it became the first framed art on his blank walls? In his opinion, there was no finer masterpiece anywhere.



---

Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.

"Hi, my name is-"

"I need an ECG for room 5."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.

You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal

Except with Langdon… it feels personal.

Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.

You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.

And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.

Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.

You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.

You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, “Diagnosis?” You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.

He's brilliant.

You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.

And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.

Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.

By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. You’ve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. You’ve learned how to move quickly without looking like you’re running.

What you haven’t learned is how to exist here as a person.

Because Langdon doesn’t leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.

So when someone finally looks at you like you’re not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.

The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.

It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

His chair nudges closer when you’re both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like you’re a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.

“Hey,” he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, “what did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?”

You blink at him. “Uh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia… dehydration… PE because she’s on oral contraceptives and -”

He grins. “See, that. Your brain. I like it.”

You stare at the note you’re writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.

Dating is the last of your worries. You’ve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you can’t chew through or swallow, just carry. You’ve got skills checklists. You’ve got a list of procedures you’re terrified you’ll never get smooth at. You’ve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.

You do not have time for any of it.

“You’re doing fine,” he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. “Seriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.”

You snort despite yourself. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in like he’s telling you a secret. “Because I couldn’t find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought I’d end up on the news as ‘intern who killed a man with incompetence.’”

Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.

He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced they’re dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.

You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. It’s not romantic, you tell yourself. It’s not like that.

It can’t be like that.

Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.

And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.

Dr. Langdon notices.

You don’t see it at first, because you’ve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because you’re terrified, though there’s a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.

Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.

It means: Why didn’t you order that? Why is this missing? What’s your plan?

It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.

It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.

So you adapt.

You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when you’re new and everything could be a mistake.

You make yourself smaller around him.

Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.

You do not look at him.

But you feel him anyway.

You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, you’ll find his eyes already there.

It’s subtle at first.

You’re at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.

Evan slides his chair closer.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.

His knee bumps yours under the desk.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t move away.

“Mm,” you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. “You’re writing like… a lot.”

“It’s thorough,” you say defensively.

“It’s pretty,” he says, too earnest.

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. “That’s not a word anyone’s ever used for my documentation.”

He shrugs, smiling. “First time for everything.”

You both laugh, quiet, contained, like you’re not sure laughter is allowed here.

It’s small. Harmless. Normal. And that’s why it stands out.

Because normal doesn’t live here very long.

Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.

You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.

He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.

And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.

You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.

"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.

Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.

"I- sorry," you breathe.

He doesn’t release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.

"Room five's ECG?" he asks.

Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.

"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"

"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.

"Go," he says.

You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.

Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.

But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.

He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.

And then he's moving again.

The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.

You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.

That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. It’s a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people don’t regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like it’s tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesn’t spiral.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? – Evan. You stare at the message like it’s a trick question, like there’s a correct answer and you’re about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you don’t have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like you’re about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because you’re lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and you’re new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that you’ve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didn’t know you were taking, while Evan’s attention feels easy. Dr. Langdon’s attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you can’t escape.

You type: Maybe. I’m still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. I’ll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you don’t have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.

You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like he’s been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. He’s in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask you’ve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.

“Busy?” he asks. You blink. “Uh… no. Just restocking.” Your voice sounds thinner than you’d like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how there’s nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. “I need a 20-gauge,” he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. “Top left.”

He doesn’t move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like he’s trying to read a label you forgot to attach.

“You’re doing a lot of socializing,” he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because it’s cruel but because it means he noticed.

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. “I’m- what?” you manage. His gaze doesn’t waver. “At the station.”

Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. “We were charting,” you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. “And talking. It’s not, I mean, it’s not like I’m neglecting patients.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. There’s a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. “Though I can see why you’d jump to that conclusion.” Your nails dig into your palm. “Why are you even-”

He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. It’s on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.

You’re in his bubble. Or maybe he’s in yours. Either way, it’s too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesn’t rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, you’d…

You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.

“You’re new,” he says, voice quieter now, controlled. “Distractions don’t help.” You stare at him.

“So you’re what,” you say, pulse still unsteady. “Giving me advice?”

“I’m telling you to keep up,” he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.

He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, “Evan’s not as helpful as he looks.” You blink, thrown. “What does that mean?” His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.

“It means,” he says, voice flatter now, tighter, “that not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.” The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then he’s gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.

Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? – Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you don’t know why your hands are still shaking.

When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.

You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.

Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way that’s almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. “Just inventory,” you reply. “Thrilling stuff.”

He doesn’t laugh. He studies you instead. “Was he in there?”

You glance at him before you can stop yourself. “Who?”

Evan’s mouth tilts knowingly. “Come on.”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. “Did he say something?”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdon’s line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.

“It was nothing,” you say. “He needed a catheter.”

Evan’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Of course he did.”

There’s a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadn’t noticed it sitting there.

“Coffee,” he says. “I grabbed you one earlier. Figured you’d say yes eventually.”

You stare at it. You hadn’t agreed. You’d said maybe. There’s something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” you say carefully. “After shift. I have notes. And I should probably—”

“Study,” he finishes for you, smiling gently. “You always say that.”

You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But you’re tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didn’t quite say.

“Maybe,” you repeat, softer this time.

Evan’s smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. “I’ll walk you to your car at least,” he says. “You don’t have to decide about coffee yet.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.

“Room twelve’s repeat labs?”

You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.

He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesn’t look at Evan. He doesn’t even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.

“They’re pending,” you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evan’s chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.

Langdon’s eyes lift then.

Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.

“Call the lab,” he says. “They’ve been slow all night.”

There’s nothing in his tone to object to. It’s practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.

Beside you, Evan shifts. “I can call—”

“I asked her,” Langdon replies.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.

Evan stills.

You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. It’s the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.

Langdon’s gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think he’s returned to the board. He hasn’t. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Room eight needs reassessment,” he says. “Now.”

You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove you’re not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isn’t irritation. It isn’t disappointment. It’s something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.

“Yes,” you say instead.

You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. “I’ll come with—”

“No,” Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesn’t fully face him. “You’re with me in bay three.”

Evan hesitates. “I thought I was—”

“You’re with me,” Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.

He doesn’t look back at Evan again. He doesn’t need to. The authority in his tone is enough.

You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didn’t accuse you of anything. He didn’t comment on the coffee. He didn’t mention Evan by name. He didn’t need to.

He simply rearranged the room.

And in doing so, he separated you.

Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when he’s instructing, when he’s teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.

But there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.

Evan listens, nodding stiffly.

For a brief moment, Langdon’s eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.

They find you. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t wandering. It’s deliberate.

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if he’s measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.

You look away first.

You tell yourself it’s because you have a patient waiting.

For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isn’t loud or explosive. There’s no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.

Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but there’s weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.

He doesn’t touch you again. He doesn’t mention Evan. But he watches.

And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.

Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they aren’t happening.

Evan’s chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If there’s an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort you’d already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume it’s accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize he’s angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that you’re aware of the contact even when you’re trying not to be.

When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like there’s nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you weren’t starting to feel the pattern.

He compliments your work constantly, and at first it’s harmless. “Your notes are always the clearest.” “You think through things better than most of us.” It’s validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdon’s scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.

But then the compliments shift.

“You know,” Evan says one night as you’re both reviewing labs, “you’re wasted trying to get his approval.”

You glance at him. “What?”

He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. “You work harder than anyone here. And he acts like you’re just barely keeping up.”

Your jaw tightens. “He doesn’t act like that.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t even look at you unless he’s quizzing you.”

The words hit closer than you want them to.

You turn back to your screen. “He looks at everyone like that.”

“Not like he looks at you,” Evan says quietly.

You don’t respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Langdon does look at you differently. You’ve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.

You tell yourself it’s professional.

Evan doesn’t seem to think so.

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he continues, softer now. “Not someone who treats you like a project.”

The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadn’t agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. “I’m not looking for someone.”

“I know,” he says. “But still.”

There’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.

Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You don’t mean to look, but you do. He’s no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isn’t openly fixed on you, but it isn’t random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evan’s hand where it rests too close to yours.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.

When you’re presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to “add context.” When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like it’s instinctive. It’s subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.

One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but it’s firm enough that you stop walking. “You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

You pull your arm back gently. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

“You always tense up when he’s around,” Evan says. “You don’t do that with me.”

There’s a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because there’s no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, you’re not constantly bracing.

With Langdon, you are always aware.

And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.

He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesn’t touch you, but the space between you shrinks until you’re hyperaware of the heat of him.

“Your interpretation?” he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.

You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.

Evan notices.

You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.

It becomes a pattern.

If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.

If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.

If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.

“Bay four,” he’ll say, not looking at Evan. “You’re needed.”

He never references you. He never mentions what he’s doing.

He just rearranges the board.

And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.

The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.

Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like it’s nothing. “You look good today,” he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.

You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s harmless. But you’re aware of the way Langdon’s attention sharpens when it happens.

He doesn’t confront Evan. He doesn’t confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.

Because there’s no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.

The contrast becomes impossible to ignore.

Evan offers ease. Soft praise. Physical closeness.

Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.

And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdon’s silence grows charged.

The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. It’s that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.

You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasn’t stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.

You’re reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Hey,” Evan says quietly.

You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.

“I just needed to grab something,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.

“Yeah,” he replies, stepping inside. “I figured.”

There’s less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.

You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. “Did you need something?”

“Actually,” he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. “I wanted to talk to you.”

You feel your shoulders tighten. “About?”

He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. “About us.”

Your stomach drops.

“There isn’t an us,” you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. You’ve been giving me a chance.”

You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didn’t shut him down cleanly because you didn’t want to be harsh.

“I said maybe to coffee,” you reply carefully. “That’s not—”

“It’s not nothing,” he interrupts gently. “You didn’t say no.”

He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.

“You’ve been leaning in,” he continues. “Laughing. Staying. You could’ve walked away.”

Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadn’t realized you’d stepped backward.

“I was just being friendly,” you say.

“And I was being more than that,” he says.

There’s something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he adds quietly. “Not someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.”

Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.

“That’s not fair,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure who you’re defending.

“I see you,” Evan says. “I see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like you’re a problem to solve.”

You don’t answer. He steps closer again. This time, there’s no pretending it’s accidental.

Your brain blanks for half a second. It’s not violent. It’s not forceful. But it’s not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with what’s happening.

“You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

He leans in. You see it coming. You know what he’s about to do.

And still, you hesitate. Because you don’t want to make a scene. Because you don’t want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.

His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not rough. Not aggressive. But it’s claiming.

Your body doesn’t respond. There’s no spark. No pull. No answering shift. There’s only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.

In a spilt second you shove him back.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

He stares at you, stunned.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.

“Because I didn’t—I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”

“You didn’t,” he insists. “You were into it.”

Your stomach twists.

“I wasn’t,” you say, stepping sideways so you’re no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. “I wasn’t.”

His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.

“I was tired,” you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. “And I thought we were just—”

“Just what?”

“Colleagues,” you finish.

Silence stretches between you.

You feel foolish. Guilty. Like you’ve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didn’t ask for his hand on your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.

Evan exhales sharply. “I thought you wanted this.”

“I don’t,” you say. The words land heavier than you expect.

He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.

“Is it him?” he asks quietly.

Your heart stumbles.

“What?”

“Is it because of him?”

You don’t answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.

And when it opens, it isn’t a nurse who steps inside.

It’s Langdon.

His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.

He takes in Evan’s position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance you’ve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.

Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.

For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.

Langdon doesn’t ask what’s going on.

He doesn’t look at Evan again immediately.

He looks at you.

“Room nine is asking for you,” he says evenly.

His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.

You swallow. “I was just—”

“I know,” he says.

The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.

Evan shifts beside you. “She’s with me.”

Langdon’s head tilts slightly, though he still hasn’t fully turned toward him. There’s a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you weren’t watching him.

“You’re needed in CT,” Langdon replies.

It’s the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.

Evan frowns. “We were in the middle of something.”

Now Langdon looks at him.

It’s not a glare. It’s not heated. It’s colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.

“She’s needed,” he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.

“Now.”

He says it to you, not to Evan.

The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction you’ll move.

You don’t hesitate this time. “Okay.”

The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, you’re acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.

Evan doesn’t try.

There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. “Fine,” he mutters.

Langdon doesn’t acknowledge the tone. He doesn’t need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.

You do.

The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.

No one says anything out loud.

But the shift is felt.

Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.

Except you were just inside that room.

You know it wasn’t ordinary.

“Room nine,” he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. “They’ve been waiting on reassessment.”

His tone leaves no space for debate.

You nod and move ahead, but he doesn’t immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.

Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t address him again. The dismissal is complete.

As you reach the workstation to pull up room nine’s chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

The question is almost clinical in delivery, but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.

It’s the first time he’s asked something like that.

You nod automatically. “I’m fine.”

His jaw shifts slightly, as if he’s weighing the truth of that statement.

“If I wanted to embarrass you,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you, “I would have asked what was happening in there.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t,” he continues. “That was intentional.”

There’s no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.

Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isn’t humiliation. It’s something more complicated.

“I didn’t need rescuing,” you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.

His gaze sharpens slightly at that.

“I know,” he says.

The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.

“Ethan must’ve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.

He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.

A nurse calls his name from across the station. “Dr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopter’s arriving.”

His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Walk with me,” he says.

It isn’t a request.

He doesn’t wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.

You follow.

The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesn’t look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.

When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.

He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.

“Inside,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours.

You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.

Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.

“You can’t let people corner you like that,” he says, tone level, controlled.

It sounds clinical. Detached. As if he’s discussing airway management.

You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. “I wasn’t cornered.”

He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. “You were,” he replies. “And you didn’t shut it down fast enough.”

Heat flares in your chest. “I handled it.”

“You froze.”

The word lands hard.

You turn to face him fully. “You don’t get to dissect that.”

His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. There’s no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, there’s tension threaded beneath the surface.

“You’re here to work,” he continues. “Not to manage other people’s feelings.”

Something in you snaps.

“Why do you care?” The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t pull it back.

His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t.”

It’s automatic. Defensive. Too quick.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right.”

The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.

“If you don’t care,” you press, stepping closer despite yourself, “then why do you always target me?”

That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests you’ve struck something real.

“I don’t target you,” he says, but the certainty in his voice isn’t as solid as it was a moment ago.

“You quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like I’m constantly one mistake away from being exposed.” Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. “You humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like it’s teaching.”

The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.

“I push you because you can take it,” he says quietly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You want an answer?” His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. “You’re capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.”

“You think I care about making people comfortable?”

“I think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer.

Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.

The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.

You both feel it.

Neither of you mention it.

“You warned me about him,” you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. “Why?”

His gaze sharpens. “Because he doesn’t see you.”

The answer is immediate.

You swallow. “He does.”

“He sees attention,” Langdon corrects. “He sees access. He doesn’t understand what you are.”

“And what am I?” you challenge.

He hesitates for the first time.

The pause is small but seismic.

“You’re not naive,” he says finally. “But you don’t always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.”

The words hang heavy between you.

“You don’t get to decide who gets me,” you reply, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

His jaw tightens.

“I know.”

The admission is quieter than anything he’s said so far.

The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.

You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now there’s barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“You act like I’m incompetent,” you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. “Like I’m a liability you’re constantly monitoring.”

His eyes darken slightly.

“If you were incompetent,” he says, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

It’s blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Your breathing shifts. You’re aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.

He notices. Of course he does.

“I don’t humiliate you,” he says, voice lower now. “I refuse to let you hide behind being new.”

“And what does that have to do with him?” you press.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

“I don’t trust him with you.”

The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.

The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.

“You don’t trust him,” you repeat slowly. “Or you don’t trust yourself?”

The question lands harder than you expected.

His hand flexes slightly at his side.

“You think this is about me?” he asks, but there’s no heat in it. Only tension.

“I think you care,” you say. “And you don’t know what to do with that.”

Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.

The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.

“You don’t get to claim me because you noticed first,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “You don’t get to decide who gets close.”

He inhales slowly.

“I’m not claiming you.”

The lie is softer this time.

The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesn’t quite touch.

Your eyes drop to the space between you.

Then back up.

“You stepped in,” you say. “You redirected him. You separated us.”

“Yes.”

No denial.

“And you’re telling me that wasn’t personal?”

His jaw tightens again.

“It was necessary.”

“For what?” you demand.

His gaze burns into yours.

“For you.”

The word lands in your chest like a weight.

Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.

“I don’t need protecting,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Yes.”

The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.

The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.

"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.

His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."

He says it like it costs him something.

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."

Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.

"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get to—"

He cuts himself off.

The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.

The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.

For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

And something in him snaps.

His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.

The kiss is sudden.

It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.

It crashes into you.

His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.

For half a second, you freeze.

Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.

And then you kiss him back.

Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.

He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."

You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.

His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.

"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."

His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.

"Watching him touch you."

His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.

"Smile at you."

His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.

"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."

You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.

"Dr Langdon—"

The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.

It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.

The elevator dings.

The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.

Langdon pulls away first.

Not gently. Not reluctantly.

Abruptly.

His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than you’ve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and there’s something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.

“This is a mistake,” he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.

The doors slide open.

Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.

You step out first.

He follows.

For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.

You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.

You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.

Instead, you catch him watching you.

And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.

It’s subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isn’t anger anymore; it’s restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.

For all his talk of mistakes, he doesn’t look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.

The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.

Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.

No one around you notices.

To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.

But the axis has shifted.

He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.

“Helicopter’s landing in two,” he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.

You nod, pulse still racing.

Everything has changed.

And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

In an instant you shake your head, then clear your throat. “Nope,” you say, then pluck your keys off the hook. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, let me just grab my water,” he extends his index finger, then follows it into the kitchen. Half a second later, he doubles back. “Did you need one, too?”

You glance down at your hands. Cradled haphazardly in one are your keys and your phone, the handle to your stainless steel water bottle in the other. “I’m good,” you nod, but the very fact that he’s asking still sends ripples of surprised affection through your veins.

You met Dennis Whitaker, fellow fourth year student doctor, two weeks ago, during your first shift at PTMC. What started out as an overwhelming first day in the emergency department —affectionately known as the pitt— turned into a traumatically overwhelming code black.

You learned a lot that day. About medicine, about yourself and how you react in crisis, but most surprisingly, you learned that your new coworker was homeless and squatting at the hospital.

Maybe it was the weight of the day’s trauma, or maybe you’re more generous than you thought you were, because you offered your spare room to Whitaker almost instantly.

He was so surprised and so grateful, and that shocked little half-smile on his face when you made the offer sent such a zap of serotonin to your brain that you kept doing nice things for him. Not that you’re unkind, of course, but certainly not this open and generous to someone you’d just met fifteen hours prior.

You find it both incredibly endearing and unnecessary that he tries to take up as little space as possible. You sat him down a couple days in and explained that he isn’t your guest. He lives here. He might not pay as much of the rent as you do —for the time being, until he gets his student loan debt under control— but this apartment is just as much his as it is yours. The relief that flooded his sea-glass eyes was enough to assure you that you did the right thing.

You mentioned at work yesterday that you wanted to get some exercise back in your routine. You’ve had a Planet Fitness membership since your first year as an intern, since they’re all over the place and not too expensive. When Whitaker mentioned something about his not having gone to the gym regularly since college, you invited him to come with you.

You thought nothing of it at the time. Your gym membership allows a guest to come with you when you work out, and he lives with you anyway, so what was the harm?

This, you think, biting your lip as he walks ahead of you down the stairs, was the harm. The worn collar of his t-shirt has stretched out so that it lays lower than it should. How could the back of somebody’s neck be so…

A chill runs down your spine, goosebumps sprouting along your arms. Your nervous system kicking in, you think, an unconscious act of self-preservation.

Quit looking at him like that. He’s your roommate. You’ve known him for two weeks. He sings 70s funk music in the shower. He’s left the toilet seat up at least three times in the two weeks he’s lived with you. There’s absolutely no good reason to be looking at him like this.

The Planet Fitness is only a couple of blocks from your apartment building, so you and Whitaker walk together. His broad frame beside you is both a comfort and a source of unease. You feel safe from the rest of the world walking beside him, but the persistent thoughts about him make you want to scream into a pillow.

You make little conversation on the five-minute walk to the gym, but this isn't out of the ordinary. Whitaker's specialty is companionable silence. You noticed this the first shift you worked together, before the aftermath of PittFest started spilling into the ER.

Even in the emergency department there are moments of quiet. You don't often take well to those times, hands fidgeting and mind racing with ideas of what to say to move the moment along, to avoid having to sit with yourself for too long. Whitaker's presence keeps it from being uncomfortable.

Even at the apartment, you've found you don't need to have the TV on all day, or keep your AirPods in while you cook and clean. Whitaker's mere being there keeps your mind from churning to that tempest of restless overthinking. He doesn't even have to say anything. He quiets you down without even trying.

Once you arrive at the gym, you scan the barcode on your phone to check in, and step away from the desk to find Whitaker waiting for you with his hands clasped behind his back. He bounces on the balls of his feet, green-blue eyes staring back at you expectantly.

A geyser of nerves bursts out of you in the form of a shaky laugh. "What am I, your cruise director?" You titter in perhaps the world’s lamest joke, then nod to the open gym around you. "Have at it, Whitaker!"

He stifles a laugh, eyes twitching at you like you have two heads. "Yeah, okay. Meet back here in, like, an hour?" He asks.

You nod, cheeks furiously flushed because what the hell was that? Whitaker dips his chin in a little nod, then heads for the weight machines.

You palm your forehead for a moment and loose a long breath. Hopefully all the weirdness seeps out of you on this exhale, because you're certainly not making any of this easier on yourself.

You tug your AirPods out of the pocket of your leggings and find an unoccupied treadmill. You haven't dedicated any time to exercising in at least a month, but it'll feel good to work out some of this tension, work and Whitaker-related.

You start off on a slow walk, giving your body a minute or two to acclimate while also stretching your arms over your head. Without much thought, your eyes scan the open space, taking in the other gymgoers before landing, much to your dismay, upon Whitaker. He's at the lat pulldown in the middle of the weights section. His biceps are modest in size but not in strength, you recall from observation on the job, and the veins in them flex as he slowly drags the weights down in repeated reps.

You jab at the treadmill's buttons to increase your speed and incline, as way of punishing yourself for staring. You tug out your phone, press play on a workout playlist, and resolve to look anywhere else but at Whitaker for the rest of your workout.

Soon you reach a moderate jog, your breath heightened at the extra exertion. You lock your gaze on the nearest television, showing some home improvement show, and succeed, by small miracle, in focusing on that for a while.

It’s impossible not to be at least a little bit in-shape in your line of work. On your feet for twelve hours at a time, sprinting from one end of the pitt to the other. You wouldn’t entirely discount yourself in that department, but you certainly aren’t going to be running any 5ks any time soon.

So after about fifteen minutes, your body is feeling the consistent jog. The bottoms of your feet start to tingle, your ankles a little wobblier than when you began. You reach for your water, and when you divert your gaze from the TV, you spot Whitaker again. Now he’s on the barbell bench, flat on his back, raising and lowering the barbell in chest presses.

From this angle you can’t see his face, but you can’t help but imagine the sweat matting his dark blond curls to his forehead. Or the sensitive, slick back of his neck.

His mouth, you can see by craning your neck, is shaped in a perfect little ‘O’, pushing through exertive breaths in a four-count rhythm. The sight recalls to you the several times in the past two weeks you’ve watched him perform compressions on a patient. His shoulders threatening to cave in, hands interlocked on the patient’s chest and pushing with the force required to stimulate blood circulation and restart their heart. He always looks so concentrated —for good reason of course— but he wears a similar expression now. 

Your only focus in those moments is your patients, of course, but you always notice a fluttering, unnerving sensation in your tummy afterwards.

With your jaw hung ajar, your tongue hovers in mid-air, extended across your mouth toward the straw of your water bottle. You must look like a dumbfounded lizard. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper, ignoring the gaping, offended expression of the older woman speed-walking beside you.

You slam your water bottle back into the treadmill’s cupholder.  You continue to jog, upbeat music thumping in your AirPods. But then your chest tightens at where your thoughts drift to next.

Whitaker, using that farm-trained strength of his to lift you off the ground. He could do it, you think, with little effort. Shove you up against a wall with no extra force at all. You haven’t adjusted the speed on the treadmill in minutes, yet your heart’s hammering away like you’ve just finished a sprint.

Fuck.

You tear your gaze away from Whitaker just as he finishes his reps, lifting the dumbbell back into the rack with a clank that blends in with the rest of the noisy gym. As he sits up, a woman approaches him. Younger than both of you by a couple years, if you had to guess. Platinum blonde, with her hair cut into a blunt yet striking bob just below her chin. She wears black, skin-tight bikers shorts and a matching sports bra, displaying her perfectly toned body. 

Compared to your Old Navy leggings and oversized t-shirt, she must look like the patron goddess of Planet Fitness. 

She speaks to Whitaker, with a dazzling, glossy-lipped smile, blinking down at him where he sits on the bench. He looks up at her with a friendly smile, his cheeks flushed a delicate shade of baby pink.

You can’t tell if it’s from exercising or this impossibly beautiful girl speaking to him.

Envy twists in your gut. You jog without much thought to what your body is doing, eyes locked on the scene playing out before you. The realization dawns on you that you have no actual right to be pissed about a girl flirting with Whitaker at the gym, but it only serves to piss you off more. You grit your teeth, pumping your arms beside you with each hastened step.

Gym Girl oozes confidence. Her perfect, clear, tanned skin wraps around pronounced muscles. On her arms, her rear, her legs. Her stomach, even, has little ridges that make you reach self-consciously to the plush squish of your own tummy. It’s not flat like hers.

She laughs at something Whitaker says, throwing back her head girlishly as he simultaneously rubs the back of his neck. She reaches a flawlessly manicured hand out to brush his shoulder, and the drumming in your heart soon gives way to a high-pitched ringing in your ears, overtaking any music from your ear buds.

Gym Girl’s hand lingers on Whitaker’s shoulder for one second, then two. Rage floods your stomach as she squeezes his bare bicep, and your feet give out beneath you. You misstep against the front edge of the treadmill, then, without the foresight to grab on to the balance bars, slide off the conveyor and wind up flat on your back with an obnoxious “oof!”

The fall has garnered the attention of most everybody in the gym, including Whitaker, who abandons Gym Girl and rushes to the spot where your tombstone will be planted.

“Holy shit, are you alright?” Whitaker asks, crouching down beside you.

“I’m fine,” you exhale instantaneously through gritted teeth. Your entire body flushes even more than it was while jogging, your face hot with pink humility. A thin sheet of sweat layers over you, eyes welling as the pain registers in various parts of your body. Your tailbone, for one, stings with the weight and shock of the fall.

“You don’t look fine,” he looks you over, eyes scanning every piece of you with clinical interest. He stands, then extends his arm. You clasp your hand in his, but the second you put weight on your ankle, you land back on your ass with a grunt.

“Shit,” you wince, reaching for your ankle, as if that would do anything to dull the throbbing.

Whitaker’s back beside you on the scratchy gym carpet in a flash, one palm stretched across your back, the other reaching for your leg. “I don’t think it’s sprained,” he murmurs, then inches closer for a better look.

Around you, the music still thumps through the gym speakers. Eyes from all over the gym watch your every movement as patrons pretend to continue their workouts. The faint, humming sound of your AirPods still playing comes from where they landed on the floor. You scoop them up and shove them into your pocket.

Whitaker’s index and middle fingers press tentatively against your shin. “Ouch!” You exclaim, expression contorting in discomfort. It’s achy, tender, and red, but there are no bones jutting out at unnatural angles.

“Shit,” Whitaker curses. “I’m sorry.” He dips his chin, searching for your eyes. He says your name, firm but quiet, so that your gaze snaps to his. Your heart stumbles in a broken rhythm. “Hey, I’m sorry. I think it’s just a twist, though. Maybe we should try to get you to one of the chairs?” He suggests, nodding to the lounge area near the entrance. “Do you think you can put a little weight on it if I support you?”

You hum in agreement with a tightly twisted mouth. Whitaker offers his shoulder, his arm snaking around your waist. You slowly rise to stand on one leg, wincing and cursing beneath your breath in the process.

“There you go, that’s it,” Whitaker whispers, his breath hot on the back of your ear, a breeze rustling through the baby hairs that didn’t quite make it into your ponytail. Goosebumps prickle up and down your arms and you pray to whatever benevolent god is listening that Whitaker doesn't notice. 

When you try to bear weight on your ankle, you recoil, leaning entirely on Whitaker in response. Your hand slips and drags over where his nipple has become exposed from his shirt. “Fuck, I’m sorry, shit,” you whimper, heat blossoming between your legs in some sick, ironic joke.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Whitaker doesn’t seem to notice, or if he did he makes the effort not to show it. His eyes remain locked down pensively on your ankle. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then meets your gaze. “Can I pick you up?” He asks.

“Wh-what?” You’re floored by the question, a frozen sense of dread draining your cheeks of color. Adrenaline and embarrassment seem to be running a tight race through your every molecule.

Whitaker blinks, unphased. “I think I can probably carry you. At least to one of those chairs. And then we can get some ice on it and go from there. Would that be okay?”

You nod, and in a slow, careful scoop, Whitaker’s got you folded up in his arms. One arm loops around his neck as he carries you towards the chairs. His steps are slow, but you don’t think it’s because you’re too heavy. He’s intentionally trying not to jostle you around. Your eyes well up with tears, but you don’t allow them to fall.

Whitaker sets you down in the hard, cheap armchair, then helps you elevate your leg onto the coffee table, going so far as to drag the table closer to you.

A gym employee comes by with your water bottle and a bundle of ice wrapped in a towel. Whitaker accepts both with a nod of thanks. To your surprise, he sits right there, on the floor beside the coffee table, and gingerly sets the ice atop the swollen bump of your ankle. 

“How’s that?” He asks, looking up at you from the floor with widened, concerned eyes.

You wonder for a half-second if they can be called doe eyes if they're the most striking, dizzying shade of blue. 

Your chin wobbles as you nod again. “Yeah, it’s alright,” you say quietly. If you had one wish, it would be to sink through this fake vinyl chair, through the corporate patterned carpet, into oblivion. Instead you’re here, locked into place by the worried watch of Whitaker.

“What can I do for you?” He asks, then offers up your water bottle. You accept it, but shove it between your hip and the arm of the chair. Whitaker’s expression falters a little at this, as if he’s disappointed. “What’s your pain at?”

A bubble of amusement pops in the form of a brisk, breathy laugh. Whitaker cocks his head to the side, that confused puppy look usurping his expression. “You’re using your doctor voice,” you sniffle as a rogue tear escapes the corner of one eye. You wipe it away hurriedly.

Whitaker’s cheeks flush and he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. An unexpected rush of pride inflates your chest, but you ignore it. “Force of habit, I guess,” he offers, then nods to your ankle.

“Like a five right now,” you answer, then reach for your water bottle and take a drink. “Closer to a seven when I try to walk.”

Whitaker digests this information with a dip of his chin. “I have ACE wrap at home,” he says. “In my street team bag. Unless you want a second opinion. Or, rather, a third,” he exhales a bit, a shy, sideways smile blooming over his mouth. "Where's Dana when you need her, eh?"

The word home leaving his lips trips you up.

“Home?” You address it before you can think better of it, warmth radiating across your clammy skin.

He hangs his head for a second, a laugh leaking out, before tipping his gaze back up at you. “Yeah,” he agrees with a shrug. Forced nonchalance transforms into teasing. “Where we live. Ever heard of it?”

“Shut up,” you huff, then wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “You don’t think it’s sprained?”

You crane your neck to look, and Whitaker gingerly raises the towel. The ice clatters together softly as he jostles it up, giving way to a swollen ankle. Red, throbbing, and certainly tender, but no bruising.

“I don’t think so, no,” Whitaker says, watching you examine your own ankle. “You don’t want to go to the hospital, do you?”

You shoot him a sardonic, sideways smile. “On our day off? No way.” A beat passes, and you sink back into the chair. “I don’t think we need to. Just elevate it, ice it, and—“

“—slowly put weight back on it,” Whitaker finishes for you, arching an all-knowing brow. You nod in confirmation. He points to his head. “Not just a hat rack.”

You shake your head. He’s so ridiculous, going along with the bit in the middle of a crisis just to make you feel better. Just to calm your nerves.

The silence that follows is comfortable, which is not unexpected. Whitaker holds the ice over your ankle for a few more minutes, looking at the nearest TV rather than at you. Or at least, you think so, because you’re staring at your water bottle rather than at him.

After a couple minutes, Whitaker clears his throat. “Do you want me to carry you home?” He asks. “Or…”

You suppose the other options are pretty limited. You can order an Uber, which feels ridiculous considering you’re less than half a mile from the apartment. Home, you correct yourself. Whitaker called it home. Twice, now.

Or, you suppose, you could call a friend for a ride. But nobody you know that lives even remotely nearby owns a car.

“Do you think you can?” You ask Whitaker, digging your fingernails into the arm of the sofa. “I’m not exactly—“

“I can,” Whitaker cuts in. The small nod that follows, accompanied by the assured steadiness of his voice, leads you to believe him.

You swallow, and blink. “Okay,” you whisper. Then clear your throat and speak a little louder. “Farm strength, huh?”

“Yeah,” Whitaker chuffs, then moves to stand up off the ground. “Yeah, something like that.”

He squares his shoulders, then smooths out his shirt. 

His waist is so small in comparison to the wide plane of his upper chest. In the perverse corner of your mind, you're squeezing his hips and sliding your hands under the hem of that stupid, worthless cutoff. Might as well have not worn a shirt, for all the good it's done him. 

Whitaker helps you stand, then hauls you into his arms once again. He hoists you up, jostling you just a bit, and you wince at the heightened ache. 

"Shit. I'm sorry," he murmurs apologetically, then starts for the door. As he walks, you realize he was right. He can carry you, without much extra effort. You keep your hand looped around his neck, placing your other on his chest for extra stability. At least, that's what you tell yourself. 

You can feel the faint, steady thumping of his heart. The rhythm keeps you calm, nestled in Whitaker's arms, trusting that he'll avoid all the cracks and dips and holes in the sidewalk. The rhythm keeps your own noisy mind from taking over, from saying something stupid just to break the silence. 

Companionable silence is Whitaker's specialty, you think again, giving yourself permission to bask in it. Like a kitten in a patch of sunlight. Like—

"That's nice," he murmurs, under his breath, yanking you directly and wholly from your thoughts. 

"Huh?" 

"Your hand," Whitaker says quietly, nodding to where you palm his chest. Where your fingers have been rubbing a circular motion atop his ratty t-shirt. "It feels nice." 

"Oh," you swallow hard, blinking. "I didn't realize I was…" you start to pull back your hand. 

"No, don't stop, please," Whitaker's voice is a low rumble. Existing this close to him, you can hear the vibration of his throat. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. It feels nice. Calming." 

"I embarrassed myself," you mutter, latching on to the former half of his words rather than the latter. "Tripping over a treadmill. Who does that?" 

Your hand ends back up in your lap, but Dennis doesn't ask you to place it over his heart again. 

Even though he really, really wants to. 

Even though a surge of panic flooded over him when he saw you fall from the treadmill. 

Even though his cock twitched when your palm accidentally dragged over his nipple. 

Even though he kept looking back at you the entire time he was working out, only to be hit upside the head with an anvil of disappointment and find your attention transfixed to the TV. Even though he lied to the blonde girl by the bench and said he was in a relationship when she asked for his number. 

Even though there's so many different thoughts of you swirling around his head at all times, but the path from his brain to his mouth is obstructed and he can't bring himself to confess that he thinks he's thinking about you too much. That he's never thought of any one particular person so much before, or considered how his every singular movement could affect them. That your laugh and your blush and your stupid goddamn lipglosses ending up all over the apartment send projectile missiles to his head, his cock, and his heart. That when he called your apartment home earlier, it wasn't just a slip of the tongue. That he feels so fucking in over his head every time he opens his mouth around you he has no choice but to resort to silence. 

He doesn't say any of that. 

depression

If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.

He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.

He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This is why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.

"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."

Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"

Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."

Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.

She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.

For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?

He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.

She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.

It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.

Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.

It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.

Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.

She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?

A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."

"That's it?"

"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"

Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.

"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."

The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.

"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."

Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must be some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.

He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.

He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."

"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."

Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.

"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."

Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."

"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."

He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.

God, Robby really owed him one.

"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."

"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."

Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"

He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."

She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.

Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.

He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.

She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"

"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."

"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."

"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."

"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"

That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.

Maybe he owes Robby one.

Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.

Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.

He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."

He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.

bargaining

"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"

Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.

"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."

"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."

"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.

"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.

That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.

What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.

"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.

Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.

"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."

Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.

He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.

He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.

He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?

He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.

He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.

He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.

No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.

denial

She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the Hub proved it.

Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous in the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.

So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.

Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.

She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.

Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.

"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.

"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.

"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.

“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.

That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.

It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.

He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.

She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.

Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”

In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”

Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.

"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"

"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"

"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"

"What in the greys anatomy"

"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"

"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"

"Does that girl know she has 45mins to claim that man before I do"

"He does not play about her!"

"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"

"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"

"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"

"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"

"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.

"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.

"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.

"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."

“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.

“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.

He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.

He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.

So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.

And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."

"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.

"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."

"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."

Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."

But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.

anger

Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.

He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.

"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"

"-Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.

"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"

"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"

Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.

Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.

They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.

Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.

Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.

They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.

Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.

But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.

And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.

The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.

With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.

It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.

She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.

Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.

So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.

He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.

From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says

Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.

He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.

Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.

Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.

"Shen and Ellis need a cover."

"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.

"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.

Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."

Who was Jack to argue with that?

"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"

Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.

"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."

He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.

On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.

"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.

"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.

His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.

His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.

"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."

"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?

It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.

Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.

Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.

His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.

Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.

"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.

The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.

Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.

Until he wasn't.

Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?

They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.

He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.

He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.

"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.

"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."

She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.

"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.

"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?

"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.

Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.

"Woah! Old man still has moves!"

Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.

Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.

Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.

Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"

Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.

He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."

He was so fucked.

acceptance

Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.

He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.

He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.

He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.

They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.

Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"

Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.

As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."

"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.

Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."

"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.

"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.

"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.

He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.

She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.

"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.

The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."

"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?

"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."

That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.

"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"

Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."

"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.

Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.

She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.

She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”

"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."

"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."

"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.

"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."

She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"

"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself

"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.

“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”

“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”

Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."

"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkled up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.

He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.

"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."

She was released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."

Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.