Stevie-Bunny

You had done the pirouette a million times, but you weren’t sure if it was your knees, coordination or your eyes that betrayed you, but you hit the floor hard. 

You didn’t get up quickly — not because of embarrassment or fear but because you physically weren’t able to. 

A loud ringing noise pierced through your ears. You tried to look around at the crowd of feet around you, but everything had gone blurry.

The instructor rolled you over onto your back. 

“Can you hear me?” She gently tapped your face a few times. 

You frowned at her, not hearing what she was saying. 

“Shall we call an ambulance?”

“Give her a second” she said softly. “Squeeze my hand” she held your hand, but you didn’t hear the command. 

It was like your body had gone limp. 

A few seconds later, you said weakly, “I’m fine. I can hear you now.”

The instructor helped you sit up, and the movement had made you nauseous. You didn’t know what had happened or why you felt that way, but you knew it was about time the symptoms you had ignored for so long caught up with you. 

The instructor dropped you off at PTMC, insisting you’d get checked out. Embarrassed and in pain, you stepped into triage, dressed in pink leotards. The day shift would have gone by now, and you weren’t too familiar with all the night shift staff, so you hoped no one would notice you. 

You sat down, put on your headphones and waited for the long night ahead.

🩰

Jack Abbot was used to women flirting with him.

He noticed the lingering stares whenever he walked into a room, the way heads turned as he passed by, and the smiles people sent his way. Not the polite kind, either; the kind that came with intentions written all over them.

The thing was, none of it interested him because Jack wanted mystery. Why? Because everyone knew everything about him, and it was all pretty obvious.

So imagine his surprise when the dayshift nurse, whom he rarely ever saw, and had a crush on since he met, showed up in triage, wearing a ballerina outfit. Jack knew they would have a specific name or whatever, but he couldn’t think of nor didn’t want to think about it longer than he should. 

He wasn’t supposed to be working the night shift, but when they needed spare hands, he of course, said yes. He told Shen that he had to deal with something and then walked into the triage to find you.

“Dr Abbot” you smiled softly, “Hello.”

“Hey, are you alright? What happened?”

“I uh… fell during ballet class. And I can’t risk an injury on the job, so…”  Your voice cracked slightly on the last word

He gestured for you to follow him. “C'mon, let’s go.”

You whispered, “But I only just got here.” 

He leaned in and whispered back, “And you work here, so you get VIP access.” You felt as though his voice wasn’t laced with his usual charm — it was more concerned. 

You got up slowly, and Jack immediately noticed that you were in pain. 

“Hold onto me.”

You nodded, nerves and humiliation burning in your throat.

He stepped in without hesitation, wrapping one strong arm securely around your waist while the other hovered in front of you. “Do you want a wheelchair?”

“No, I’ll be okay, thank you” You leaned into him more than you wanted to, hating how much you needed the support. Hating how safe he felt.

He opened the door and led you into a triage room. Jack tried his best not to think about how incredibly good you looked in the little pink dress that hugged your figure perfectly. He hated himself for noticing. You were hurt and scared, and he was your doctor tonight.

“Take me through what happened.” He said as he helped you get into the bed.

“It’s silly, really.” you started, voice small. “I was doing a pirouette — it’s where you balance on top of your toes and spin. I lost my balance and fell, face down” 

He nodded, but was not fully convinced. “Anything else?”

You stayed quiet, trying to think of how much you wanted to share. 

Jack’s voice dropped, soft and serious. “Why are you here?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s not just because you lost your balance, so tell me… You can trust me.”

The kindness in his tone nearly broke you. You nodded shakily, fidgeting with your hands as tears already burned behind your eyes.

“I couldn’t hear anyone for the first few minutes — all I heard was a ringing noise. Then I tried to move but…. My body went limp. Like I was paralysed. And it was really scary not being able to move.”

He watched his reaction as it went from curiosity to concern. You felt the exact emotions in your chest too.

“How long did that last for?”

“A few minutes.”

His voice softened even more, nothing like the authoritative tone he used when working. “Anything else?”

That’s when you let your tears run. You had been holding it in for weeks, maybe months. But it finally came crashing down. And now here you were, crying in front of someone you’d worked with but never been this close to, or this vulnerable with. 

“It’s okay, come here, it’s okay” Jack immediately stood up and took you in for a hug as you sobbed.  

You sobbed harder against his chest. “It’s stupid, I shouldn’t even be here. But I’m so scared of going home and the same thing happening again.”

“It’s not stupid at all” He said quietly, “not at all. You need to get checked out, and you did the right thing”

You felt calm and safe in his arms and mourned the loss as he pulled away.

“Let’s start with the basics, we’ll do bloodwork, too. If your neuro checks all work out, we can order scans. Might be cheaper to go through your primary physician for the checks. For now, tell me more about your symptoms, starting with when they first appeared”

You told him everything — the growing number of times you’d lost your balance, the dizziness that came out of nowhere, the way your vision sometimes blurred during rehearsals. How you’d been pushing through it for months, terrified that admitting it would end your career.

He asked if you were flexible, and you shrugged and said, “Of course, that’s why I did ballet. You can bend me in half like a piece of paper.”

Jack, despite every ounce of professionalism screaming at him, let out a silent, barely audible whimper at the image.

He cleared his throat and nodded. 

You felt heat flood your cheeks and bit down hard on your lip to stop the small, embarrassed smile. Even now, broken and terrified, some stupid part of you liked the way he reacted. You knew that someone like Abbot shouldn't be doing any of this, that a med student could, but you knew he wanted to be here in the room with you. And so did you.

He did his checks, which all checked out. You waited for bloods, and he found every excuse to come back into your room.

“Why don’t we try and do the pirou—thing movement again?” he said as he paced around the room.

You let out a small laugh at his attempt to say the word. “Seriously?”

“I want to see if there’s an imbalance or if you go dizzy again.”

“What if I fall again?”

“I won’t let that happen.” His voice low, almost a promise. 

You nodded slowly. 

He helped you slip your ballet flats on and off the bed. 

You cleared your throat and prepared yourself for the spin. You felt incredibly nervous, more nervous than performing on stage. 

Jack crossed his arms against his chest and watched you. Keeping his distance for you to spin not too far away so he could be there in case you fell.

You did the spin perfectly, but as you stopped, you lost your balance again, and the ringing noise slammed your ears like a siren. You stumbled forward, and Jack caught you against his chest instantly. 

“Shit” you mumbled. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He put you on the bed and gave you an emesis bag, then you pointed at your ears as he you saw him speak. 

He pulled out his phone and typed

ringing?

you nodded

pain?

you shook your head.

dizzy?

you gestured maybe. 

You didn’t throw up, but spent the rest of the night lying sideways on the bed, hugging the bag tightly to your chest. The fear that this was something permanent — something that would steal ballet, your job or your whole identity — sat like a knife in your chest. 

“I can hear now” you said quietly as you heard his footsteps around the room. “You’re pacing”

“I’m worried”

“That’s not the words I want to hear from my doctor” you tried to joke but your voice broke instead. 

He smiled kindly and quickly said, “Sorry.”

“Are you certain your pain isn't because of exhaustion? burning yourself out?’

“No, it’s definitely not because of that.”

Jack’s favourite nurse, whom he doesn’t get enough of, is now under his care, and he has no clue what was wrong.

“How about this — let’s keep you here for the whole night, and order scans hmm?”

You shook your head. “I’ll sort it with my doctor. And I don't want the day shift to know I’m here”

“Okay, but do you live with anyone?

“No, but i’ll be fine”

“I don't know how I feel about that” he said quietly, “I don't think I can let you go home, what if something happens?”

“Dr Abbot, you’re a terrible doctor” you joked and sat up in bed, “ leaving me with no options.”

“How about this — I take you home, make sure you get there safely. You stay in bed the whole day, got it? We’ll try to get the scans booked and an appointment with neurology tomorrow.”

“I won't get an appointment that quick.”

“I know many people” he said, giving you a small smile, “I’ll get you an appointment, don't worry” 

You nodded.

“No spinning at home, no moving quickly. Don’t try to shower unless someone's there. Keep your phone on you at all times, and if you fall again, you call 911”

“That’s a lot…” You said anxiously, “I can't be bed-bound. I’m expected back here in two days.”

He sighed. Jack wanted to help and keep an eye on you. Maybe his emotions were clouding his judgment; maybe having you close to him would explain more of what you were feeling. “Do you want to come over to my place? Just until you see neurology?”

“Are you going to be anxious if I say no?”

“You shouldn't be worried about me” he said. “But yes, I probably will be.”

“Okay then.”

He smiled and nodded. “Get some sleep, I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go home”

Your stomach flipped at the way he’d said it so casually. Going home with one of the attendings was never on your to achieve list but here you were. You, of course, couldn’t sleep, a mixture of anxiety, mainly and worry, but also anticipation of seeing Abbot outside of work. And not just anywhere — at his place. 

“Hey, you’re up.” Jack walked into the room. He looked tired and could do with sleep.

“You look tired.” You said shyly, “Was it a bad shift?”

He nodded. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think. Or the same, it’s confusing me.”

Jack asked a lot about you on the drive over to his — he asked about your dancing, what made you pursue both careers. He asked a lot. You wanted to know more, and you didn’t hesitate to ask him too. But you were more anxious and nervous and struggled to keep up with the conversation. 

He showed you the spare bedroom and gave you a spare change of clothes and toiletries. 

“Dr Abbot — I uh, I need a shower, so am I okay to just…” 

“Of course, yeah,” Jack blushed “it’s through my bedroom. Do you think you’ll be okay in there?”

“No spinning” you smiled, “and no moving quickly, I remember.”

And you remembered the third command: no showering unless someone is there. 

“Okay, shout me if you need anything.”

You followed him into his bedroom and couldn’t help but take a quick look around. Everything was impossibly tidy, like someone had designed it to feel more like a high-end hotel than a home. The bathroom was no different — spotless and luxurious, but clearly built to suit him perfectly.

Jack hesitated for a moment, thinking of so many worst-case scenarios that could happen.

“I’ll be fine,” you said softly as you felt his mind tick. “I won’t be long.”

He smiled and nodded and closed the door behind him.  

🩰

Your joints always hurt, but you didn’t think about it too much. You thought that with working long shifts and then spending your days off performing, it was normal. 

But it turned out that it wasn’t. 

Abbot indeed helped you get an appointment quickly, and you met with the first consultant, then the second and before you knew it you were being referred to different people until you received a diagnosis. 

Your diagnosis was not terminal. It was not heartbreaking. 

It was life-changing. 

To be told that you had hEDS was not an easy diagnosis to accept. 

You thought that you were a good dancer because you practised well, and performed even better. But you didn’t anticipate that you had a medical condition allowing you to be this flexible. A medical condition that explained your pains. 

A medical condition that gave you a lifetime skill of performing brilliantly, but also might take away your ability to perform altogether. 

It all made sense. Why your ‘growing pains’ never went away, why you bruised up so easily. 

You might never know why, now all of a sudden your hEDS worsened, but you were suddenly terrified of your future.

You hadn’t seen Abbot since you last spent the day at his house. It wasn’t as awkward as you thought it was going to be; in fact, it was casual, and your conversation flowed easily. 

You didn’t have his number, so you wrote him a note and popped it into his locker. 

Thank you for everything. I am getting used to my new norm.

You told him what the diagnosis was in your note and that you were figuring things out.

Your new norm was different and exhausting. 

You continued attending ballet sessions as usual, fought through the dizziness and the pains. And you performed brilliantly. No one suspected anything because you hid it well. 

You were working towards a performance of a lifetime, and a diagnosis was not going to stop you. 

You occupied Jack’s mind a lot of the time. He wasn’t sure if it was coincidental that he hadn’t seen you since you were last here as a patient, or just simply bad luck. 

But he enjoyed the back-and-forth notes you left each other in your lockers. He wanted to ask for your number, but couldn’t risk anyone else getting hold of the note. 

So he picked up a day shift, hoping you would be there but you weren’t. So he picked up another one and another one. 

Until one day but he wished he had after what he saw, right in front of his eyes. 

🩰

Your mind repeatedly told you that you weren’t good enough. That you couldn’t keep up at work, and fell behind during ballet practice. 

It played tricks on you — why didn’t you get checked out sooner? Maybe your body wouldn’t be shutting down this early on in your career. 

Your headaches were not just headaches; they were migraines.

You worked in healthcare, and you missed all the signs.

You wiped your tears and opened the bathroom stall, promising yourself you were not going to let self-pity and anxiety get the best of you.

What should have been a simple job of taking bloods turned into something much more serious. 

The patient was agitated, understandably so, as he had his face smacked with a baseball bat. 

With pain comes fear, but also comes delirium. 

Robby and McKay were already trying to pin the patient down for you so you could give a sedative injection. What you didn’t expect was the patient to throw a punch, followed by multiple punches. 

“Fuck!” Robby yelled as he dodged another one. 

“Robby, we need more help in here, he’s twice our size, both combined.” McKay protested. 

You opened the door and yelled at Dana, asking for help but it was too late. 

You heard Robby yell and McKay scream. 

You turned around, and her face was covered in blood, and you then saw the patient launch himself at you, throwing you out of the room, landing on top of you. 

You remembered hitting your head and the heavy feeling of him on you. 

But you had no energy to fight back or get him off you. 

Then the Pitt became a circus. 

People screamed, someone yelled and people were running towards the chaos.

And you stayed limp as the patient grabbed your scrub top, picked you up and slammed you into the ground again as he screamed in fear.

Jack witnessed a horror scene in front of him. 

A body is being thrown out of a room. 

But not anybody, yours. 

In less than a second, he body slammed you into the ground not once, but twice. 

He watched as everything slowed down, stopped, and then chaos erupted. 

Langdon was the first one to tackle the patient off you. 

Then Abbot crouched beside you, assessing in seconds. Your body was still and your head rested at an awkward angle. 

You were moved onto a bed. 

"I've got airway." Dana attached a pulse oximeter to your finger while another nurse clipped cardiac monitor leads onto your chest.

"Heart rate 88. Blood pressure 128 over 76. Oxygen 99%."

"Good." Jack said.

He shone a penlight into one eye. "Pupils equal."

The light moved to the other. "Reactive."

Robby was already running gloved hands along your scalp.

"Any skull deformity?" Jack asked.

"No obvious depression."

"Good," Jack repeated, almost trying to convince himself.

Jack continued his neurological assessment. "Can you hear me?" he called, although you remained unconscious.

No response.

A cervical collar was fitted around your neck.

Jack said anxiously, “Let's keep c-spine precautions until imaging clears her.”

The room quieted slightly until Jack said, “Robby, check on McKay, I’ve got this. Dana, let's move." The bed began rolling toward imaging.

🩰

“It hurts” you said quietly, “my head hurts”

“Hey, hey, you’re up” Jack quickly shifted off the chair. “You’re okay.”

“What happened?” 

“There was an incident… with a patient”

“Shit” you said quietly. “Am I injured?”

“Other than a bruised head, it’s all clear,” Jack said firmly, working hard on not letting his voice break.  

You tried to smile at him, reaching for lightness you didn’t feel. “Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

He didn’t smile back — he looked miserable. 

“Abbot, I’m okay.” you whispered and put your hand out to him. “I’m okay.”

You were trying to convince him more than yourself. 

All he managed was a nod as he took his hand in yours.

“Is McKay okay? And Robby?”

He nodded again. 

You nodded back then, let your tears run. It had taken a few minutes for reality to sink in — he could have changed your life, he could have injured you beyond repair. You wondered if you weren’t how you were, could you have reacted faster?

Dana knocked on the door, and Jack shot up, quickly moving away. 

“Hey trooper” She said, “how are you feeling?”

“Fine, I think…” you said quietly, “Can I go home?”

Dana's eyes bounced over at Jack, who was staring at the floor. 

“Abbot?”

Jack blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“Can she go home?”

He answered too fast. “Uh, check with Shen. I’m off the case.” Then he walked out without another word, shoulders rigid, not sparing you a glance.

You managed to get dressed despite the amount of pain you were in, and headed home. You didn’t see Abbot or hear from him for days after the incident. 

Jack kept a distance because he felt guilty for not being there. For not protecting, for not keeping an eye on you.

The image of you being body slammed onto the ground repeated in his head, over and over again.

Two weeks. That’s how long passed since  last seeing Abbot, since last being attacked.  Two long weeks of confusing emotions. One minute he was on the verge of tears; another minute, he rushed out of the room, never to speak to you again. 

You didn’t leave him any notes in his locker and neither did he.

Your body was covered in bruises, and it was becoming difficult to try and hide them all. 

Robby was on your case on how you were feeling, and you kept saying you were fine. But in fact you weren’t. 

You were worried and tired. Your body had given up on you, the brain fog was becoming difficult to deal with, you no longer slept through the night, and you felt as though you were shutting down. 

Someone said to you that you were becoming too clumsy. And that’s when it hit; you no longer felt coordinated. 

But you had two jobs to think about, two jobs you loved, two jobs you thrived at. Or so you thought. 

Jack noticed that you were working the day shift, and he knew you’d be around, so he found any excuse to speak with you. He watched as you walked slowly, the heavy feeling of dragging your limbs was too obvious. It was obvious for someone who was disabled; for someone who was not, it was subtle.

He then noticed it, how upset you looked when you rushed out of the room and ran towards the stairs. 

He couldn’t wait any longer without speaking to you so he followed. He found you sitting in a quiet corner, crying silently. The moment your eyes met his, your expression changed. 

It wasn’t panic or the fear of being caught; it was hurt more than anything because he had ignored you for two weeks. 

“Dr Abbot” you said quietly as you wiped your hot tears and looked away from him.

He crouched down to your level “I don’t think I need to ask, do I?”

“Is it that obvious? 

“Not to anyone else, no” He sat next to you on the floor. 

“I’m in so much pain… and I feel like I’m losing myself. I’m struggling to keep up with basic tasks, and my final straw was dropping equipment.”

“Have you started physical therapy yet?”

You said quite, “no…”

“It’ll help. I promise you it’ll make a difference.” he gave you a shy smile, “It helped me”

“I’m sorry I’m sitting here complaining when you’ve got your own thing to worry about”

“Not at all” he cut in “I’m just saying I somewhat see where you’re coming from.”

You nodded and hugged your knees to your chest. 

“I’m sorry we haven’t spoken in the last two weeks”

“Why haven’t we?”

His jaw tightened, and you saw how he held back words. “It was difficult, seeing you like that. Someone should have been there, or reacted faster. I should’ve been there.”

“Dr Abbot, you can’t be there with me every time I speak with a patient” 

“I know but that’s why it’s upset me. That this could happen to anyone”

“And it could happen again, to me” you said, reality sinking in. This time, you definitely won’t be able to move fast enough. “I can’t give up my job.”

As the words left your lips, panic then set in. “Dr Abbot I can’t quit! I can’t quit both of my jobs! I love both of them, and I’m good at both of them and —“

Jack reassuringly said, “Hey, hey I’m not asking you to. I was thinking more on the lines of moving to the night shift” 

“I’m the only one who truly knows what’s going on, and I can keep an eye on things. We can make some adjustments”

“You’d do that for me?”

Jack would do a lot more than that. 

🩰

Being healthy was a privilege; only a sick person can see it, and a healthy person can live it. 

You weren’t healthy, but for a long time, you weren’t labelled, so you assumed you were fine. 

Then your diagnosis became a label that defined your life.

And suddenly you became sick.

And to realise that the privilege you had was long gone, was devastating in so many ways.

🩰

Moving to the nightshift wasn’t as difficult as you thought it would be, and it certainly helped that Jack was supportive. He made adjustments for you — very subtly but enough for you to be comfortable and get through it. The friendship between the two of you also grew stronger, without pushing it or thinking too much about it. It simply just flowed. 

“Okay, this is from my last performance” you said to Parker holding your phone, “but don’t… make fun of it please.”

“Girl why would you think that,” she nudged you as she watched the video. Her lips parted in admiration as she watched the performance. She whispered, “Damn…” 

“Is that… you?” Jack had now joined, standing behind you. 

That’s when you instantly blushed. He hadn’t seen you perform before and his opinion of you mattered. 

You looked up over your shoulder and nodded. He held your gaze for as long as you did — you noticed how his eyes softened every time he was around you, how he smiled but also blushed. How his shoulders relaxed. 

He muttered to himself, “beautiful”, before even watching the rest of the video. 

That’s when you felt comfortable enough to simple just lean into him. It was subtle, not too obvious for anyone who didn’t know about your friendship. But you simply allowed your skin to touch his, and Jack instantly leaned into it too. 

It didn’t stop there. As time passed, with long and exhausting shifts, you two found each other always. Jack would pull you in for a hug when he thought you needed one, you’d give him a neck massage when he’s charting. People figured out you two were close but to your surprise, the night shift was a lot less gossipy. 

But despite all the arrangements Jack made at work, your pain was getting worse. He was on the case about completing your physical therapy exercises which you lied and told him you were indeed doing every single one of them. 

“Hey Parker, any idea where Jack is?”

She smirked, which you rolled your eyes at, “on-call room taking his break.”

You said quietly, “okay” 

“Maybe you give him a neck massage there.” She teased but then noticed you weren’t yourself and not in a playful mood. “Trouble in paradise?”

“No” you shook your head, “I’ve got a migraine and I’m struggling. I might need to go home.”

“Have a sit down, let me get you something.”  She said and quickly rushed off. You sat on the chair, put your head against the desk, and closed your eyes.

Then a set of hands found your back and you turned over to see Jack over you. 

“Parker said you’re not feeling well” he said quietly.

“And you are the something she went to get?”

He smiled and nodded before sitting down next to you. “What’s wrong?”

“Another migraine. I feel so sick and the pressure in my head is only getting worse.” You rested your head again on the desk. “I keep going dizzy, but that seems to be the new normal.”

“Shall we start an IV?” He said softly, resting one hand on your shoulder, “Give you the best mix in the house?”

“I’d rather not, thank you. I’m gonna head home if that’s okay?”

He let out a sigh. “Would you at least stay here until the end of my shift?”

“Please can I go? I’ll be careful, I promise.“

He wasn’t convinced — you saw it all over his face. “I don’t know how I feel about letting you go home like this.” 

“Jack…” 

Jack hated that he loved how you said his name so softly and quietly. 

“Please go back to my apartment. At least this way I can check in on you? Please?”

“Okay, I can do that.” 

After making it over to his place, the migraine had gotten much worse and all you needed was sleep. You took another set of meds and walked into the spare bedroom.

“Oh Jack why would you do that?” You said to yourself, looking at the bed which was unmade and had no bedsheets on.

You groaned and walked into his bedroom. You texted him to say you’d made it back safe.

You set an alarm to be out of his bed by the time he came home from his shift. Although you were close, you weren’t sure if Jack finding you in his bed would be appropriate. 

“Morning sleepyhead,” Jack said quietly as he saw you toss and turn. 

“Oh my God” you sat up straight and pulled the sheets higher onto you. “I-uh. The bed-  it’s uh-l-“

He let out a tired but gentle laugh, “it’s fine. Robby stayed over and I was too lazy to put the bed sheets back on. I’ll take the couch.”

“I can’t let you do that” you said as you quickly got up, but the movement instantly made you dizzy and you stumbled. Jack immediately got a hold of your arm to steady you.

“No, I’ll take the couch.”

“I won’t let you do that.” He said softly. 

“You’re repeating what I’m saying,” you mumbled. His hands were still on you. “Why don’t we both take the bed?”

“Okay sweetheart” he whispered, “I’ll shower and change first” 

You nodded and got back in bed, fell back to sleep, not noticing that you were tangled in Jack’s arms the whole time. 

You opened your eyes slowly, taking a few seconds to remember where you were and who with.

You were asleep on his chest, one of his arms draped over you. Your own arm had slipped under his shirt, your hand resting lightly on his stomach.

You realised what was happening, and slowly moved away from him, careful not to wake him. This was all too comfortable. 

He grumbled as you moved away from him. “I was enjoying that”

“Sorry I didn’t mean to… touch you.”

He said, voice gravely and half asleep, “Please never apologise for that.”

You turned your back to him, pulled the sheet higher, tried not to think too much and went back to sleep. 

And that interaction  became a regular occurrence. Although you didn’t sleep in Jack’s bed anymore, you stayed over a lot. You came up with any excuse to go over, and Jack also did the same. 

He even helped with your physical therapy exercises. He insisted you’d get them done. He would stand and watch you do them, ready to steady you whenever you needed a helping hand.

He naturally started picking you up from ballet lessons. He watched all your performance videos, even when you weren’t there with him. 

🩰

It had been a whole 24 hours of him not answering your texts or calls. No one at work heard from him either, You had a spare key, but out of respect, you didn’t want to use it.

You knocked on his apartment door. “Jack, open up,”

You knocked again, and opened the door when he didn’t answer. 

His apartment was dark, all the curtains were shut. 

“Jack?” You said quietly. “It’s me.”

You walked into his bedroom slowly and he was in bed, laying flat on his stomach wearing nothing but boxers. 

“Jack? It’s me.”

He grumbled something. 

You walked over to him and sat on the bed, trying your best not to look at his naked body. “Are you okay? what happened? No one heard from you in a whole day.”

“It’s bad” he muttered.

“What’s bad?” 

“Everything.” 

You lay next of him, gently brushing your hand through his grey curls.

“Talk to me”

“It’s been a bad few days” he said quietly, “pain, memories, anxiety. All of it.”

You muttered softly, “How can I make it better?” 

He finally looked up at you and gave you a small sad smile. 

“Have you taken your pain meds?”

“It’s not physical pain” he said quietly.

“Okay. Go back to sleep I’ll hang around for a bit.”

“Will you stay here with me?”

You quickly nodded. “I may have bodily fluids on me so might need a shower first.”

“I don’t care.” He grumbled as he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you closer. You didn’t protest the movement, didn’t move as he pulled you against his bare chest and linked your hands in his.

The feeling of being safe and loved, in someone’s arms was comforting. When everything else was falling apart in your life — your ballet career which might end soon, your nursing career which you might never be able to keep up with. This was the only thing you felt that you could keep safe.

Jack was restless the whole time. He fidgeted, tossed and turned, and had constant nightmares. 

You tried to soothe him, talk to him, gently brushed his hair but nothing helped.  

He didn’t need to tell you why he was feeling this way, because you just knew.

Another nightmare woke him up and his time he was mumbling no,no no no.

“Jack wake up” you gently shook him, “it’s another nightmare wake up.”

“No”

“It’s not real” you moved closer to him and whispered, “none of it is real.”

He mumbled again “no, it keeps happening.”

“Nothings happening,” you cupped his face with your hands, his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s not real I promise you.”

 He shook his head and sweat was dripping down his forehead. You leaned in a bit more, forehead resting on his. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere okay?”

He nodded. 

“Are you awake now?” 

He nodded again. 

“Okay” you whispered against his lips, feeling his warm breath on your face, “we’re okay”

“I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore” he said voice breaking.

“This is what’s real” you said and gently kissed him, pouring all your love into him.

He kissed you back gently, slowly, devouring every second. 

“You’re okay, baby, you’re okay” you whispered again. “I’ll be right here.”

He pulled you against his chest and mumbled, “you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Little did Jack know that he was indeed, one of the best things to ever happen to you.

The next day, you packed your bags, said goodbye to Jack and headed to the airport to fly out with the team for the performance you had been preparing for.

Your last ever performance before your big break.

You refused to call it a retirement, despite what people may have commented.

The decision was not easy to make, but your ballet teacher constantly reminded you that one day you might injure yourself and that’s when retirement will be forced on you. 

You left an envelope for Jack with a ticket to the performance tucked inside. He'd already told you he probably wouldn't make it because of work, and you understood. Still, a small part of you hoped he'd find a way to come.

You flew out with the team, and you held back tears until you made it to your hotel room. You were filled with sadness and anger at how cruel it all was.  

You told the team you won’t be joining them for dinner that night — an excuse of getting an early night before the performance tomorrow. 

You texted Jack, Made it to my hotel safe. 

How was the trip?

Long and boring.

How are you feeling? 

Sad.

How can I make it better?

I wish you were here. 

I can make it there before the performance tomorrow. 

I highly doubt it… but thank you anyways for offering. 

You wiped your tears away as you unpacked your bags, laying out all your clothes and accessories to the side. You looked at your costume all hung up and nodded to yourself. If anyone could do this, it would be you.

You opened the door to whoever was knocking and there stood Jack.

“What!” 

“Surprise” he said softly, “did you really think I going to miss out?”

You jumped up in excitement, and he took you in for a hug. “I can’t believe this!”

“I wasn't going to let my favourite girl perform without me cheering her on.”

You titled your head playfully. “I’m your favourite girl?”

“You’re my favourite everything.” He pulled you closer. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me too.” 

Jack let his lips crash on top of yours, and you two were too hungry for each other. You waited too long for this. 

It was hot and messy as you undressed one another.

Jack’s fingers found you and you let out a gasp, burying your face in his neck. 

“I’ll be gentle I promise” he whispered, “but after your performance I can’t promise I’ll do the same.”

You giggled shyly and rocked against his fingers until he swapped them for his erection. You had waited far too long for this.

He stuck to his promise. He made love to you, gently and slowly. 

“You weren’t lying when you said you can bend in half like a piece of paper.” He murmured.

“You remembered?”

“I thought about it everyday since” he smiled, “it was torture. But it’s all worth it now.”

You sat up against Jack’s chest, staring at your costume hanging from the door. You said quietly, “They're announcing my break at the end of it.”

“You’ll be back stronger.” He traced his fingers down your arms, “and I would say better but my God you’re already perfect at it.” 

“I don’t know if I ever will be back.”

“One step at a time, okay? You can do this.” 

“Says who?.” You said voice breaking. 

“Says me,” he replied, “and I’m never wrong.”

🩰

You stepped onto the stage, feeling heavy with sad emotions. There was a hint of excitement, but you gave yourself grace for not being too happy.

You were allowed to be sad and disappointed. 

But it didn’t mean you didn’t excel in the performance.

It was a performance of a lifetime. 

Jack was the first one to stand in the crowd. He cheered, whistled, and clapped louder than anyone else. He was certainly the rowdiest one there.

You let out a nervous laugh as you bowed. 

Your friends hugged you and cried, but your focus stayed on the one person in the crowd who had gotten you through it all.

🩰

Notes:

I've written onther fic about a reader with POTS and EDS here and one with CFS and I hinted at EDS too here.

Robby beamed. “A couple of years is a long time. I still got it in me.” As if to prove his point, Robby took the heavy cardboard out of Jack’s hands. His legs wobbled slightly under the weight, and his smile faltered— things that were not lost on Jack. The older man patted Robby’s back as he nodded.

“Yup, still got it.”

This would, hopefully, be a nice change of pace. After the passing of his wife, Jack figured it was about time to get out of that house. Every room and routine held remnants of her that felt too painful to live out every day. Oftentimes, he’d catch himself smiling at the television and turning to tell her about the program, only to find nothing but an empty seat next to him. His smile would drop as reality quickly kicked back in, reminding him every moment that she was really, truly gone.

Robby helped, for the most part. Took his shifts, came over for dinner. Made sure he didn’t kill himself in the meantime. Jack appreciated his old friend having his back. Moving out had been Robby’s idea; something about building a new life instead of sulking in the old. Having realized neither of them had anything besides each other, Robby decided to pitch in on an apartment just outside the city limits and move into the second bedroom.

While Jack would never admit it to the man’s face, he appreciated the offer more than he let on. Living alone wasn’t his style— too much quiet, too much time to dive into the darkness. Something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. He’d never admit it, but being alone scared him deep down.

“Hey,” Robby’s soft voice drew Jack out of his head. He looked up as Robby nodded his head towards the next-door neighbor’s window. “Cat.”

In the apartment window sat a fat calico cat. She peered through the crack, pressing her face up against the screen as if to say hello to the duo. Her tail swished around in the blinds; Jack noticed a suspiciously cat-shaped hole where the blinds had broken.

Jack smiled fondly. “Hey, little kitty!” He cooed, making noises as if to entertain a baby. In return, the cat made a quiet chirping noise— something between a meow and a purr.

“The window’s open, Jack,” Robby laughed, fixing his grip on the box. “The owner can probably hear you babbling at it.”

Shaking his head, Jack gently chided the man. “Just move your ass inside. You’re obviously losing to a damn cardboard box with that posture.”

Jack grabbed a smaller box ominously labeled ‘important’ and followed Robby through the open door. The apartment was rather spacious, with two bedrooms upstairs and access to the basement. White walls and cream carpeting practically begged to be decorated and personalized, leaving the open space feeling very… lackluster.

Setting the box down in the living room, Jack groaned as he straightened back up. Being in a cramped car after a long shift wasn’t exactly kind on his back. He looked down the hall just as Robby left to bring in another box.

Watching the man roll up his sleeves, Jack felt something flutter in his chest. It wasn’t the heart attack that he’d been long overdue for, but something more domestic-feeling. Like this scenario— this new lifestyle— was something he desperately needed.

The midmorning sun peered over the roof, basking Jack in warmth as he grabbed another box. He looked over at the window again, hopeful to see two little yellow eyes staring back at him. This time, however, two human eyes peaking through the blinds stared back at him.

In a blink, the blinds closed. Jack brushed it off as just a nosy neighbor who just happened to own an adorable, obese feline.

By the time the last box had been dragged in, both men were thoroughly exhausted. The apartment looked less like a home and more like a storage unit. Cardboard boxes occupied every corner, some neatly stacked while others had been abandoned wherever they thought appropriate. For the most part, the labeled boxes reached their designated rooms. The mystery boxes remained scattered about without a home or place to belong.

Robby dropped to the floor with a dramatic groan, spreading himself out on the carpet as though he intended to become one with it. “That’s it,” he said, “I’ve decided I’m just gonna die here. Don’t move me.”

Jack stepped over his legs with a snort. “Good. Saves me the trouble of finding a burial plot.”

“Love you too.”

A comfortable silence settled over them. Jack propped his hands on his hips as he surveyed the living room, proud of his and Robby’s work. A small smile lingered on his face despite feeling gross with sweat.

He wandered slowly through the apartment, taking in the foreign space. The silence was different here; not any better, but not plagued with memories. It was empty. For once, that didn’t seem like a bad thing.

A fresh start, as Robby said.

In the kitchen, a bottle of whiskey sat on the counter with a glass next to it— Robby apparently snuck in a drink sometime between the boxes. Shaking his head, Jack rinsed the glass cup out before placing it in the sink.

Above the sink was a window with a perfect view of the small patch of trees behind the parking lot. Living within a stone’s throw of nature felt like a nice and gentle calm he knew they both needed. ER work wasn’t for the weak, and setting up a hammock between tree trunks sounded like the perfect way to relax after shifts from hell.

“Mikey,” Jack’s voice carried through the empty halls, echoing back hollowly. “We gotta get some furniture. At least a couch or something.”

From the living room, Robby grumbled. “We can hit up Goodwill later.”

“I’m not getting a second-hand, probably semen-stained couch, Michael.”

Jack dried his hands on his pants before leaving the kitchen. He walked around the maze of packed boxes until he found Robby, still unmoved from his spot on the ground. “Let’s go. Before you lose any more momentum.”

“Oh-ho,” he huffed out a deep laugh. “You’re far too late on that, brother.”

Nevertheless, Robby stood up with an over-exaggerated groan. He stretched high enough to almost knock his fist into the ceiling fan. “Alright.” A yawn escaped him, interrupting his words. “Let’s get going so I can take a nap.”

Robby had taken a double shift the day before, working well into the night so he could take today off to move. Jack knew the man was exhausted, running on fumes, and tried his hardest to be gentle to his old friend. But things needed to be done; he’d rather have at least one surface to crash on in the morning after his shift tonight.

Despite his complaints, Robby followed Jack outside. The breeze had picked up since they started moving in, rustling the bushes lining the concrete porch. Jack fished the keys out of his sweatshirt pocket while Robby trailed behind him, looking one minute away from falling asleep standing.

Just as the lock clicked, the neighboring door opened. Both men glanced over automatically as a young woman in pink sweatpants carried a laundry basket down her porch steps. Jack immediately clocked her as the owner of the calico cat. She kept her eyes down, but he noticed the way her grip tightened slightly on the laundry basket.

“Hi,” he called out, hoping to win over the neighbor next door.

She paused just as she stepped off the sidewalk. Her fingers flexed anxiously on the basket before she finally looked in their direction. “Hey.”

Her voice was soft, getting slightly lost in the wind. Jack noticed the way she looked at them— or, the lack thereof. While she occasionally made eye contact, she kept her gaze primarily downturned. A shy one, he thought.

“Laundry day?” Robby asked, stepping off the porch and walking to Jack’s truck. He leaned against the door, crossing his arms, trying to look as unintimidating as possible.

The woman looked down at the basket with wide eyes as if she had forgotten what she was doing, or was surprised that it was so obvious. “Uh, yeah. My machine’s been down for a week now.”

“That’s shitty,” Jack joined Robby by the car now, rounding the other side near the driver’s side. “Landlord won’t fix it?”

She bitterly laughed as she shook her head. “Been trying to get maintenance to do it for a while. They say I’m on the waitlist, but I don’t entirely believe them.”

When she hiked the basket higher up on her hip, her tank top lifted slightly with it, exposing a small section of her midriff. The woman was attractive, Jack would admit that, but far too young for him— she hardly looked over thirty.

Sensing his eyes on her, she walked behind her car to put the basket in the backseat. “You were talking to my cat earlier,” she said bluntly. It caught Jack and Robby off guard.

“Yeah,” Jack said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry if it disrupted you.”

“He can’t help but coo at cute things.” Robby turned to wink at Jack— apparently, he had the same perverse thoughts as him.

Not having picked up on implied flirtation, the woman stared at them with a kind smile. “Well, she’s an attention whore, so I guess it’s fine.” She waved toward her window and the broken blinds. “She’s desperate to be seen, if you couldn’t tell.”

The two men glanced toward the window instinctively. As if summoned by the conversation, the calico’s face popped up between the bent blinds. Two yellow eyes stared them down with intensity.

“There she is,” Robby said, pointing a finger.

The cat’s pitiful meow was lost in the wind, though they could see the small nose scrunch. The young woman sighed at the sight.

“See? Whore.”

“What’s her name?” Jack asked, finally glancing back at the woman.

“Toaster Strudel, but I call her Toastie for short.”

The answer came with obvious affection, despite the insult she had just thrown at the animal. Jack tilted his head with an amused smile while Robby laughed out loud.

“Toaster Strudel? There’s gotta be a story about that,” he inquired, wiping a tear from his eye.

The woman looked back toward her window. Toastie had somehow managed to twist her body through the blinds, paws and whiskers peaking out at awkward angles as she seemingly tried to escape through the glass.

“Eh, not really.” She said with a shrug. “It just seemed fitting.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she looked away from the cat and back at the two men. It was the most relaxed they’d seen her since stepping outside. Jack found himself smiling as well at the noticeable change. The longer they talked, the more obvious it became that she initially hadn’t wanted to run into them while running errands. But now, she seemed more open to small talk.

The nervous energy was still there, but she seemed to shove it down easily enough. It amused Jack more than it should have.

No one seemed eager to end the conversation now that the earlier awkwardness had faded into an easier, more comfortable feeling. Jack watched as the breeze blew strands of the woman’s hair across her face. His gaze always seemed to linger longer than he intended, but he easily brushed it off as just curiosity.

“You live alone?” Robby asked casually. Jack’s eyes darted toward the man as he glared at his back. That wasn’t a good question to ask a woman you hardly knew; he didn’t want them to come off as too invasive and creepy.

Thankfully, she took no visible offense at it. “I live with my cat. She contributes nothing financially.”

Jack smiled again at her natural comedic timing. She seemed young and naïve, but had a very endearing personality and humor that made him want to keep her around.

She looked down at her phone, checking the time. “I should get going— I have errands to run and laundry to clean.”

She finally closed the backseat door before rounding the hood of the car. Now closer to Robby, her eyes widened slightly as she realized just how tall the man was. Her cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink as she quickly opened the door.

After a quick exchange of goodbyes, Jack and Robby watched as she pulled out of the parking lot. Robby looked back at Jack with a cocky grin and raised eyebrows. Immediately, Jack shook his head as he opened his car door.

“Don’t even—”

“She’s cute.”

Jack said nothing as he got behind the wheel, though he had similar sentiments. The woman was cute, both in mannerisms and physically. But, he felt like a filthy old man the more he thought about her. He was old enough to be her goddamn father. That alone should’ve put an end to whatever curiosity he had.

It’s been two weeks since you fell off the ladder in the pitt. Two weeks since Brendon had brought you back to his apartment with the fulfilled promise of chinese food and a relaxing night.

He also had taken you out to a nice dinner a few nights ago, as promised, followed by a night of bowling. 

The man was full of surprises. Ones that have had you falling harder every day.

Today, though, is your slight surprise for him. 

It was your idea for a date and you wanted to let him dip his feet into your world.

—

“So no hints?” Brendon chuckles as you lead him by the hand.

“Sorry handsome” you giggle “but it’ll be fun, I promise.”

You had him blindfolded so he really had no visual hints

“Or maybe I'm being kidnapped by a sexy artist who's gonna keep me forever and paint me to death” he says dramatically.

Your body shakes with uncontrollable laughter “You’d like that wouldn't you Bren.”

He smirks “As long as its you then yes, absolutely.”

“Alright big guy, enough romance book plots. We’re almost there” you grin wide

You guys make it to a building and you stop him at the bottom of the steps.

“Okay, you can take the blindfold off.”

He does and looks up at the building.

‘Pittsburgh Creative Corner’

“What’s this sweetheart?” he asks curiously.

You grab his hand and lead him inside. There's a wide hallway lined with several doors on each side. He follows as you lead him down the hall and stop in front of a door with ‘Studio 3B’ on it.

“Just a little piece of my heart” you smile gently while unlocking the door.

You both walk in and you flick the lights on.

Brendon’s mouth drops open.

He doesn’t say a word as he walks forward and tries to look everywhere at once.

You hold your breath.

“So…what do you think?...” you ask hesitantly.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon can’t believe it. 

The art. 

Your art. 

He knew you were talented. He had seen your work online and the mural you were still working on at the pitt. 

But this? Your pieces in person and in your creative space? 

It was mindblowing.

“What do I think?” he repeats the question as he tries to take it all in.

“I’m floored. Sweetheart…. you’re magic. You’re beyond gifted.”

“Thank you Bren” he hears you say softly with a smile behind him.

He walks closer to one specific piece still on the easel.

It’s of two people. A couple, he assumes.

He feels your hand touch his back, rubbing a soothing pattern.

“That’s us” you say.

“That’s us?”

You nod “mhm”

“It’s yours to take home later…if you want it..” you continue

He looks at you “Of course I want it. I want anything that’s yours. Thank you baby” 

Reaching his hand to your face he gives you a firm yet gentle kiss.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Your heart melts at the way Brendon took everything in. How he had only uplifted you with his words. Most people belittled the idea of art, let alone when you told them it was your full-time job. 

He was a breath of fresh air and you were grateful for his genuineness.

You took him to a table you had set up with canvases and paints. The idea was just to make fun art with him and enjoy each other's company. It was a freeing and relaxing way to spend the day.

“So, how long have you had this space?” he asks you as he continues the painting he's working on.

You hum as you think.

“About five years now? I was on a waitlist for a year maybe until the previous renter ended their lease. I saved what I could for when I got the call and it was soooo worth it” you laugh.

“Rent was rough for a while until I started making consistent money with my work. Again, worth every penny. My apartment doesn’t have the space to hold even half of this so I needed something separate. Something bigger. It’s my little sanctuary.” you smile at the thought of what this place means to you.

You look up to see Brendon looking right back at you.

“You’re amazing, you know that right?”

You feel your face warm at the compliment.

“Brennn, you're too sweet”

He shrugs and points his paintbrush at you “It’s true.”

What Brendon didn't realize was how hard he had flicked the paintbrush in your direction, sending blue paint right at you.

You both look at each other with wide eyes, mouths dropped open.

“Shit sweetheart, I’m so fucking sor-”

His words are cut off by something wet hitting his shirt. He looks down.

Green paint.

He looks at your blue splattered face and the wide grin you're sporting.

He looks back up, mouth open in a smile.

“Oh sweetheart, its on now”

He swipes his fingers in a cup of red paint and slings it at you. You turn quickly, feeling the cool paint hit your shoulder.

“Hey!” you laugh as you grab more ammo to throw.

It soon becomes a small paint war. Neither of you can stop smiling and laughing.

You get up to run from his throws but he's quick to get up as well and head straight for you.

You’re not quick enough as he grabs your waist from behind and spins you slightly.

“Gotta be quicker than that babe” he says facing you towards him.

“You are sooo bad, Brendon Park” you say between laughs.

“Bad?” he questions “Oh I’ll show you bad”

He lightly nips at the side of your neck before placing gentle kisses there too.

“Did I just get a shark bite!!?” you gasp dramatically.

He lets out a loud laugh at the phrase.

“Didn’t I tell you that I would?” 

You shake your head in amusement.

“How about I take you to a delicious burger place down the street and we call it a truce?” He offers, mouth hovering over yours.

“I’d say it sounds fair” you meet his lips in a kiss, then pull apart a little out of breath “Can’t have my shark bite again because he’s starving.”

“Yeah yeah smart ass, now we can't exactly show up covered in paint can we?” he tugs at your shirt.

You point to a duffle bag in the corner of the studio by a closet door.

“I stashed some extras yesterday.”

“You planned this?” he chuckles as he heads to the bag.

“Plan a paint war? No. But things can always get messy where paint is involved” you state while wiping the small paint mess off the floors.

He smiles, “Sounds about right. Alright let me change real quick.”

You hear the closet door close and you continue cleaning things up quickly.

Brendon comes out a few minutes later in clean, dry clothes.

“Okay babe it’s y-”

His words are interrupted by his phone going off.

“Is it the hospital?” you question.

“No” he shakes his head “but I do have to take this real quick.”

You nod and go to grab your clothes as he answers.

Once you’re done, you come out and put your paint covered clothes in a bag with his.

He grabs the bag from you “Ready to go?”

You smile up at him.

“Lets roll, handsome”

You lock up the studio and hand-in-hand you both walk towards the burger place he mentioned.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

While you both walk through the city downtown, Brendon is too busy being entranced by your glowing face as you talk to feel his phone go off with a text notification,

‘𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘔𝘳. 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘰 3𝘉 𝘢𝘵 𝘗𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘩'𝘴 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘈 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.’

You had brought immense joy to his life in just 2 short weeks and he was happier than ever. 

You were it for him. 

So, he would do anything to keep you happy in return.

That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.

But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it.

A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.

When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag them the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.

He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.

But he caught you anyway.

A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.

A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”

A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”

A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.

You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.

Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4.

And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.

At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.

That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be.

The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.

As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught them how to survive the place.

You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.

Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.

But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes.

But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it.

You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.

Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs.

Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.

Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.

Robby hadn’t.

He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.

“You seeing anyone?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”

Your face had gone hot.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t do that.”

Two words.

Quiet.

Cutting.

And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.

“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”

That had shut you up.

Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious.

Dangerous.

Robby had seen that. He had seen you.

Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication.

Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance.

Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.

Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.

“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”

“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”

“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”

“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”

Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem.

Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.

But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore.

You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.

Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.

“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.

And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.

You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong.

But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him.

Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.

Mohan noticed.

She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together.

She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.

“It’s the gross kind,” she said.

You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”

“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything. 

Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.

Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.

“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Yeah.”

“He’s harder on us.”

“He expects more from us.”

“That’s one explanation.”

You looked over at her.

Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”

Something in your chest sank.

“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.

Mohan didn’t answer right away.

That was answer enough.

Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”

You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.

“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.

You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”

“Abbot is usually right.”

“Annoying habit.”

“Deeply.”

Another silence.

Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”

There it was. The question you hated.

You forced a shrug.

“I’m tired.”

Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked away. 

For a second, you thought about telling her. 

That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.

That Robby’s voice had started following you home.

“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”

“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”

“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”

Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”

Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once.

Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

And somehow, that made you feel worse.

By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back.

Technically.

He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.

The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly.

And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much.

But enough.

Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.

If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence.

Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces.

But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.

Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you.

Especially not you.

And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there.

Mostly. Almost.

Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice.

Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation.

You.

The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.

He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything.

So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…

He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer.

And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.

By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors.

The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks.

People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.

Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry.

Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.

Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart.

Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him.

You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.

Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.

Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away. 

Your chest tightened.

Mohan followed your gaze.

“Don’t,” she said softly.

You swallowed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.”

That was the problem with old friends.

They heard you anyway.

—

By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.

Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.”

Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers.

Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.

You had not stopped moving in six hours.  Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.

It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did.

They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station.

So you kept moving.

Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard.

You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.

Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it.

His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.

You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.

“Hey.”

Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.

You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“That’s why I’m saving time.”

She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.

“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.

“So have you.”

“I ate.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”

That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.

Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.

“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I said I can’t.”

It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.

You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended.”

“That’s annoying of you.”

“I know.”

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried.

Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.

“Room ten.”

Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.

You turned.

He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand. “Repeat potassium?”

Your brain supplied the answer too late. 

Ordered.  Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you?

Your fingers tightened around the chart.

“Pending,” you said.

Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.

“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.

Heat crawled up your neck. 

Right. 

Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.

“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”

Robby’s expression didn’t change.

“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”

The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence.

But enough.

Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.

Your stomach dipped.

“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.

“I heard you.”

There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.

You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys.

Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.

You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder. 

You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.

There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.

Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on.

Of course he had.

He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.

“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”

Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Then maybe believe me.”

The words landed badly.

You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.

Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.

You looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m just—”

Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.

You shook your head.

“I’m just trying to get through the shift.”

Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.

“Okay,” she said.

There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.

You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.

You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.

“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”

The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology. 

You softened before you could stop yourself.

“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.

Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.

Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.

“R4s should not need reminders.”

You pushed it down.

You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.

You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough.

That was all.

Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.

“What’s your plan?” he asked.

You gave it to him.

Clean. Organized. Defensible.

His eyes stayed on you.

“And your impression?”

“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”

“Likely panic,” he repeated.

Your jaw tightened.

“With appropriate workup.”

“I heard you.”

“You said it like that.”

Something flickered in his face.

Warning.

You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.

Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”

The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.

“What?”

His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.

“You heard me.”

Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.

You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“I hope not.”

Your face went hot.

No.

No, no, no.

He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.

“You hope not?” you repeated.

Robby’s mouth tightened.

“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”

Your hand curled tighter around the chart.

“My history?”

His eyes sharpened.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”

“I ordered a standard workup.”

“You reassured her before you assessed.”

Your breath caught. 

The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.

“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”

“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”

Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.

Your chest felt hollowed out.

“That is not what happened.”

“Then make sure it doesn’t.”

Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”

Robby went still.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.

“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”

The floor dropped out from under you. 

“Safe to practice.”

Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.

“I am safe.”

“Are you?”

The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.

You stared at him.

He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.

“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”

Mohan moved. “Robby—”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.

“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”

Your lips parted. Nothing came out.

Robby’s voice lowered further.

“That is dangerous.”

There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself.

Now he was holding it like a weapon.

Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.

“You told me getting help made me safer.”

“It does,” he said.

“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”

For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

The department went too quiet around the edges. 

Your breath stopped.

Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.

Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.

“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.

“You don’t get to call it that.”

“What?”

“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”

His jaw tightened.

“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”

The last piece of you went very still. 

Not calm. 

Still.

You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.

“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”

Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you.

He had cut you open.

But it was too late.

You stepped back.

“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.

Then you walked away before your face could betray you.

Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby.

You didn’t turn around.

You couldn’t.

Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break.

And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.

You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking.

The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.

Then your body caught up.

Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter.

Not here.

Not at work.

Not because of him.

You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you.

Not a sob.

You refused to call it that.

Just air leaving wrong.

Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.

No.

That was his voice.

His damage.

His cruelty.

You knew that.

You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out.

Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.

The department swallowed you whole again.

Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you.

No one looked directly at you.

That was how you knew everyone knew.

Mohan found your eyes from the board.

You gave her one small look.

Don’t.

She stopped.

Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear.

Panic, most likely.

You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.

“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”

The patient’s eyes filled.

“Thank you.”

You smiled.

It hurt.

When you stepped out, Robby was at the board.

He saw you.

For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something.

Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.

Of course he did.

So you kept working.

You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.

“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”

You swallowed.

“Don’t apologize for learning.”

The words tasted bitter.

Across the room, Robby watched you.

Not openly.

But you felt it.

Worry wearing a muzzle.

By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away.

Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.

“Eat something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re spiritually buzzing.”

A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Dana’s face softened.

That almost undid you.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Dana hummed. “Sure.”

Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows.

Half the department flinched.

Nobody said anything.

Another burst followed.

Mohan closed her eyes at the board.

Robby went still.

You saw it.

The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.

For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly.

Noise.

Blood.

Bodies.

Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos.

You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.

Afterward, he had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood.

He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.

“Drink.”

You had stared at him.

“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”

You had laughed.

Then cried.

And he had stayed.

That was the part you couldn’t let go of.

He had stayed.

Another firework cracked.

Robby looked up.

His eyes met yours.

Something broken moved across his face.

Then he looked away first.

And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.

—

Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.

“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.

Mohan found you near the elevators.

“Come up with us.”

“I should finish charts.”

“You can finish them after.”

“I’m behind.”

“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”

You looked at her.

For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.

Instead, you smiled.

“I’ll come up later.”

Mohan didn’t believe you.

But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed.

She stepped inside.

You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved.

Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.

You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”

Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There she is.”

You stepped into the elevator beside them.

Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.

The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day.

It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.

Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.

Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter.

Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.

It was a small pocket of women from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.

The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold.

For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.

The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.

McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.

Everyone looked peaceful. 

Not fixed. Not untouched.

Just… peaceful.

And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you.

Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.

It was this.

Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance.

Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.

A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.

“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.

“It was,” Mel agreed.

It was.

You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.

Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.

Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”

You kept your eyes on the sky.

“Yeah.”

Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”

Your chest tightened. 

Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.

Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

Too quick. Too sharp.

The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push. 

No one did.

They let you stand there.

Let you pretend.

The fireworks kept going.

Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower.

Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.

For a few seconds, no one moved.

Then Dana pushed off the wall.

“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”

Everyone looked at her. 

Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.

“Go home,” she said.

No argument. No softness. Just Dana.

“You all did enough today.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.

One by one, they moved.

Not rushed.

Just… done.

Dana passed you last. 

She nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Don’t stay up here all night.”

You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”

Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push. 

She nodded once anyway.

Then she left.

The door closed behind her.

Eventually, it was just you and Mohan.

The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer.

Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.

“You coming back down?” she asked.

“In a minute.”

She hesitated.

You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.

“You scared me today,” she said softly.

Your throat tightened.

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

She was right. That made it worse.

“I just need a second alone,” you said.

Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She lingered. Then stepped back. Then turned.

The door opened.

Closed.

And the quiet changed again. No longer shared.

Just yours.

You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been.

The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.

For a while, you listened.

To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you.

Everything sounded far away.

Even you.

Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked.

But no one did.

The roof stayed quiet.

And the quiet got inside you.

One step.

That was all it was at first.

Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete.

Then another.

Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious.

Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.

The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.

You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail.

The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.

It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning.

A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over.

Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.

The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something.

Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.

You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge.

No wall now. No barrier.

Just warm concrete.

Open air.

Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic.

Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin.

The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.

Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking.

But this was quieter than that.

This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.

You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge.

You looked at it.

No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.

Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down.

Slowly. Carefully.

Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else.

Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.

The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you.

Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up.

Almost.

Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another.

Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.

For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing.

Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing.

Just open space.

Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.

Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant.

Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.

Your chest felt calm. Too calm.

Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.

Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting.

You swallowed.

And for the first time…

You believed him.

“Neither do I.”

The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down.

Not quickly. Not all at once.

Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.

Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands.

A world still organized enough to feel insulting.

For the first time, the height became real.

Not symbolic. Not dramatic.

Real.

The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.

Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge.

Below you, the hospital kept breathing.

Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.

Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.

Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency.

Up here, it waited.

Quiet. Patient. Polite.

And for one awful, honest second…

You wanted the quiet.

Not death. Not exactly.

You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.

You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around her own throat.

You wanted to stop waking up already tired.

Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.

Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding.

Now your fingers loosened. Just a little.

The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs.

The open air pulled at your shoes.

One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting.

A tear slid down your cheek.

You didn’t wipe it away.

You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.

Behind you, the roof door opened.

You didn’t turn around.

Couldn’t.

For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.

Then everything behind you went still.

“Hey.”

Robby.

Your eyes closed. Of course it was him. 

The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.

His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.

“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights.

Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.

“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”

Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all.

And somehow, that scared him more.

For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.

Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.

He swallowed.

“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”

Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse.

Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.

“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”

A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.

“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”

Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air. 

The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.

“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”

Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm.

His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.

You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.

“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.

Robby swallowed hard.

“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”

A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”

Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.

Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss.

His voice came back thinner than before.

“Don’t move forward.”

The words landed carefully. Terrified.

“If you move, move back. Just back.”

A small, broken laugh left you.

“That’s usually my line.”

Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”

He moved. Not closer. Not yet.

Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.

You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.

Soft. Almost peaceful.

The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below. 

But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.

“Okay,” he said instead.

His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.

“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”

You didn’t look at him.

“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”

His breath hitched.

“Tonight, you just have to move back.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”

Your fingers loosened. Just a little.

Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.

“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”

You didn’t.

His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.

“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”

For one suspended second, you didn’t.

His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.

“Please,” he said.

That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.

Robby took one step closer.

You shifted.

He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.

“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

The words hollowed him out.

You heard it in the silence behind you.

The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.

“Okay,” he said carefully.

His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.

“That’s okay.”

You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.

Robby’s breath caught.

You heard him swallow it back down.

“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”

A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.

“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”

Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet.

You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.

“I was wrong.”

“You meant it.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.

“I’m sorry.”

Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.

“You were ugly.”

“I know.”

“You were cruel.”

His breath hitched.

“I know.”

Your voice thinned into something smaller.

“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”

Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.

“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”

His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.

“I know.”

Your right hand slipped off the ledge.

Fully.

Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.

The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.

Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.

“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”

You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”

Kid.

The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.

Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.

Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.

“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”

A sob caught in your throat.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”

His voice twisted.

“I do know how.”

His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.

The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.

Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.

“I just stopped doing it.”

That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.

Your breath fractured.

“I hate you.”

The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.

Behind you, Robby went very still.

“I know.”

Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet.

“I don’t.”

His breath caught.

“I know that too.”

Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge.

“I wanted you to come back.”

The words barely made it past your mouth.

Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw.

“I’m here now.”

Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.

“Too late.”

He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence.

His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.

Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side.

Open air on yours.

For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.

For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid. 

Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.

“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”

You cried silently, staring down.

“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”

He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.

You didn’t tell him no.

His throat worked.

“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”

Your fingers tightened slightly.

He saw it. Held onto it.

“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”

“I don’t want tomorrow.”

“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”

“I don’t know what’s left.”

“You are.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It is to Samira.”

Your face crumpled.

“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”

“They don’t need me.”

“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”

He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.

He froze. You froze.

Your hands stayed down. Barely.

Robby’s voice dropped.

“They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”

You sobbed once. Hard.

“I don’t believe that.”

“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”

His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.

“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”

Your shoulders shook.

“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”

You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.

The open air seemed to notice before you did.

Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.

“Don’t,” he said.

The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.

“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”

Your breath shook.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.

“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”

Your fingers twitched against the ledge.

His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited.

Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.

“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.

Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.

His breath tore out of him.

“Kid—”

This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.

All of it.

The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.

Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.

“I’m scared.”

Then your balance tipped. Too far.

Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.

For half a second, there was nothing under you. 

Nothing.

Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.

Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.

Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.

“I’ve got you,” he choked. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.

For one second, there was no sound. 

No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.

Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.

His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.

Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.

A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.

This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he choked.

You froze.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked on it. Then again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.

He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it. 

You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.

“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.

He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.

“No. No, I did this. I did this.”

His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.

“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”

A sob tore through him.

“And then you almost—”

He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.

You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.

A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.

You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.

Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”

You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.

“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.

His breath collapsed above you.

“I know.”

“I thought I was going to do it.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to want it.”

“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”

He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.

He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.

“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”

You cried harder.

He pulled in a ruined breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.

You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

Robby’s arms tightened.

“I know.”

“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”

His breath shuddered against your hair.

“Then we don’t stand up yet.”

“I can’t go back down there.”

“Then we don’t go yet.”

“I can’t see everyone.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”

“I can’t be alone.”

That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.

“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

His breathing hitched.

“I was.”

You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.

“I was leaving wrong.”

The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.

“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”

His hand shook against your shoulder.

“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”

Your throat closed.

“That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“That’s stupid.”

A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”

You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.

His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.

There. There. There.

Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Quieter now. More exhausted.

“I should’ve protected you from me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.

Below, the hospital kept moving.

Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.

Life continued.

But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.

You were still breathing.

He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

His voice broke again.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

For the first time all night, you believed him. 

Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.

But about this.

About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.

You were on the safe side of the ledge. 

You were crying.

Robby was crying.

“Oh, yeah,” you answered, wiping your hands on the towel by the sink. “Yes, um, you did. I– I should–”

Before you could even step in the direction of the front door, you heard it open. You could hear your uncle greeting Robby, the two men chatting as they walked through the house. 

“Well, I'm going to go say hello,” Aunt Deb said, picking up a couple of the plates of food that were ready to be taken to the table. “Keep an eye on the challah for me, would ya, dear? It should be almost done.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, turning back to face the oven.

You took the moment alone to compose yourself. You could do this. You could sit through a dinner with your aunt and uncle and pretend that you don’t want to climb the man who’d be sitting across from you like a tree. Easy.

The sudden weight of a hand on your lower back pulled you from your thoughts.

“Nice dress.” You could hear the smirk in his voice, amused that he’d caught you off guard. He was moving closer, coming to stand next to you and leaning in to speak directly into your ear. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

The question sent a chill down your spine.

The truth was, you’d hoped the dress you’d selected would get a reaction out of him. It wasn’t anything crazy—simple and black—but it was shorter than what you would typically wear for Shabbat dinner. The hem landed around mid-thigh, as opposed to the typical knee-length or longer skirts you wore. It was just barely on this side of appropriate, and you hadn’t missed the raised eyebrow from your aunt when you’d arrived. The neckline was modest, though, so she let you get away with it.

You felt Robby’s pinky twitch, itching to graze lower than it’s already inappropriate placement on the small of your back.

You stepped out of his hold, needing to create some distance if you were ever going to survive this night.

“Hi Robby,” you greeted sweetly, looking towards the dining room to make sure your family was out of earshot but still keeping your voice low as you spoke. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Oh, thank you,” he chuckled. He was looking at your face now, warm brown eyes glinting with something dangerous. “I was told to come check on things in here and grab whatever’s ready to be moved to the table.”

“Right,” you smiled, chewing on your inner lip, reluctant to break eye contact. Nevertheless, you looked over to the last couple of dishes that sat on the counter. “You can take those. I’ll be right behind you—this is almost done.”

Before he could walk away, you turned back to the oven, bending over to peek inside and check on the challah. Robby cleared his throat, your dress barely lifting but still giving him a nice view of the curve of your ass.

“Right, well, I’ll just um–” he choked out. You heard him shuffling around behind you, grabbing the food from the counter. “I’ll, um, see you in there.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed nonchalantly.

You were back where you’d been exactly one week ago—sitting at your aunt and uncle’s dining room table, trying not to oggle Michael Robinavitch in front of them. You were not doing a very good job of it, either.

He looked even better this week, somehow, wearing a soft blue button-up that was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, unbuttoned just enough that you could see the edge of the gold chain that’s been plaguing you every time you closed your eyes. His beard was trimmed neatly, and his hair was tousled, like it had once been styled but he’d run his hands through it several times.

It was all a part of the game the two of you were playing, you supposed. You were both putting in effort, toeing the line, without being obvious. It was sort of exhilarating—having a secret.

“Y/N?” Aunt Deb asked expectantly.

“Sorry,” you blushed, realizing you’d been caught zoning out while looking directly at Robby, specifically at his neck, enraptured by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Guess I’m a little tired,” you explained. “What did you ask?”

“That’s okay, dear,” your aunt assured, smiling. “I was just wondering if you could tell me more about the lab you’re working in. We didn’t get to finish our conversation earlier.”

“Oh, sure,” you nodded. 

You proceeded to tell them all about the lab rotation you’d be working in for the next eight weeks. About how you were worried that your late decision to go to the University of Pittsburgh would force you to work in a lab that had nothing to do with what you were interested in, but that, instead, you’d been able to talk to an advisor to map out a rotational plan for the year that was pretty much exactly what you wanted. You’d talked to the Primary Investigators for the 4 labs you’d be rotating through in your first year of the program.

What you didn’t say was that your advisor and the PIs you’d spoken to were more than happy to help you. They’d been shocked to hear that you’d passed on Johns Hopkins and were interested to know why. Upon learning that your parents died earlier this year, labs opened up to you. It was something you loved about this program, that while things were competitive, there was no lack of compassion from peers and superiors. It was also something you were ashamed of. You felt like it diminished your work as a scientist. Because you were a great scientist. You had a master's degree in Epidemiology, your name was on several publications, you had excellent letters of recommendation, and still, you felt like you were getting a handout.

No. You were determined not to almost ruin another dinner with your drama, with your insecurities, and your dead parents. Instead, you smiled and answered your aunt's questions about your peers, and your uncle’s questions about the Primary Investigator, and even Robby’s questions about the research. He listened especially thoughtfully as you spoke, asking you about computational tools and data models.

You got lost in it. So consumed by Robby’s interest in you that before you knew it, dinner was over. Aunt Deb was clearing the table and packing up leftovers for both you and Robby. Uncle David was leading Robby into the den to get him a book that the two men had discussed for him to borrow. Left with nothing to do, you slipped away to the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, you checked yourself out, making sure your makeup was still flawlessly intact. You ruffled your hair, trying to tame the extra volume that the humid August evening gave it. You wet your index finger under the faucet and scrubbed at your teeth with it, ridding your mouth of any trace of food that may have been left behind. 

When you emerged, the hallway was much more crowded. Your aunt and uncle stood with Robby near the front door, just a few feet away from the small guest bathroom you’d occupied.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “Were you waiting on me?”

Robby shook his head.

“All good,” he reassured with an easy smile. “I thought I’d walk you home again.”

“That’d be great,” you nodded. “Thank you.”

Outside, the night air was cool against your flushed face, most of the day’s heat disappearing with the sun. If you were actually planning on walking home, you’d probably worry about being cold, but you knew the comfort of Robby’s car was waiting for you just around the corner.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. The moment you were out of view from the house, you were tucked into Robby’s side, his arm slung over your shoulders and sheltering you from any potential cold. In his other arm, he carried the grocery bag full of Tupperware containers of leftovers.

You knew the gesture was meant to be flirtatious, possessive even, in the way he held you close, fingers toying with the sleeve of your dress, but you couldn’t help the thought that it was actually sort of sweet. It felt domestic and natural in a way that you hadn’t expected so soon—maybe even ever, given the nature of this relationship. Either way, it made you smile, still unable to rid yourself of the blush dusting your cheeks.

When you reached the car, he held the door open for you and steadied you as you climbed into the passenger seat. After putting the bag of food in the backseat, he made his way around to the driver’s side.

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb brushing across your cheek.

You realized that you’d zoned out, staring out into the night through the windshield. Your bottom lip was raw from where you’d worried it between your teeth, and your eyes struggled to refocus on Robby.

“Mhm,” you hummed, trying to find your voice as it also occurred to you that neither of you had spoken since you’d walked out the front door. “Yeah, sorry. I think I just got in my head for a second there.”

“S’okay,” he soothed, hand still cradling your face. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right? I can just take you home, and that’s it. There is absolutely zero pressure.”

“I know,” you nodded, “but I want to.”

“Okay then,” he smiled. “But let me know if that changes.”

You nodded again, leaning into the warmth of his palm against your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you teased, watching as his gaze hardened.

Robby’s jaw ticked, and his eyes flicked down to your lips before he lunged forward, leaning across the center console and pulling you into a heated kiss. Your lips parted immediately, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth expertly. You let out a soft whimper as his fingers curled into the back of your neck. Then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over, and Robby was pulling away.

“Jesus,” he groaned. 

“Let’s get to my place before we end up fucking in the backseat of your car,” you suggested.

Robby laughed, shaking his head before he straightened in his seat, starting up the car. You didn’t miss the way he adjusted himself or the way he gripped the wheel like he was holding on for dear life. His right hand found its place on your knee, pinky tucked just below the hem of your skirt, and didn’t move for the entire drive.

You finally stepped into your apartment, Robby trailing behind, practically attached to you. He hadn’t stopped touching you the whole way up—first having interwined his fingers with yours for the walk from the car, then wrapping an arm around your waist as he pulled your back flush to his front in the elevator while he rested his chin on the top of your head, and finally brushing your hair away from your neck so he could press kisses into the sensitive skin while you fumbled with your keys at the door.

You managed to detach from him for long enough to toe off your shoes and take the leftovers from him. Robby followed suit, leaving his shoes in a row with yours and following you into the kitchen.

“Can I get you anything?” you called, transferring the food from the bag into your refrigerator. 

“I wouldn’t mind some dessert,” he answered, much closer to you than you’d realized, as you finished putting everything away.

“I don’t think Aunt Deb gave us any—oop!” 

Suddenly, Robby was picking you up, and then you were sitting on the cold counter of your kitchen island.

“This okay?” he questioned, stepping into the space between your already parted knees.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting back a smile at how insane this whole situation felt.

Then, Robby was kissing you again, left hand on your thigh, right hand holding the back of your head. You rolled your hips forward, trying to get closer and gain some friction.

“So needy,” he teased, grinning against your lips. “How many orgasms can you take?”

Holy shit. You leaned back, looking at him like a deer in headlights.

“I– I don’t know,” you stammered.

“Wanna find out?” The smug look on his face would be annoying if it wasn’t so hot.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, please.”

Robby hummed in approval. His thumb moved from where it rested gently on your cheek to press against your chin, holding your mouth open.

“Already so good for me,” he cooed. You let out a small noise at that. “You like that, baby? You wanna be my good girl?”

“Uh-huh,” you responded as best you could. You were basically panting at this point.

Robby leaned in again, capturing your lips in a filthy kiss. He licked greedily into your open, pliant mouth, sucking and nipping at your bottom lip as he pleased.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen,” he rasped, resolve clearly slipping. “You’re gonna do exactly as I say, and you’re gonna tell me if there’s anything you don’t like. You say ‘stop,’ and I stop, no questions asked. You think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you gasped. Then, thinking back to how he’d reacted earlier in the car, you amended. “Yes, sir.”

Robby let out a guttural moan.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Now, lie back for me, baby.”

You followed his instructions, lowering yourself onto your elbows as he scooted you backward on the counter so that he was leaning forward between your legs. Robby ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your dress up until it was bunched around your waist.

“Such a nice dress,” he complimented. “Can’t believe your aunt let you get away with something so short, though.”

You whimpered as your ass made contact with the cold surface of the marble countertop. Robby was toying with the waistband of your panties, a black lacey pair that you’d picked out just for him, just to see the hungry look in his eyes that he was giving you now. All week, you’d fantasized about this moment, and it was turning out so much better than you imagined.

“Can I take these off of you, baby?” he asked, one eyebrow raised as he made eye contact with you.

He ran the knuckle of his index finger up the center of your clothed core, providing the lightest pressure to your clit. Your whole body shook at the contact. He dipped the tip of his finger into the waistband, eyebrow arching further as he waited for your response.

“Please,” you whined.

Robby smiled, somehow both sweet and sinister. He took his time peeling the underwear from your body, then kissing his way back up your thighs. He maneuvered you so that your legs were hooked over his shoulders as he pressed you open, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place.

“So pretty,” he said, more to himself, at the sight of your pussy spread before him. He dove in, licking from your entrance to your clit in one swipe. “Fuck, you taste so good, baby. So wet for me. This all for me, sweetheart?”

He was looking back up at you, but you were struggling to stay up on your elbows. You were desperate to watch, but he was working you over so well already.

“Yes,” you mewled. “Yes, it’s all for you. Fuck, please, Robby. I need–”

“I know what you need, baby,” he corrected. “Just lemme take care of you, okay?”

You nodded frantically, and Robby made good on his promise. He lapped at you like a man starved, laving and circling your clit with his tongue, then suckling and nipping. Then he moved lower, his tongue tracing your folds to your entrance, skillfully thrusting and swirling at your weeping hole. Meanwhile, his nose nudged your bundle of nerves. It was all too much as he alternated his attention between the two.

And there was nothing you could do. You desperately wanted to grind against him, but his hold on you was too strong. The way his beard was scraping at you was deliciously painful. You imagined the purple bruises that would litter your hips and the red burn that would paint your inner thighs in the morning. You moaned loudly at the thought.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Robby,” you groaned, fully collapsing onto the counter. “I’m gonna—fuck—gonna cum.”

“Go ahead,” he growled into your cunt. “Cum for me, baby.”

The combination of his permission and the vibrations his words sent through you sent you over the edge. Back arching and toes curling, you wailed as you climaxed. Robby continued to lick and suck at your aching pussy. He shifted one arm, and you thought he would lift off of you. Instead, you felt his thick finger circle your entrance as you clenched around nothing. Slowly, he inserted the finger with an embarrassing squelching sound.

“Holy shit,” you croaked.

“That’s my good girl,” Robby urged. “You can take it.”

He continued to fuck one finger into you as the waves of your first orgasm crashed over you. Once you’d come down from the high of your climax, Robby was working a second finger into you, curling to press against the spoungey spot inside of you that made your hips buck.

Robby’s left arm wrapped tighter around your leg, pressing you down harder into the cold surface beneath you and bringing his hand closer to your core. Before you knew it, his thumb was rubbing harsh circles into your clit.

Your second orgasm built up faster than the first, your body still not fully recovered from the first high. You felt the coil winding in your belly tighter and tighter. One of your hands found its way to his hair, gripping desperately at the strands, while the other splayed against the counter, trying to ground yourself.

“Robby, holy fucking shit–” you pleaded. You were running out of words, left with just a string of expletives and his name over and over again.

“I know, baby, I know,” he encouraged. “Be a good girl and cum for me again.”

“Uh-huh, gonna– gonna–” 

You came with a sharp whine as Robby’s fingers stilled inside of you and the thumb of his left hand switched to stroke slow and soft against your clit, coaxing you through your second orgasm of the night.

“Good girl,” he repeated. “Did so good for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body was buzzing, barely registering as Robby lifted away from you and pulled you by your legs back to the edge of the counter. You did notice, however, when he pulled you into a seated position. He was completely supporting you, feeling like you were made completely of jelly.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he crooned, brushing the hair out of your face. “You still with me?”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. God, he was beautiful. His dark, lovely eyes were looking at you like you were the whole world, his eyebrows were lifted expectantly, his beard was shining with your juices—you had never seen anyone look so good.

“I’m here,” you sighed contentedly. You tilted your chin forward, non-verbally requesting a kiss.

Robby obliged. His mouth moved languidly against your, allowing you to explore and taste yourself on his tongue. It was obscene.

“You done?” he questioned. “Or do you have another one in you?”

“Oh, Michael,” you flirted. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

He chuckled, arms locking around your lower back.

“I do my best,” he replied.

“Well, your best is very good,” you affirmed. “The thing is, it’s so good that I don’t think I can walk to the bedroom, which is where I would love for you to fuck me.”

This time, he laughed harder, throwing his head back. You loved the way the creases around his eyes deepened and his chest rumbled with it. You loved that you could still make him laugh, even after two mind-blowing orgasms.

“I think I can make that happen for you, baby,” he said, pecking your lips before hauling you up into his arms. You let out a small yelp at the sudden movement.

Once in your room, Robby set you gently on the bed. You shifted onto your knees to get a better angle to work his belt off of him. Then you were yanking at his shirt, untucking it from his pants.

“Easy,” Robby soothed with an amused chuckle.

You watched as he removed his button-up and undershirt, your hands immediately running up the planes of his stomach and chest as soon as they were revealed. You scraped your nails lightly through the trails of hair that lined his body, marveling at his innate manliness. 

You sat up taller on your knees, reaching for the item that had been the object of several of your fantasies since you’d met Robby. The gold chain that hung around his neck, his Magen David, of course. You traced it with your finger, and Robby shuddered under your touch.

“Now you,” he instructed, helping you out of your dress fully. 

You reached behind yourself to release the clasp of your bra before chucking it to the side. Then, you reached forward to undo the button of his pants. Robby stopped you, replacing your hands with his own, dropping his pants and boxers in one go. 

Even his cock was beautiful. He was larger than anyone you’d been with before, but not so large that you’d worry whether he’d fit inside you. Again, you reached for him, and again, Robby pushed your hands away.

“Wanna suck your cock,” you insisted, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Next time, pretty girl,” he promised, bringing you in for a chaste kiss. “Need to be inside you now.”

You nodded obediently, moving backwards on the bed towards your pillows. Robby followed, crawling on top of you. Your legs parted to accommodate him.

“Condom?” he asked, already reaching toward your bedside table.

“Yeah,” you confirmed.

He rolled it onto himself, then shifted to support himself on one arm, hand pressing into the mattress beside your head. His other hand traveled down your body, tracing the curve of your breasts, your hips, where bruises from his earlier grip were already blooming, and in between your legs. He parted your folds, dipping into your wet heat.

You gasped at the contact, still sensitive from your earlier orgasms.

Robby slowly inserted one finger, then another. He worked you open with two, scissoring his fingers, thrusting, and curling them into your G-spot. Eventually, he added a third, the stretch softened by all the build-up. Finally, he removed his fingers, reaching down to line up his erection with your entrance.

“You ready for me, Y/N?”

It was remarkably tender. The stern dominance from before wasn’t gone, just moved to the back burner. It seemed like both of you could tell this was important, this was a line that couldn’t be un-crossed.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please, Michael.”

With that, he pushed into you. Slow, steady, burning deliciously low in your belly. Then, he was fully inside you. It felt like being remade—all of your atoms were rearranging themselves to accommodate him. Every inch of him that was pressed against you felt electric, stomachs and chests and legs, but it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer. 

You clawed at his back. You pulled at him anyway you could. His arm supporting his weight, and you prayed for a moment that he would collapse into you.

“Y/N– hey!” His free hand swiped at your cheek, and you realized that you were crying. “Baby, are you okay?”

“Yes– yes, I just–” a sob wracked through you.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, lowering further to hold you better, but, thankfully, not pulling out. “What do you need?”

“You,” you said weakly. With him this close, you could feel the Magen David pressing between your chests. “Need you close.”

“Okay, baby,” he reassured. 

He was holding himself up by his elbows on either side of your head, both hands under your head, cradling you, fingers threaded in your hair. He lifted slightly for just a moment to press a kiss to your forehead before lowering himself again. 

“I’m here,” he promised.

Robby rolled his hips into yours. Each thrust was deep and hard, his pace steady. He rested his forehead against yours, your noses nudging as you made out messily and panted into each other’s mouths the whole time he fucked you. The thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed perfectly at your clit, bringing you closer with each thrust of his hips.

“Such a good girl,” he reminded you. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart. Taking me so well. You were fucking made for me.”

You knew it was dirty talk. It was something people said. But for the first time, it felt real. It felt like you were made for Michael Robinavitch.

After he brought you to a third orgasm, after he’d climaxed as well, the condom catching all of his spend, after he’d promised that next time he’d get you to four, after he’d cleaned you up with a warm rag from your bathroom and returned to lie in bed with you, you whispered two words into the darkness. 

“Don’t leave.”

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Taglist: @kajjaka @abbotitts @snakesonastarship @bloodink94 @starstruckl @marleyindapitt

Pope has many rules he follows to ensure he never gets caught. The golden one being: never do a job near home. And he is technically following that rule.

He isn't doing a job near his home. 

But he is doing a job near his estranged twin brother's home, on the east coast. 

Far enough from Oceanside that no one would even think to link him to it. 

That is, if the job went right… 

It was supposed to be simple. A one man job, large pay day, in and out. Just a clean robbery during a restocking of a local jewelry chain. Smurf's fence already had buyers lined up for the take. All Pope had to do was make it back to California with the jewels. 

But things are never as simple as he thinks. Because when he robs the place, it's like the cops had already been tipped off. And he has a bad suspicion that his mother wanted him back in prison.

Why else would she have him get caught on the other side of the country? 

Unfortunately for her, Pope has learned his lesson from his previous stint in prison and he knows how to get away from the cops much better now. He planned for this. He always has to now. 

But what he wasn't planning for was you, getting off of work at the restaurant you serve at. 

You have a bad habit of jaywalking because you're so used to there not being any cars on the street where you park, since it's a few blocks away from the restaurant. Plus, it's late at night in a run down part of town. 

There are never cars driving around here—

Until one slams into you while you're in the middle of the street and you go flying into the glass window of a nearby discount thrift store.

You don't know if you feel lucky that the sheer number of clothing racks breaks your fall. It distracts you from the insanely large piece of glass that's lodged in your side. When you notice it, you almost scream from all the blood oozing out of you. 

Almost, because a gloved hand goes over your mouth before you do. 

“Don't scream and I'll take you to a hospital.” 

You look up to see a man wearing one of those black ski masks, where you can only see his hazel eyes peeking through. Your heart is hammering in your chest but you don't know why it isn't out of fear. You aren't feeling afraid, mostly just startled. 

Pope doesn't know why he stopped the car. He should've driven away. There's no reason for him to risk getting caught to check on an innocent bystander.

But something about you, about how soft and small and beautiful you are, made him stop the car. It was like he couldn't help it. 

Could you be…

He shakes his head. You couldn't be. He would smell it. You don't smell like an unclaimed omega. 

You don't smell like anything, which usually means you're a beta. If he smelled threatened by you, you'd likely be an alpha. 

Like him. 

Like his brother, who will not be happy to see him soon. 

Because you tell Pope, through shaky breaths, “I don't have health insurance. I can't go to the hospital…”

You get paid cash under the table to serve at the hole in the wall, mom and pop restaurant you work at. Because…you have a criminal record. And it's hard enough getting a job in general but as a previous felon, it's even more difficult. Every employer, even though they aren't supposed to discriminate, looks at you differently once they've discovered what you've done time for. So, you can only work for shitty pay in bad parts of the city and pray that one day, you'll get out of here. 

You had no idea that day would be coming much sooner than you thought…

“No screaming and I'll take you to a doctor I know.” Pope is not sure Jack will do him this favor. His brother owes him nothing after all the bullshit Pope put Jack through growing up. 

That's why, when they got placed in the foster care system and Jack got the opportunity to get adopted by another family, he took it. The Abbots didn't want Julia or Andrew, because they had disciplinary records. So, they just took Jack. 

Jack has no clue that Pope has been keeping tabs on him all this time. It has to be, what, more than twenty years since they've been separated? Maybe even longer…

So, it's a surprise to Jack why he's letting his twin brother bring you into his house, bleeding all over his hardwood floors. 

“What the fuck, Pope?!” Jack moves everything off his dining table so Pope can set you down. “What the fuck are you doing here? Who is she?” 

“I hit her with my fucking car. Can you save her or not?” Pope doesn't care for the reunion talk. He's more focused on the giant shard of glass poking out of the side of your hip. 

“She needs a hospital.” Jack sees all the micro cuts from shattered glass all over your exposed skin where your clothes have ripped from the impact. Probably through a window… 

“She can't pay for a hospital.” Pope doesn't have to explain anything extra to Jack. Jack knows how hard it is to afford medical care. He sees it every day. 

“It…hurts…a lot…” You clutch your side, tears dripping down your face from the pain. “Am I going to die?” 

“No.” They both say at the same time. 

Jack glares at how close Pope is hovering. “If you want me to help her, get out of my way.” 

Pope would move. But for some reason, even the simple action of stepping aside from you feels strange. He doesn't want to leave your side. 

Jack sees a look on Pope's face that he has never seen before. It's…care. He cares about you. Jack can't seem to understand why Pope does. He hasn't ever cared for anyone, not truly. 

But he worries for you. 

And that's enough for Jack to care too, at least enough to make sure you don't die on his dining table. 

It takes him all night to pull out every shard of glass from your skin. You're shivering by the end of it because he had to cut you out of your thick winter clothes to check your whole body. They were ruined anyway from the impact through the window. 

It was difficult for Jack not to notice how nice of a body you had hidden under your rather modest work attire. It's even more difficult not to react to how cute you look in his clothes, since he had to put you in something after he finishes cleaning your wounds. 

“You're lucky I wasn't working tonight.” Jack tells Pope once he has you wrapped up in a warm blanket and settled by the fireplace. 

It's freezing outside. It's supposed to snow soon. Jack thankfully bought some wood ahead of time so you're all snuggled up and cozy, the fire illuminating you as you sleep peacefully on the fluffy rug Jack laid down there. 

To help with recovery, he gave you all the painkillers he had. It's a miracle you didn't break any bones. You did lose a lot of blood but him and Pope are both universal donors so…you are very lucky you didn't need to go to a hospital. Jack had everything needed to treat you. 

“Thanks.” Pope doesn't know what else to say. 

“Who the hell is she?” Jack can't wrap his head around his brother helping some random person off the street. He has definitely left people for dead for less.

While Jack hasn't kept in touch with Pope, he will, on occasion, call Catherine since they were friends prior to him moving away. She keeps him in the loop since she understands what it's like not to like his family. 

Though, he hasn't heard from her in a while…

“I don't know. I was…running from the cops and I hit her with the getaway car.”

“Is that what's in my driveway right now?” Jack bites back the anger that's threatening to come out. “Am I an accomplice now?” 

“No, it's her car. I crashed the other car into the store she fucking smashed into. There's no reason for them to think it was anything but a car crash. They probably think I'm on foot somewhere nearby.” 

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, a headache forming at the center of his skull. “What the fuck are you doing here, Pope?” 

“Smurf has a connection here with an in for this jewelry chain. She wanted me to hit the restock.” 

“She made you come all the way out here for a job?” Jack would believe it. Their mother is crazy. 

“I'm pretty sure she tipped off the police.” Pope had a bad feeling when she told him to go alone without his brothers or J. 

“Why would she do that?” Jack shouldn't ask that. He already knows. 

“Because she wants me to go back to prison.” Pope is certain she never wanted him to get out. “That way, none of them have to deal with me.”

She probably figured he'd die in there. He almost did, several times. The abuse was brutal, especially since he went to a prison full of criminal alphas. The guards were alphas too. Everyone was on edge and looking to be the toughest guy in there. It's a miracle Pope got out early.

Smurf has been making him do risky shit ever since, hoping he'd slip up. He almost did, getting involved with you. 

Pope hasn't taken his eyes off of you since he saw you for the first time. He doesn't like the feeling that stirs in his chest when he sees how peacefully you're sleeping. Nor does he like the ache that he feels when you wince from the pain before adjusting your sleeping position, like your body is remembering that you got hurt. 

“You don't take anything, do you?” Jack, again, keeps asking questions he knows the answer to. 

Pope refused to take any suppressants growing up. Jack did because he knew it would be better in the long run not to let the hormonal imbalance of being an unmated alpha interfere with his life. He has been taking them every day since puberty. He hasn't missed a dose yet. 

“Smurf tried to sneak some in my food but I figured it out.” Pope doesn't like the way the suppressants make him feel. They dull everything and whenever he gets that dull, he's afraid of what he might do to try to feel something again…

“You should take them. They've made them better since we were kids. They won't make you feel weird anymore.” Jack is very different from his brother in many ways. 

Despite growing up in the same household, Jack learned at a young age that being in control is always the best option. Pope would rather let the people around him control him, tell him what to do, push him towards whatever they wanted for him, even if it ate at him inside. Jack tried so hard to get Pope to snap out of that mentality but it never worked. Pope would just lash out at Jack and soon enough, Jack was tired of trying.  

When he moved away, he forgot what it was like to be a Cody, with all that unnecessary pressure. 

In his mind, he will always be an Abbot. 

He wonders if life would've been different for Pope had he been adopted by them too. 

“Do you have one of those machines?” Pope can't remember what they're called. “That check for markers?” 

“Pope, she's definitely a beta.” Jack has worked with plenty of omegas before. He knows the smell well. It doesn't affect him, given the suppressants, but it still is prevalent regardless. 

You don't smell like anything, except blood… 

“Do you have a machine or not?” Pope knows Jack's right but he can't shake the feeling.

“Yeah, I have one but it's not super accurate since it's a portable one.” Jack goes to his backpack where he keeps his on-the-go medical supplies and pulls out a machine that looks like a credit card reader. 

It's useful to have a detector on hand since, medically speaking, each demarcation has their own unique subset of possible complications. For betas, they heal much slower than alphas and omegas, meaning for wounds like yours, it'll likely take twice as long to get you back on your feet. It also means betas need faster medical treatment because they can die much easier. 

Mated omegas and alphas heal exceptionally well. Something about their bond allows them to heal in the presence of each other. That's why it's never a good idea to separate an alpha and an omega when one of them is hurt. It slows the healing process tremendously if so. Though, instinctually, if one of them is hurt, the other could never leave their side. It makes them feel sick stepping away from their mate.

Maybe that's why Pope thinks you might be an omega. Because he doesn't seem to want to leave your side. 

Jack pricks you with a sterilized needle and then drops the blood into the machine. It whirs and then beeps after a few seconds, flashing the result on the screen. 

“High traces of the beta marker.” Jack shows Pope. “Told you.” 

Pope nods. That confirms it. So, he should be able to leave you. He should leave you to get back to Oceanside to fence the jewelry he stole that's sitting in your car right now.

But he asks Jack instead, “can I…stay here for a while?”

His brother doesn't look happy about that. “Why do you want to stay here?” 

“Just until I find my own fence. Once I have the cash, I'll leave. I need to get out of the country or something. Disappear somewhere Smurf can't find me, like you did.”

“I didn't disappear.” Jack corrects him. “She never bothered looking for me. She'd look for you, though.” 

Pope was always her favorite because he was her errand boy. Jack never let her use him the way she uses Pope and he tried his whole life to get Pope to stop letting Smurf walk all over him. But Pope is loyal. He always has been. 

“Please, Jack.” Pope rarely begs but…he doesn't want to go back to Oceanside. “Just until she recovers. I'll keep an eye on her while you're at work. I'll be out of your hair then.” 

“You're going to make me gray more than I already am.” Jack brushes his fingers through the gray streaks in his hair. Then, he concedes, “fine, but only if you help me clean up. My housekeeper has been on vacation.” 

Pope did notice that, minus all your blood on his floors, Jack's place could be a lot cleaner. There's clothes everywhere. It looks like Jack doesn't make it to his bed half the time from the way there's blankets piled up in the living room. 

Jack catches Pope staring. “I sleep out here when it's cold, since it has the fireplace.” 

“I wasn't judging.” He can't judge. He barely sleeps as is. “I'll get your shit cleaned up.” 

“You can take the guest room. The one on the left.” Jack points down the hallway. “Are you going to sleep now?” 

“No, I'll sit here.” Pope walks over to the armchair that Jack has in the living room, sitting down, staring at you all curled up by the fire. 

Jack finds himself looking at you too before he snaps his attention away. There's no reason for him to be staring at you, other than the fact that you're a gorgeous woman who happens to be sleeping in his house. 

That same strange feeling that's stirring in Pope is making Jack's stomach churn every step he takes away from you towards his room. It's faint, like his body is trying to digest food that isn't sitting well with him. He figures it must be from having to give blood while performing surgery on you to get those glass shards out. 

The queasy feeling doesn't end, though. Jack finds it hard to sleep. He feels colder than usual too. He tries to tough through it but he needs to sleep since he's working the night shift. 

So, after enough time has passed, he gets up and walks out to the living room. Pope is fast asleep, sitting up on the chair. You're still sleeping by the fire, the medicine definitely helping you relax. Jack lays down on the couch and for some reason, he feels a lot better now. 

He doesn't like the way he's looking at you, though. He doesn't feel comfortable with the thoughts stirring in his mind. Of how nice it would be to scoop you into his arms and hold you while you sleep. 

Jack shakes it off. He hasn't thought like that in…maybe ever, honestly. He has never been so drawn to someone before. 

And he doesn't even know your name.

By the time you wake up, it's almost evening. The warm colors of the sunset are filtering through the sheer curtains in the large windows looking out from the living room. 

But this isn't your living room.

Your shitty studio apartment doesn't have a living room and if it did, it would not look this nice. 

You…don't know where you are. And you forget that you're injured because you sit up, thinking you can, and then you immediately let out a scream when your stitches rip. 

“Ow!” You grip your side, warm blood coating your fingers. “Oh fuck…”

Two men come rushing towards you in an instant. You've never seen either of them before. Or, wait…have you? 

You feel nervous all of a sudden with how close they are to you, your skin heating. It's hard not to notice that they're twins. It's even harder not to notice how handsome they both are…

You've always liked your men older. 

“You need to lay back down.” One of them tells you, gently helping you back down onto your back. “You tore your stitches. I have to redo them.” 

“Why do I have stitches?” You lift your hands off the wound so the man, presumably a doctor from the way he's examining you from head to toe and grabbing medical supplies, can start working on closing your wound back up. 

“Because I hit you with my car last night.” The other man, who sounds eerily similar to the first one, says to you. 

“What?” Why can't you remember?

“She must've had a concussion if she can't recall.” The man redoing your stitches waits until you're looking him in the eyes to say, “my name is Jack Abbot. I'm a doctor. This is my…brother, Pope.” 

Jack refrained from attaching a very unwelcoming adjective in front of the word brother. 

“It would be crazy if you two weren't brothers.” You make a really bad joke since they look exactly alike and Pope actually laughs. It's faint but it's there, a dark little chuckle. You want to laugh too, but it would probably distract Jack. 

Then you take a moment to introduce yourself, since you assume they don't know anything about you. 

“I'm sorry I hit you with my car.” Pope tells you and he sounds distraught over it. “I would've taken you to a hospital but you told me not to.” 

“Yeah, I wouldn't be able to afford that bill.” You barely clawed your way out of debt. You are not going to swim in it again. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Just Jack is fine. You are in my house, after all. Be weird for you to call me Doctor here.” Jack finished up redoing your stitches. “Now, please, be careful getting up. If you need help, tell one of us and we'll pick you up.”

Jack bites down on his tongue right after he says that. What the fuck is he saying? He should've just said he'd help you up so you can walk on your own. Why did he—

“Can I get a little help then?” You lift your arms up for one of them to take you. “Is there a bathroom somewhere?” 

Before Jack has a chance to, Pope already has you scooped up in his arms. “I'll take her. You should get ready for work.” 

“I still have a landline. If I call, you answer, alright?” Jack walks over to the phone on the wall.

“You still have a landline?” You chuckle and Pope tenses when he can feel your breath on his skin. “That's crazy.” 

“It's the most secure line for emergencies.” Jack shouldn't be explaining this. 

Why is he even talking to you? 

You're just a patient. 

But your giggle has his heart skipping a beat. “I've never met anyone with a landline before.”

“You've probably never gotten hit by a car either.” Pope says and you laugh at that, clutching onto him more for balance because you wobble a little in his arms at your laughter. 

He likes the way your hands have settled in his hair, clinging to the back of his head. He wants your hands in his hair all the time…

“Definitely not.” You still can't believe that happened, laying your head against the crook of his neck. “Thanks for getting me help.” 

“We'll help you until your stitches heal and you can walk on your own. Unless you want to go back home.” Pope realizes he knows nothing about you. You could have someone back home waiting for you, like a kid…or a lover. 

He doesn't like how his heart aches when he thinks that.

“This place is way nicer than my place.” You can't believe the size of this bathroom. And it's just the guest bathroom!

Pope helps set you on your feet and you tell him that you've got it from here and will call for him when you're done. 

“Do I call you “Pope”?” You're unsure if you heard Jack right earlier. “That's an interesting name.”

“My brothers would call me Pope Andrew growing up so it just stuck one day.” He explains. “Either is fine.”

“Which do you prefer?” You ask to be polite. 

Pope thinks for a second and then says, “Andrew.” 

“Okay. I'll tell you when I'm done, Andrew.” You say back with a soft smile, in that sweet tone of yours. 

Pope closes the bathroom door behind him and…he puts his hand over his heart. It's beating so fast all of a sudden. 

Why does he feel like this? Just from seeing you smile? 

Jack catches Pope just idling by the guest bathroom door after he's done getting ready for work. He has no clue how long Pope has been standing there like that. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Pope answers, still dazed from you saying his name. “I'm fine.” 

Jack raises an eyebrow because Pope definitely doesn't look fine. He looks like he's going to have a heart attack with the way he's clutching his chest. 

The bathroom door swings open and you hobble out, holding onto your side so you're staying aware of it. Jack feels the urge to lunge forward to stop you from walking any further but Pope beats him to it, lifting you back into his arms. 

“You were supposed to call for me to get you!” Pope lightly scolds you. “What if your stitches break when Jack's not here? I'm not very good at them.” 

“I'm sure you'd do fine.” You say, patting his chest lightly. “You've probably gotten plenty of stitches yourself.” 

You notice that his heart is racing when your hand touches his chest. You look up at him, wondering why that could be. Maybe it's difficult for him to carry you? 

“If this is too much, you can just help me walk. I should be fine without the princess treatment.” You do like being held like this, though.

But you're very aware of the scent that is coming off of Pope. It screams alpha. 

Which means there's no reason for him to treat you so kindly. 

It's not worth the effort. Betas rarely get involved with alphas or omegas because it always ultimately leads to heartbreak. 

You know better… 

“I hit you with my car. It's my responsibility to make sure you recover well. This is the least I can do.” Pope genuinely feels bad he didn't see you. It was a dark street, with broken street lamps, but he still should've noticed you. 

You'll accept that explanation. Makes much more sense than the silly thought running through your mind that he likes you. He definitely doesn't like you. His brother doesn't either. Unless…

“Are you both alphas?” You didn't get a scent off of Jack. 

Your hopes are crushed when Jack says, “yeah. We're triplets, actually. Our sister was an alpha too, like our mother.” 

You notice he says “was”. Their sister must've passed away. 

“You're in a good occupation then.” There are a lot of alphas in the medical field since they have great stamina so they can work long hours doing difficult work, like saving lives. “Are you heading to work now?” 

Jack is wearing his usual black scrubs. He wanted to show you his badge, so you knew he wasn't lying about being a doctor. He shouldn't care that you're way too trusting. You're not someone he should worry about. 

But he can't stop himself from saying, “this is the hospital I work at, just so you know. Make sure if this ever happens again to verify the identities of the people who are helping you. They might not be good people.”

You look up at Pope then back at Jack, before answering, “what if I'm the one who's the bad person? You never verified me.”

That gives Jack pause. You're right. They just assumed you were harmless because you look harmless. 

Never judge a book by its cover. 

“Are you?” Jack asks. 

You shrug, giggling. “Maybe. Are you?” 

“I am.” Pope says without hesitation. “I was in prison for a while. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

You shake your head, admitting, “would it make you uncomfortable if I said I was in prison too?” 

You meet Jack's gaze. He's puzzled. Most people are when they learn that. 

“Why were you in prison?” Jack has to know. 

He asks your least favorite question. It never ends well when you tell people why you've been in prison…

Pope catches how much you're trembling in his arms. It must be difficult to talk about for you. 

“Can you put me down?” You point to the bed and Pope nods, setting you down there. You carefully sit up, keeping your hand on your side. Then, you tell them, “I hurt someone. Specifically…an omega.” 

You bite your lip then sigh. You hate having to tell people this, especially alphas. They're hardwired to protect omegas so you're certain Pope and Jack aren't going to treat you as nicely after you fill them in. But you don't want to keep this from them. 

You'd rather they know so they can judge you for themselves with the whole truth.

“It was stupid and when I was younger but…I was jealous of this omega so I shoved them and they tripped and ended up breaking their arm on their fall.” Hurting an omega in any capacity leads straight to serving prison time, given that they're such a small percentage of the population. They are a very protected class. “I served my time and I haven't done anything like that since but…I get it if you don't want to deal with me anymore. I can just heal up at home.”

It may not be as comfortable as Jack's house and you'd be losing access to an actual doctor but alphas rarely affiliate with anyone who has hurt an omega. That's why finding work is so hard for you. If the employer is an alpha, you're almost always skipped over. 

Jack looks over at Pope, trying to see what he thinks. Pope meets his gaze then turns to you and says, “if it's in the past, it's in the past. You're not the same person you were then.” 

You blink, trying to stop the tears from forming in your eyes. But they drip down your face anyways. You didn't realize how much you needed to hear those words. 

“We've all done things we aren't proud of.” Jack is earnest with his words. “All we can do is keep pushing forward.” 

“Thank you for not hating me over one mistake.” You wipe your tears away, holding in your hiccup. “I really appreciate it.”

Perhaps if it was any other person, they wouldn't be so forgiving. But for some reason, neither Jack nor Pope can find it in them to be mad at you over what you did. They seem more focused on getting you to stop crying. 

“You should get her something to eat.” Jack practically orders Pope around. “Make her drink water too. Don't forget. Do you need money?” 

Pope shakes his head. “I got cash. You know any places that deliver?” 

“I'll show you.” Jack gestures for him to follow. 

“Wait.” You don't want them to go just yet. “Can one of you help me back to the living room?” 

Again, without any reservation, Pope comes over and picks you up into his arms, carrying you back out to your little spot by the fireplace. There's no fire going right now, but you really like this spot. It's cozy with the fluffy rug and soft pillows. 

You wish there were more blankets to add to your pile. You could make yourself a nest. 

Though…you have no clue why you're thinking that. What an odd thought. 

“These are take out menus of places that deliver nearby. Pick a place and buy me something to heat up later.” Jack hands Pope the pamphlets. 

“Do you still like kung pao or have you moved on since you were fifteen?” Pope picks the Chinese place, since it looks like this is the menu Jack looks at the most with how worn it is. “With extra peanuts, right?”

“Yep.” Jack is surprised that Pope remembers. “A side of rice too.” 

“I got it.” Pope heads over and sits beside you, handing you the menu. “You pick something and I'll order it.” 

“My bag is in my car.” You can see it parked in the driveway. “I can pay for my food.” 

“You don't have to worry about that.” Pope does not want you to be thinking about money. He can take care of you. 

Thankfully, you're looking very intently at the menu because if you turned to see the look on Pope's face, you'd question why he seems so distraught. It's because he doesn't know why he feels so much for you. He hasn't ever felt anything like this before. He's thinking thoughts he hasn't ever had. 

Like what you would look like with his bite mark on the back of your neck. 

Jack is going through the same struggle when he's driving to work. He feels sick, that stomachache from last night returning in full force. It only gets worse the further he is from home. 

He brushes it off as him being worried that Pope is in his house. He doesn't think Pope would steal anything from him. 

Apparently Julia did that a lot, according to Catherine, to Smurf but Jack doubts Pope would to him. Not after he begged Jack to stay in his house. Pope can be tough to deal with at times but he isn't truly a bad person. He can do bad things but he doesn't like to.

Jack's head starts to pound when he puts his backpack away in his locker. He clutches it and Dr. Shen notices. 

“Abbot, you okay?” Shen raises an eyebrow at Jack massaging his temple. “You look like shit.” 

“I'm fine.” Jack fights through the pounding in his head. “I just need to drink more water.” 

“Always got to stay hydrated.” Shen says right before he takes a sip of his iced coffee. 

Water does not help. By the time Jack is off work, he debates calling a cab to pick him up because he's so woozy. It did help to eat the protein bars he packed for the rare moments he has a break during work, so he must just be hungry. 

Somehow, he makes it back home in one piece. 

Just being in his driveway already soothes him. But he gets the greatest wave of relief when he opens the front door and sees you sleeping by a lit fire. Something about how warm and welcoming you look eases him. 

Suddenly, his head isn't throbbing anymore and his stomach has stopped its churning. But it can't be because of you, right? 

He shakes it off. It's impossible. You're a beta. He's just trying to see things that aren't there. 

Because he can't rid himself of the desire to make you a permanent part of his life. 

Jack is losing it. He must be overworked. 

He looks around but Pope isn't here. He notices then that your car isn't in the driveway. 

You stir a bit at the sound of Jack's footsteps before mumbling, “are you back already, Andrew?”

“No, it's me, Jack.” He didn't realize you're calling Pope “Andrew”. 

Why does that make him feel…jealous? 

“Did you have a good day at work?” You ask, rubbing your tired eyes. Then you giggle, “I meant night.” 

A force inside Jack's body wants him to walk up to you and find a way to bottle up that smile. He settles for clenching his fist, digging his nails into his palm to wake himself up from these strange thoughts.

“It was okay.” It could've been worse but he managed. “Where's Pope?” 

“He went to go get some clothes for me, since I feel bad wearing yours.” You flap your arms so he can see how big his long sleeve is on you. “Though, I kind of like your clothes. They smell really nice.” 

You kick yourself under your blanket. What are you saying? Why did you just say that? 

It is the truth but you didn't have to tell Jack! 

Now you feel embarrassed…

“What kind of laundry detergent do you use?” You try to make it not seem like you like the way he smells in particular. 

“Whatever my housekeeper usually picks.” Jack delegates all of his household goods to the kind woman who has been helping him since he got this house. He has been pushing her to go on a paid vacation and she finally caved. 

“I like it.” You say, lifting the collar of the shirt over your face to smell it. “It's comforting.” 

Jack cannot dig his nails any harder into his palm. He must've torn flesh by now because he keeps thinking about how adorable you look and how much he wants to touch you. 

Wait, what? He needs to focus on something else. His thoughts are all over the place. 

Jack goes to the fridge and pulls out the takeout Pope bought earlier, tossing it in the microwave to heat up. He feels compelled to ask, “did you eat already?” 

You nod. “A few hours ago. I am a little hungry now but I will probably just try to go back to sleep.” 

“Do you want to eat some with me?” What the fuck is Jack saying? Didn't he just say he needs to focus on something else? So, why is he offering?

What the fuck is going on—

“Oh, sure.” You want to get up on your own but you know you shouldn't. “Can you help me up?” 

His feet move before he can think. He kneels down and picks you up easily. You lean into him, taking in a deep breath. 

Then, you notice how nice he smells, even with the layer of sweat from working all night. He smells just like this laundry does, with an extra bit of him to it. Usually, you find the scent that wafts off of alphas disturbing. But you really like his smell for some reason. 

It makes you lean your head on his shoulder, wanting to breathe more of it in before he sets you down at one of the stools he has for his kitchen island. 

Jack was pretty quick about bringing you over but he still feels like he let you linger in his arms more than he should've. His heart is pounding in his chest right now. Maybe it's because he can see just a bit of the skin on the back of your neck and he can't control the way he licks his lips. It's like his teeth are aching to bite you. 

He pushes the thought away. He must be sleep deprived and starving. That explains it. 

So, he let out a sigh of relief when the microwave beeps and he can grab the food from it, setting it in front of you. He grabs two plates and some utensils and then, against his best judgment, he sits right next to you at the island. He should've stood across the way. At least then he would be putting some distance between the two of you. 

But he notices how your bare leg brushes up against his. 

You aren't wearing any pants…

“Oh sorry!” You scoot over a little, realizing how casually your leg was resting on his. “None of your pants fit so I just went without.”

“Aren't you cold?” Jack has to talk or else he'll start thinking about sliding his hands up your bare thighs and—

“It's toasty in here with the fire.” You glance over at it, the embers lighting up the living room with that soft orange glow. “I like the way the wood sounds.” 

“Me too.” He does. It's calming. He wishes it was helping him right now. 

“I don't want to steal food out of your mouth.” You gesture for Jack to start eating first. “I'll pick at it after you serve yourself since I'm not too hungry.” 

Jack turns his attention to the food, making himself a plate. Then, he makes you a plate too because…well, he doesn't really know why. He just does. He unconsciously gives you a lot more food. 

You chuckle at the sight of it. “We should switch. You gave me so much.” 

You slide his plate over towards you and when he goes to grab yours, his hand brushes along your fingers as you try to do the same. You quickly pull away, letting him take the plate. You try not to react to how warm his hand is. But it's hard when you're thinking about how thick his fingers are and how they would feel—

What is going on with you? You've never lusted after someone like that before. 

You go to pick at your food, trying to distract yourself from the thoughts swirling around in your head. Jack scarfs his food down, trying to do the same, trying to get you out of his head. 

He keeps repeating the same thing over and over again in his head. He must just be hungry, or tired, or pent up. It could just be because he finds you attractive and it's been a while since he has been in the presence of someone attractive. That must be it. You're just a very attractive beta.

This attraction will not last. It never does for Jack, but especially because you're a beta. It would be an insult for him as an alpha to pursue you, knowing that one day, he would have to leave you if he met his match. It's frowned upon to lead a beta on. That's why there has never been a case where an alpha and a beta live happily ever after. 

So it will not happen here. Even if…he wants it to…

“I'm sorry to ask, but can you get me some water?” You would do it yourself but the last time you tried, Pope scolded you into the next millennium so you will not be risking that again. You're certain Jack would scold you even more.

“Of course.” Jack gets up, grabbing a glass and filling it with the filtered water from his fridge, handing it to you. 

When your fingers brush his again, his heart nearly stops in his chest. He pulls away the moment you have a grip on the glass. 

“Thank you.” You swallow the whole glass because you're super parched. 

Jack hates that he stares at you the entire time, right at your neck. He goes to grab some water for himself so he isn't looking at you directly anymore. Like somehow that'll help him stop thinking about you. 

The water goes down but it doesn't quench his thirst at all. He fills his glass up and walks back to sit down next to you. You eye the water.

“Can I have some of that?” You're still thirsty and you'd hate to make him get up again. Pope told you about Jack's prosthetic leg so you'd feel bad making him move around so much after a long shift. 

He slides it over to you, narrowly avoiding your fingers brushing against his again. He turns away while you drink, so he isn't caught staring at you. 

But he is thinking about how you're sharing his glass. An indirect kiss. A kind of intimacy he hasn't had with anyone before. 

“I asked Andrew but I wanted to ask you too.” You turn to Jack when you're done sipping some water and say, “I know he hit me with his car but I don't want to be any trouble. I can chip in for things, like food, etc, while I'm here.”

Jack really doesn't like how easily he almost told you not to worry about it, that he'll take care of you. He asks you instead, “what did my brother say when you asked?” 

“He told me to just focus on recovering.” But you don't want to mooch off of their kindness…

“You should focus on recovering.” Jack agrees with Pope there. “I've got plenty of money so don't worry about me.” 

“That must be nice.” You say with a half-chuckle. “I wish I could say that.” 

“Is it hard for you, financially?” Jack is slipping further into you, wanting to know more about you, even when he knows he shouldn't get closer… 

“Ah, I'm okay.” You wave off the concerned expression on his face. “I was in pretty bad debt after prison but I'm all clear now. That's why I didn't want to go to the hospital. I would've been right back where I started if I did.”

“It's a good thing my brother took you to me.” 

Though, is it a good thing? Ever since you showed up, Jack has been feeling stranger than ever.

“Thank you for helping me. You didn't have to. I'm just a stranger, after all.” You'll likely remain a stranger to him. He'll forget all about you once you're gone. You're sure of it. You're also sure you'll never forget him.

The handsome doctor… 

“You don't have to be a stranger.” The words leave Jack's lips before he can stop them. 

You look up into his eyes then. You want to understand what would compel him to say that. 

Is he being serious? He wants to get to know you? You can't understand why he would. 

But then his eyes drop to your lips before meeting your gaze again. He hopes you didn't notice that. But you definitely did. 

Jack sees the way you look at his lips in response. Then, you throw everything you've ever believed out the window to grab him by the collar so you can pull him towards you to kiss him. 

And Jack stops caring about all the conflicting things screaming in his mind so he can kiss you back. 

He does more than just that. He deepens the kiss, his hand cupping your face, adjusting you so he can slip more of his tongue into your mouth. You can't help the moan that leaves your lips when you feel his other hand slide up your bare thigh. 

You move your hands to his shoulders and you dig your nails into him the moment his fingers drag along the outside of your underwear. He can feel how wet you are, soaked through the fabric. You nearly cum when his fingertips brush along your clit, the friction from the fabric dizzying your mind. You've never been so sensitive before. 

You've never wanted to be touched like this before. You've always been so apprehensive when it comes to sex. You would never let anyone touch you. And yet you're letting Jack. 

You want him so much. And he wants you. 

But then, you both hear the front door unlock and Jack quickly pulls away from you, turning back towards the island, to hide the redness that has surely creeped up on his face from how much he wanted to touch you. He needs to calm down right now. 

Since Pope is home. “I packed everything from the list you gave me. Do you want your pajama pants now?” 

“Uh y-yeah.” You swallow back the thrumming of your heart. “I really need those.” 

Pope comes up and helps you put them on. He notices how hot your skin feels. 

Do you have a fever or something? 

“I'm going to bed.” Jack gets up from the island, not turning to face either of you. “Can you do the dishes?” 

“I got it. You go rest.” Pope waves Jack off and he does not wait a second longer to leave. 

“Thanks for doing that, Andrew.” You would've dressed yourself if you could move. “I'll just brush my teeth here so you don't have to carry me all the way to the bathroom.” 

Pope hands you your toiletries and walks you over to the kitchen sink so you can brush the taste of Jack out of your mouth before it lingers for too long. That kiss will surely linger on your mind forever. And the feeling of his hand on your thigh, his fingers almost dipping inside of you. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Pope is concerned at how much heat is radiating off of you. 

“Yeah, I-I'm okay.” You try your best not to stutter from the nerves. “I think I'm just tired.” 

After you finish brushing your teeth and washing your face, he helps you back to your spot by the fire and adds a few more logs. You glance over to see Jack's blanket on the couch.

“Can you get me that? It's a little cold.” You aren't lying. It is cold. But you…miss his smell too. 

Pope drapes it over you, tucking you in. “Better?”

You nod, breathing in deeply that soothing scent. “Very warm now. I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but can you pull my suitcase over here?”

“It's not a bother.” He likes helping you. It fulfills something inside of him, though he's unsure what that is. 

Once you have your things, you sift through for a shirt you usually would wear to sleep. It's too toasty with Jack's long sleeve on so you bury yourself under your blankets and change. Pope almost tells you that you don't have to hide but…he can't guarantee he wouldn't look. The memory of you undressed yesterday so that Jack could clean your wounds is still haunting him in the back of his mind. 

“I'll take that.” Pope puts his hand out in front of you when you've emerged from swapping shirts. “I need to do the laundry anyways.” 

You like that his hand lingers against yours for a moment before he takes the shirt from you and walks away. You know you shouldn't like it…but you do. 

Pope goes out to the garage, where Jack's washing machine is. And he's supposed to add the shirt to the clothes already in the wash. He is supposed to. 

But he stands there instead, lifting it to his nose and basking in your subtle smell. Then, because he knows you can't get up to catch him and Jack must be fast asleep, he slips his hard cock out of his pants and starts rubbing one out. Like he did multiple times at your apartment. 

The smell of your place sent him into a craze. He was sure you never invited anyone over because it only smelled like you. It was heaven. Everything had a trace of you there. He wanted to stay there forever. It was almost as good as being by your side. It helped quell the sickness he was feeling driving there. 

But his cock wouldn't go down, not even after he jerked himself off several times. That's why he took so long gathering your things. Every time he would pack more, he became overwhelmed by the thoughts of you laying underneath him with his cock buried in your pussy, fucking you until you were screaming his name over and over again. 

Pope looks down, his own cum coating his hands, and he can't believe how much is still coming out. He wipes himself off with the shirt and tosses it into the wash, quickly turning the machine on so he can hide the evidence of what he just did. He tucks himself back into his pants and just stands there, staring at the clothes in the machine as it starts the wash cycle. Spinning around and around. Like his head is, with all the thoughts of you. 

Unfortunately for Jack, he's suffering the same affliction but it's amplified by how much his chest is hurting too. Your scent still lingers on his fingers so he holds them against his nose while he wraps his hand around his cock, needing that release. He almost fucked you. He would've if Pope didn't come home. 

But why would he have? 

Every logical and rational part still awake in Jack's mind is telling him that there's no reason for him to want you so much. You're not his person. His person is some omega out there who is waiting to meet him. He's supposed to feel something like this for his mate.

Not you, this random beta that his brother hurt and needed him to treat. 

And yet, Jack is so pent up that he's still hard after cumming three times. It's like torture because the more he touches himself to the thought of you, the more he wishes he was touching you instead. 

The more he wants to be fucking you instead of his own hand…

You feel the same levels of frustration, hiding under the covers, not sure if you want to be caught with your hand down your pants. You keep thinking about their hands, all over you. You still feel Jack's lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your thigh. You wonder what Pope tastes like. You wish you knew. 

The greed overwhelms you. Your desire to have them both. It makes you feel ridiculous. The thought of having two men fawn over you is incredibly greedy. But having two alphas dote on you, when you're just a beta, is…biologically irresponsible. 

You'll surely get your heart broken, shattered, destroyed. 

But you can't stop your fingers. You bite back a moan when you cum from rubbing your clit while your fingers are dipped inside of you. You don't want to stop. You cum again and again until you hear the garage door open. You hear footsteps getting closer and closer. 

So why are you still touching yourself? Why can't you stop, even after you hear Pope sit down at the chair he's been sleeping in? 

You cum even harder knowing he's there. The wet sounds are barely muffled by the fire raging on next to you. 

Barely muffled, but loud enough for Pope to hear. 

And he's on you in a second, ripping the blanket off of you.

“Andrew!” You gasp, feeling way too exposed, given that he can definitely see where your hands are buried. 

“What are you doing?” He knows what you're doing but he wants you to say it. 

“N-Nothing.” You're meek, curling inwards to make yourself smaller in hopes he'll just pretend he never saw this. “Just sleeping…”

“Just sleeping…with your hands settled between your legs.” He grabs one of your wrists, yanking your hand free from your waistband, bringing it up to his nose. Then, he can't stop himself from dragging his tongue along your soaked fingers, the taste of you intoxicating. 

You unconsciously curl your fingers, which are still buried inside of you, at the feeling of his warm tongue licking your hand. You desperately attempt to hold in your orgasm but it shoots through you anyways, your full body shivers betraying your supposedly sleeping claim. 

“Give me your other hand.” Pope demands and you listen without thinking it through. 

He stuffs your fingers in his mouth, licking them like they're the best thing he has ever tasted in his life. 

Arguably speaking, it could be. 

You taste so good. 

He wants more. 

“Tell me to stop.” You can feel every word he says against the palm of your hand, so hot and heavy. “Please tell me to stop.” 

You should. You should tell him to stop because you know this won't end well. He's going to find his omega and you'll get left behind. It's inevitable. 

So, why does your hand gently caress his face? Why do you trail your fingers along his jaw, trying to memorize what it feels like to touch him? You want to remember. Because you'll never forget him. 

“If you want me, I want you.” You tell him honestly. “It's okay if it's only temporary. It's okay with me.” 

It's not…but you can't resist. Not when he's looking at you with so much hunger and lust in his eyes. No one has ever looked at you like that before. 

Except Jack…

Pope climbs on top of you in an instant, his lips crashing onto yours before you can even react. You moan when he grinds his hips against yours, rubbing his hard cock against you through his pants. You wish he was inside of you.

A thought you never thought you'd ever have. 

Because you've never had sex before. 

You've barely even kissed other people. Usually, you're repulsed after. Jack might have been the only person you ever felt good kissing. Him…and now Pope. 

Pope kisses a line down your body and his impatience has completely fogged his mind. He buries his face between your legs, breathing in your smell through your pants, his cock throbbing so hard in his pants, it's begging to come out. 

“Has anyone ever tasted you before?” He demands to know. He'll find them and kill them if they've touched what's his. 

You shake your head. “I've never even…” 

You're unsure if you should admit this but Pope knows exactly what you meant to say. 

You're a virgin. He's the first person to ever touch you like this. Technically the second, since Jack nearly did earlier, but you aren't going to say anything about that. 

You have to say, when Pope pulls your pants off, “wait, Andrew, what if Jack—”

“Let him hear.” Pope doesn't care. 

There's not a layer of fabric between him and your pussy anymore. He doesn't give a fuck about anything else right now. 

You clamp your hand over your mouth the moment you feel Pope's tongue gliding up. He groans at how good you taste. He wishes he could savor it but he needs to know what you taste like when you cum. 

He has to know. 

This feels exponentially better than touching yourself. His warm tongue dragging up and down, teasing every inch of your sensitive flesh. Your orgasm is building so quickly. You could burst at any moment.

You do, when he seals his lips around your clit and starts to suck. You scream into the palm of your hand, cumming so hard that you squirt for the first time in your life. You're so embarrassed about it…until he laps it up like he hasn't taken a sip of water in days. 

He could stay here all day long. He would if you let him. He loves how swollen your clit is, how easy it is to roll around with his tongue, how your soft whimpers come out when he does. Each time he tastes you cumming, he's like he's been possessed. There's nothing else on his mind except wanting to make you cum again. 

“Andrew, I can't—” You bite down on your lip when your orgasm hits you again. 

You've never cum this much before. It's overwhelming every one of your senses. It's corrupting you in ways you'll surely regret in the long run. 

How are you supposed to ever find someone else when the perfect man for you is between your legs right now? 

Or hovering above you, his shadow engulfing the two of you.

You glance up to see Jack. You were so distracted that you didn't hear him walking over. He wouldn't have let you hear him coming. He prowled over like he was a predator on the hunt. He could smell you in the air, the same smell that was lingering on his fingers. He followed that smell to the sight of his brother eating you out on the floor by his fireplace. 

And now he wants a taste. 

“If you don't move right now, I'll kick you out of my house.” Jack threatens and Pope glares up at him, not moving an inch. “Pope, move.”

Pope growls in response like a rabid animal so Jack has to yank him off of you. He holds Pope by the collar. They're both staring so intensely at one another. It's like they want to kill each other.

But then, they hear you say, with so much panic and fear in your tone of voice, “please don't hurt each other. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done this…I'm so sorry. You both were treating me so well and I took advantage of that. I'm horrible—”

“You're not.” They both say in sync then they're back to staring at each other, shocked they keep syncing up like this. 

Jack lets go of Pope then goes, “touch her somewhere else. It's my turn to have a taste.” 

Pope turns his attention back to you. “Do you want him too?”

You cover your face with your hands. You were just moments away from bursting out into tears and now you're about to admit that you want them both to touch you. You've never been so greedy in your entire life. 

Pope yanks your hands away from your face, “answer me.” 

“I do. I'm sorry—” You can't get the rest of your apology out because Pope has his lips sealed over yours again. You move your hands to his face, holding him against you as he deepens the kiss like Jack had earlier. 

Meanwhile, Jack is fixated on how glistening your pussy looks right now. You're so wet. He could slip right in. But for some reason, it's like he knows he needs to prepare you first. 

His fingers tease your entrance, making you moan on Pope's lips and he silences you by slipping his tongue deeper into your mouth. They really are in sync because Jack slips a finger into you right then. 

Jack has to stop himself from going feral when he feels how tight you are. “No one has ever fucked you?” 

Pope pulls off of you to tell him, “she's a virgin.” 

“Oh fuck…” Jack grips your thigh with his free hand even harder for leverage, his senses overloading. The need to claim you is consuming him. 

“I want you both.” You say out loud now that you're free to speak. “I need you both. I've never wanted to have sex with anyone before you two.”

Surely, they'll be disgusted with you for wanting so much. You're not in a position to ask for this. If you were their omega, sure, but you're nothing to them. They have no obligation to fulfill your needy wishes.

But neither of them can deny how much they want you. 

“Prep her.” Pope leaves that to Jack because he doubts he could be gentle right now. He wants to fuck you rough. He'll settle for your mouth right now. 

You lick your lips when Pope pulls his cock out, letting you see quite clearly how hard he is right in front of your face. You've never seen a cock up close. But your mouth is watering, desperate to have a taste. 

You do warn him, “I've never done this before either…”

“Just mind your teeth and you'll be fine.” Though, Pope couldn't care less what happens as long as you put him in your mouth. He just wants to feel you wrapped around him in some capacity.

You nod and then inch forward. The tip of his cock has a bit of pre-cum leaking out of it that you don't stop yourself from licking it up. He tastes more incredible than you thought he would. It's an alarmingly masculine kind of taste but not uninviting. Sort of like a mixed drink with just a tad more alcohol than it should have. 

You want more of it, so you drag your tongue up the length of his shaft several times, admiring the feel of every prominent vein. Pope is trying his hardest not to cum right away but he's barely holding on. It doesn't help that you're moaning on his cock from Jack's fingers curling inside of you, looking for that spot that you can't always reach with your fingers. 

When he finds it, you have to stuff Pope's cock into your mouth to stop yourself waking up the neighbors. Jack watches you squirt all over his hand and all he wants is for you to do it again, but with his tongue on your clit. So, he leans down, flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue, getting harder than before at the gagged sound you make when he does. 

Pope is suffering from how wonderful your mouth feels around his cock. You're so warm and wet and eager with your tongue swirling around the tip of his cock whenever you slide up his shaft before sinking back down. But he notices your body is slightly twisted and pulls out of your mouth and snaps at Jack. 

“We should move to a bed.” He doesn't want to risk hurting you more. You don't even notice the ache in your side. 

You're way too distracted by Jack's fingers inside of you and his mouth around your clit. He lifts off for a moment to say, “after she cums again.” 

Then he's right back on you. You arch your back, grabbing a hold of his hair, riding out the orgasm that shoots through you on his face. You've lost count of how many times you've cum tonight. 

You can't believe you still want more. 

When Jack pulls his fingers out of you to lick them clean, Pope immediately picks you up. “What room?” 

Jack shouldn't say it but he answers, “my bedroom.” 

Pope gestures for him to lead the way. Jack will surely regret this. The reminder every time he goes to bed of how he fucked you right here will ultimately ruin him. But he doesn't care. 

All he cares about in this moment is being inside of you, filling you up with his cum. Thankfully, betas can't get pregnant from alphas or omegas. Only other betas. So he can spill everything he wants to inside of you without repercussions. 

The only problem is: Jack and Pope need to decide who gets your virginity. 

But Pope makes it easy. “You go first.” 

“Seriously?” Jack has never seen his brother so considerate. 

“I owe you for saving her life.” That is true.

“I would've saved her life regardless.” He took an oath. 

“Still, I'll never be able to repay you.”

“It's fine—”

“Please, can one of you just fuck me already?” You whine, your pussy aching. 

Jack and Pope share a look. They're both thinking the same thing. That it's a shame you can't be theirs. Because you're absolutely perfect with how needy you are. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief when Jack finally climbs on top of you. He adjusts you so that Pope can kneel at the edge of the bed on the floor, leveling with you. You reach towards him, touching his face. 

“Thank you for moving me.” You thank him because it's much easier to kiss him like this. 

You're the only person he'll ever get on his knees for. 

“This might hurt.” Jack warns you after he kicks off his pants, letting you see his cock for the first time. They really are twins because they're practically the same down there too. 

“It's okay if it does. You're a doctor, after all.” You say with a giggle and Jack can't help but lean down to kiss you, wanting to feel you smile against his lips. 

“If it hurts, just focus on me.” Pope turns your head towards him, yanking you away from Jack. That earns him a glare but Pope doesn't care, kissing you anyway. You're giggling so much from how they're acting. 

It makes you wish this happiness could last forever. 

You know it can't but maybe if you wish hard enough, it could. 

Pope leans his forehead against yours and it's like he can feel what you're feeling. Though, he doesn't know that you're feeling the same way he is right now. Wishing that he could feel this peace forever. 

Jack doesn't like the desires that stir in him right now. Because he doesn't want to just fuck you anymore. He wants to make love, to hear you say you love him, to see that beautiful smile everyday. 

So, deep down, he hides the fact that he wishes the same thing you and Pope do. That this could be more than just a casual fling. 

Because when he finally starts to sink inside of you, Jack knows this is the only place he ever wants to be. Right here, with you under him, letting out those breathy moans. You take him so easily despite it being your first time. Maybe because you want him that much. 

“Are you okay?” Pope notices how shaky your lips are against his. 

“I really hope you aren't as big as him.” Your answer makes him scoff and Jack laughs so hard that you can feel his cock throb inside of you. “Jack!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He slips a little of himself out of you before slowly thrusting back in. “Better?” 

“It's a lot easier when you move.” You let out a gasp when he starts rolling his hips. “Oh god…”

There's so many new sensations happening all at once. His cock is hitting places you never knew existed inside of you. The pressure is intense and incredible at the same time, his cock prying you open. You're sure it would feel even better if he wasn't being so gentle. 

Jack must read your mind because he presses his hand down against your lower stomach, making you very aware of how deep he is inside of you, before he picks up the pace, pounding into you. You cum way too quickly once he does and he groans when you tighten up around him. He fucks you even harder through your orgasm. 

You grab onto Pope for support and his lips are on yours in an instant. You like how his tongue tangles with yours, stopping you from moaning Jack's name as he drives another orgasm through you with how his cock is filling you up. 

He must be getting close because he's getting rougher, grabbing your hips and angling you up towards him. You have to pull away from Pope, gripping the sheets to brace yourself because you know the moment he cums, it's going to hit you hard. 

“Tell me you want my cum.” Jack demands, on the brink of exploding. 

You listen without hesitation. “I want your cum, please.” 

That's all it takes for Jack to release all that pent up frustration inside of you. You've never felt warmth pumping into you like that before. It's addictive. You feel so empty when he pulls away, his cum dripping out of you, giving you those full body shivers. 

That empty feeling doesn't last long. Pope switches with Jack, who opts to sit beside you instead of kneeling, which you don't mind at all. You like having him near you. You like how he places his hand on yours, interlocking your fingers with his. 

You nearly fall in love when he brings your hand up and kisses your knuckles. 

You're so distracted by Jack that you're not prepared to feel Pope's fingers inside of you. He sees the confusion written all over your features and smiles, “you can't expect me to fuck you with my brother's cum inside of you.”

You squeeze Jack's hand tightly when Pope starts fucking you with his fingers. Your vision goes blurry from how he's practically scraping Jack's cum out of you with every thrust, teasing that spot inside of you over and over again until you're squirting. He pulls out of you then, watching as the cum leaks out of you, a mixture of yours and Jack's pooling between your legs. 

“There, much better.” Pope pulls his cock out again and lines it up, pushing at your entrance. “Are you ready for me?” 

You nod but then look up at Jack. He reads your cue and leans down to kiss you. Now you're definitely ready for Pope to slam every inch of his cock inside of you all at once. You almost bite Jack's lip when he does that. 

“What the fuck, Pope?” Even Jack knows he was being way too aggressive there. 

“She said she was ready.” Pope feigns ignorance and does it again. 

This time, you don't have Jack's lips to distract you and you scream out, “Andrew!”

“How am I supposed to stop now?” He needs to hear you scream his name again. 

So, he figures out exactly what pace he can take you at that has you gasping for air. You're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms happening too often that your brain can't keep up. 

It doesn't help that Jack lifts your shirt up. He reasons it's to check on the stitches on your side. But he really just wants to touch you… 

You cum on Pope's cock when Jack pinches your nipples, rolling them between his calloused fingers. It shoots sparks through you that you feel in the same place Pope is pounding into you at. 

Then, you unravel completely when Pope slips his hand between your legs and starts rubbing your clit as he fucks you faster. You don't even think you're saying words anymore. You don't need to when Jack has his lips on yours again. 

The surge of pure bliss that flows through you when Pope finishes deep inside of you is a feeling you hope you can feel again. Especially when he's pushing Jack off of you to kiss you, his last few strokes pumping into you nice and slow. You're left breathless and wanting more. 

The need you were experiencing earlier isn't gone but…it's changed now, converted into a longing. 

Yearning for something you can never have. 

Like the gentle look in their eyes. 

And the way they take care of you afterwards. 

Jack picks you up once Pope pulls out and carries you to his shower, setting you on his shower chair. You let him pull off your shirt completely, leaving you naked. 

There's something deeply intimate about having someone gently rinse your whole body. He does a great job avoiding your stitches. Then, he goes to grab a bar of soap, rubbing it between his hands, like he plans on lathering your skin for you. He does for your legs but you stop him before he trails any further up.

“I got it.” You don't think you should let him do too much for you. It's too…it's not something he should do for you. That's all. 

Jack hands it to you and you finish up the rest. He only helps you rinse again and dry off. Even though he wants to do more. 

He sees the distance you're trying to keep now. 

He knows it's for his own good but…

Why can't he let you go? 

You notice that Jack lingers at your feet, kneeling in front of you. If you could bend over, you'd take care of your legs so he wouldn't have to. But he already has. You're nice and dry. 

So why…isn't he moving? 

Jack finally gets up when Pope comes back with some clothes for you. 

“Thank you.” You take them and Pope helps you with your pants like he did earlier. Your skin isn't as hot as before. Like that feverish feeling has subsided. 

He picks you up and carries you back to your little spot by the fire. Jack follows behind because…well, he doesn't really know why. He takes a seat on the couch, like the previous night. Pope sits in the armchair once he has you settled with the blanket tucked around you. 

There's a silence that fills the air that is indescribable. Something is floating in the space between the three of you. Feelings none of you can talk about because they're unrealistic. But ones that each of you feels all too clearly. 

You stare up at the ceiling and then say, against your best judgment, “can we do that again? Just until you both…find your mates.” 

You close your eyes then, hating that you put that out into the air. But you don't want this to be the last time they ever touch you. 

You've decided the heartache will be worth it. If it means you get to spend a little more time with them. 

Pope doesn't answer you. He just gets up and then goes over to lay down next to you, pulling the blanket over him, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close to him. That'll all he can do. 

Because if he spoke a word, he would want to tell you that he never wants anyone else but you. But he can't promise you something that is biologically impossible. If he met his mate, he would be drawn to them more than he is drawn to you. So, he keeps this to himself and holds you the way he wants for right now. 

You lean into his chest, breathing in his scent, blinking back tears. You want to feel comfort but…your heart is already broken. You didn't expect either of them to agree. You had hoped, maybe, that they'd be stronger than you and put the boundary up.

Jack tries to do just that. He's more realistic. He always has been. He knows sleeping with you was a mistake. He knows sleeping next to you would also be a mistake. One that he will surely never recover from. 

But when he hears your quiet sobs, his body moves on its own. He tucks himself on the other side of you, cradling you in his arms as well. He leans his forehead against the back of your head then he presses his lips against the back of your neck. A simple kiss. 

It doesn't satisfy that toothache he has but it'll suffice. 

This will suffice…until they find their person. 

You'll be their world until then. 

Much to your surprise, your wounds heal faster than Jack expected they would. It only takes a week for you to be able to walk around with only a dull pain in your side and no more stitches.

You figure you could probably go back to work now. It would be harder than usual but you can't keep relying on Pope and Jack to pay for you. Eventually, you'll need to leave. You need to prepare for whenever that day comes. 

They both try to stop you but they can't really justify it. You do need to work because eventually, you won't have them looking out for you. You can't rely on either of them. Even if you wish with all of your heart that you could. 

Your first night back to work is a mess. You keep making dumb mistakes like messing up orders, getting table numbers mixed up, pouring the wrong drinks. You have no idea what's going on with you. The owner of the shop tells you to take another week off, to get your bearings again. You agree to it because your head hurts so badly by the end of your shift. 

You have to sit in your car for a bit before you can drive back to Jack's house. You told him that you could just stay at your place and only come over when they…want you. But he told you to stay. And you weren't going to say no to that. 

Because every day since that night, you've been sleeping with them, in both iterations of the word. The sex is fantastic but you enjoy the cuddling afterwards even more. You also like how they kiss you like it might be the last time they get to. 

You never know when that time will come. You just try not to think about it. Because whenever you do, tears well up in your eyes. It makes your head hurt worse than before. 

You barely manage to make it to the door before collapsing at the front step, your body hitting the door with a thud. 

You're out like a light…

Pope opens the door and immediately panics when he sees you topple over onto the floor in front of him. “What the fuck?” 

He shakes you…but you aren't waking up.

He checks your pulse. It's terribly faint…

“Jack!” Pope picks you up and sprints back towards his bedroom. 

Jack comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered, not prepared to see you limp in Pope's arms. “What the fuck happened?”

“I don't know. I found her passed out at the front door.” 

Jack has Pope set you down in bed so he can check on you. Your skin is cold. There's tension in your head. You're hardly breathing. Your pulse is so faint. You're alive but it's like you're dead. He has never seen this before. 

At least, not on a beta…

“What's wrong with her?” Pope asks, unable to quell the fear that you're going to die. 

“I'm unsure.” Jack is so confused. 

You're showing all the signs of a pheromone withdrawal. But only omegas experience this, when they're away from their alpha for too long. And it only affects unmated omegas. 

It's why it's such a risk to deny the mating process once an omega has found their alpha. They could die if they don't get enough of their alpha's pheromones regularly. The mating process regulates this so that the omega can survive longer without their alpha, since the connection is established. 

But Jack has never seen these symptoms on a beta, so he has no clue how to treat you. The normal treatment would be to place the patient in a quarantine bay and flood it with artificial pheromones until the withdrawal symptoms ease enough for them to be sentient and moving then their alpha has to push to make them mates to prevent this from happening again. 

“We have to take her to the hospital.” Jack decides. “I'll pay whatever it costs. Let's go.” 

Pope lifts you back in his arms and carries you to Jack's truck. He places you between the two of them, leaning your head against his shoulder after he buckles you in. Jack drives like he's a madman on the road but there's so much traffic right now once he makes it downtown…

“What is going on?” Jack looks ahead and then rolls down his window, shouting to the car next to him. “Hey! What's up there?”

“Some k-pop concert.” The passenger shouts back. “They just finished up. I've never seen the streets this packed. Must be a big group.”

Fans are flooding the streets, waving their colorful lightsticks, singing songs Jack has definitely never heard before. 

“Motherfucker.” Jack rolls back up the window, turning towards you and Pope. “We're going to be stuck here.” 

“Can we run?” Pope would do it for you. 

Jack shakes his head. “It's way too far. And my hospital is the only one with a quarantine center.”

“A…what?”

Jack doesn't want to have to explain but since they're stuck, “it's just a specialized room to treat omega-related emergencies, like pheromone withdrawal or overdose.” 

“But she's a beta.” 

“I know.” 

“Then how…”

“I don't know.”

“Fuck.” Pope doesn't get it but it doesn't matter what you have. 

He just needs you to get better… 

Your skin is so cold. It breaks his heart seeing you so lifeless like this. 

“What do you think she has and what's the treatment?” Pope wants to know. 

“All signs point to pheromone withdrawal. The treatment is to administer potent artificial pheromones until the symptoms resolve.” It's like you lack air and need a breathing mask except it's pheromones and not oxygen. 

Pope immediately unbuckles your seat belt and Jack shouts, “what are you doing!”

Pope pulls you onto his lap, taking off his shirt then resting you against him. Then he holds his shirt against your face, letting you breathe in his smell. 

Your breathing picks up a little. Only a little but it's enough for Pope to snap at Jack.

“Give me your fucking shirt.” 

“Are you nuts?” 

“I will rip it off your body if you don't take it off right now.” He's not joking. 

Jack groans then pulls off his shirt, tossing it at his brother. Pope holds them both against your face, your senses flooding with their scent. Your eyes start to flutter, like you're about to open them. 

“That's it.” Pope leans his forehead against yours, his heart aching so badly in his chest. “Please wake up.” 

Your head is pounding when you wake up but you do wake up. You open your eyes to see that you're cradled on Pope's lap and he's shirtless. And you're in Jack's truck.

“What's…happening…” You're so tired and your head is foggy. 

“We're taking you to the hospital.” Pope tells you. “You fainted at the front door.” 

“What…?” You can't even think because your headache is horrific. 

“Jack, does our saliva have pheromones?” Pope has no clue. Jack must know, he's the doctor. 

“It does—”

That's all Pope needs to hear. He grabs a hold of your face and kisses you, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You're still drowsy but the headache is suddenly improving so you lean more into his kiss. 

It isn't enough, though. You're still having difficulty staying awake and breathing. Every time Pope stops kissing you, it's like you're about to pass out again. 

Pope turns to Jack. “Switch with me.”

“Pope, I am fucking driving.” 

“We are stuck here.” He points to the way no one has moved on the road. “Switch with me and kiss her or she will fucking die.” 

Jack curses under his breath and unbuckles his seat belt, sliding over. Pope hands you to him and gets out of the car. The car behind the three of you honks and Pope flips them off, looking crazy since he's shirtless, before getting into the driver's seat. 

You're so limp in Jack's arms. He hates how wilted you feel. He doesn't know why he's even listening to Pope but he kisses you anyway. When he deepens the kiss, he can feel your hands grab a hold of him. Or try to. 

“You're not…wearing a…shirt…” You mumble out in between kisses, touching Jack's bare chest with your hands. 

“Don't ask.” Jack grabs the shirts and holds them up to your face. “Can you take a deep breath for me? Or try to?”

You do as he says, breathing in as deeply as you can, your senses filling with the comforting smell of them. Your heart rate finally picks up, blood pumping through your body better now. 

Your head doesn't hurt as badly anymore. Maybe because you're actually getting blood going there now. 

Any longer, and you might have died… 

“How are you feeling?” Jack checks your vitals, touching your neck and looking at his watch. “Good pulse.” 

“Confused, mostly.” You must've given them quite the scare. “I'm sorry. I must've not eaten enough or drank enough water.” 

Jack and Pope share that knowing look of theirs. They definitely don't think that's it. 

“You've…done testing to check that you're a beta, right?” Jack needs to know for his own sanity. He knows the answer but…just like Pope, he feels like there's something more to it. 

You nod. “Plenty of times.” 

You know there are weird cases where people do suddenly swap markers but from what you've read, it's usually betas who have dormant alpha genes that overwhelm the beta markers once the body stabilizes. Rarely does a beta ever turn out to be an omega. Omegas are rare. That would be even rarer. 

And you doubt you're that special. 

“Is there any other tests she can do?” Pope asks Jack, who has to think about it. 

“I'll have to ask around.” Jack works mostly with emergency situations. He doesn't know much about the research end of healthcare.

“I hope you guys don't think…” You hope they don't think you're somehow an omega because then it would give you hope. 

Hope you shouldn't have… 

“Whatever it is, we'll figure it out.” Jack holds you closer to him for a moment and then goes, “are you okay to sit in the middle? We're moving now so it's safer.”

You move off of Jack's lap and he helps buckle you in. Then, he gives you their shirts. 

“Keep breathing it in if it helps.” Jack doesn't know if it actually does or if it's just a weird coincidence.

You feel shy about how much you like that you can do this openly. You've been hiding it from them but you have been collecting shirts of theirs whenever they go into the laundry basket and piling them up under the blanket at your spot by the fireplace. When they aren't nearby, you like to huddle in there, like a little cave, surrounded by their smell. You're embarrassed how much you like how they both smell. They each smell different on their own but even better together. 

The mix fills you with a subtle kind of pleasure. A type of tranquil peace, really. 

By the time you all get to the hospital, you can walk on your own. Neither of them want you to, after seeing you nearly lifeless, but you think it's good for you to get the blood pumping throughout your body. You seem fine enough to give them back their clothes, since it would be very difficult to explain why neither of them are dressed from the waist up otherwise. 

“I didn't think you'd be in tonight, Abbot.” Dr. Ellis furrows her brow at the sight of Pope. “I didn't know you had a twin.”

“Do you know anyone who specializes in markers?” Jack will likely have to ask around so he starts with Ellis. 

She thinks for a moment then says, “ah, have you ever had to call Dr. Javadi?”

“The resident?” Jack does not think that's right. “Do you mean her mother?”

Though he's pretty sure her mother is a surgeon…

“Actually, I mean her father. He's an endocrinologist. They're usually the ones that come down when an omega needs a specialized treatment plan. Try him?”

“Okay, thanks.” Jack heads upstairs with you and Pope in tow. Ellis will have to ask Jack about what's the deal with the three of you at a different time. 

Dr. Raymond Javadi is very helpful. He runs an entire series of specialized tests after you all explain what happened to you. You're nervous about what they may cost.

But he reassures you, “if you happen to be a rare case, all of these will end up being free of charge since it'll benefit our research."

But that's only if you end up being one. 

The tests take hours. Jack and Pope wait in the lobby on the testing floor. Jack is doing research on his phone about the tests while Pope is pacing back and forth, his nerves getting to him. 

Jack's head starts aching all of a sudden and he checks the time. He hasn't taken his suppressant yet and it's been well over twenty-four hours. This is probably the longest he has ever missed a dose. He's been so preoccupied with you that he didn't think to grab his backpack. But he doesn't want to leave you here with just Pope. 

He should be fine without taking it…right?

The nurse calls for them to come back, since you want to see them. Dr. Javadi is standing at your bedside, reading the results the lab got back. You consented to let Jack and Pope hear. 

“You definitely experienced a pheromone withdrawal but you don't have any omega markers. Not even a few here and there, like other betas do. You don't have any alpha markers either. You just have beta markers. I've never seen a case like this.” 

“Is that…bad?” You don't know what that means. 

You're 100% a beta? 

“Not bad but…very unusual.” He stares at your results for a long time, thinking. “I have seen cases where an omega has all omega markers. Those are rare but definitely more plausible than this.” 

“Plausible in what way?” Jack asks, though it's hard for him to pay attention with the way his headache is getting worse. 

It doesn't help that he can smell you so clearly for some reason. It's like your scent is wafting towards him, surrounding him completely. It's making him dizzy…

“There is really no reason for someone to have all beta markers. If an omega has all omega markers, usually it's because their biology doesn't want them to ever be mistaken for anything but an omega. In this case, biologically speaking, why would you need to present so prominently as a beta?” Dr. Javadi can't wrap his head around it. 

That is, until your heart rate elevates out of nowhere and your heart monitor starts to beep loudly. You don't know what's happening. You were just fine but all of a sudden, your heart feels like it wants to burst out of your chest. 

Are you having a heart attack?

Your whole body is on fire. It's like you got drenched in gasoline and someone threw a match on you. You feel it all over. 

“What the hell is going on?” Pope watches as nurses file in and Dr. Javadi throws on a pair of gloves. 

“You two need to quarantine right now.” He directs a nurse to move the two brothers away from you. 

But neither of them want to go. They can't go. The thought of leaving your side is actually impossible. 

“It's just the next room over.” The nurse points to the room beside yours. “You can still see her through the glass. She'll be okay. Please come with me so we don't have to sedate you two and drag you over there.” 

It takes everything inside of both of them to listen to the nurse. They're quickly sealed in the room and the nurse activates the pheromone overdose procedure, which is really just redirecting all the pheromones that are emanating off of Jack and Pope to a secure, disposable container. 

The nurses also seal your room up so that you can respond to heat treatment, trying to delay you from going into a forced heat from the sudden overdose of pheromones that will hopefully exit the room swiftly. It can only delay your inevitable heat, though. They're unsure how long it'll delay.

They've never had a case like this. 

A beta going into heat because of two alphas. 

“Check her again.” Dr. Javadi instructs so one of the nurses pricks your finger and drops the blood into one of the specialized detectors. 

And they all watch your markers shift from beta to omega and then back to beta. 

“Open the window.” He points to the one that connects the two rooms, since this is a specialized room made for this kind of separation between alphas and their omegas. “Just a bit then shut it. Prick her before, during and after.” 

The nurses do exactly that. And before the window is open, you're a beta. When you're bombarded with their pheromones, you're an omega. Once the window shuts, you're back to being a beta. 

“Incredible.” Dr. Javadi is astonished by the results. 

“Am I going to be okay?” You're more mentally stable now but you're…aching between your legs. 

What the…

“Well, that depends.” He turns to you and asks, “do you like those men?” 

“What?” You must be hearing things. Why is he asking you—

“If you don't like them, then we can administer some heavy suppressants, sedate them so you can leave and then you need to go to the nearest police station and file a restraining order.” It's extreme but there are cases where despite being a fated pair, one of the partners doesn't feel safe with them so this is the only way to prevent assault. 

“W-Wait. I don't want to do that. I…I like them.” You confess, hoping they can't hear you from the other room. 

“Both of them?” Dr. Javadi wants to make sure. 

“Yes…” You feel your cheeks warm just admitting it. 

“Then I highly suggest you mate with them soon or you will risk another withdrawal.” He prescribes some basic preventative medications typically given to omegas for their first heat, like birth control, muscle relaxants for the knot and a specialty mouthwash, to prevent infection from the bite. “Put the mask on her.” 

The nurse does just that and then Dr. Javadi walks up to the window, opening it. 

“I need you two to consent to us giving you a strong suppressant dose or you will induce her heat the moment you're in the same space as her again. I'm sure you'd prefer to mate in the privacy of your own home so please consent. We'll talk more once you both have been given the shot.” Dr. Javadi hands them a form through the window before shutting it.

The nurse explains to them everything they need to know about the prescription strength suppressant and how it will help you if they take it. 

For the first time in Pope's life, he actually agrees to taking a suppressant. Jack signs it right away and the nurse administers the series of shots. Pope clenches his fists because he doesn't like how dull it makes him feel once they've set in and their pheromone levels have become nonexistent. 

Thankfully, everything warms up once they're back in the same room as you. 

“Long story short, it seems like the beta markers are a biological deterrent.” Dr. Javadi explains to you all. “It's the opposite of an omega having all omega markers. You have all beta markers as an omega because your body did not want you to accidentally mate with the wrong alpha, so your omega traits only activated because you met your fated pair. It must have something to do with the fact that you have two mates, instead of one. Your body needed to lay dormant until you met them both.”

“That's…” You're actually speechless. 

So are Jack and Pope. Because this means…

“This is always a very awkward situation but congratulations, you've met your alphas!” Dr. Javadi applauds. “And you all are free to go. Be sure to pick up your prescriptions on the way out. I suggest leaving quickly, before the suppressants wear off. It varies from person to person but I have an inkling that since you have two partners…it'll happen sooner than later.” 

You all leave then. You're completely stunned the entire way to the car. None of you have said a word to each other.

Probably because you all spent the last week reeling over the fact that this relationship would end eventually. But now it isn't.

It's actually going to last forever. 

The relief of it all does not hit you until you're in Jack's house. You drop into your nest of blankets and clothes, and the tears just burst out. They both come up to you, sitting down on either side of you. 

“Let it out.” Pope tells you, kissing the side of your head. “It's a lot.”

Jack takes your hand in his, holding it against his chest, letting you feel his steady heartbeat. You cry until you've fully let go of the thought that one day, they'd leave you for their omega. 

They won't ever do that.

Because you are their omega. 

You've been waiting for them your entire life, your body hiding behind your beta markers until you met them. Saving yourself for the men you were meant to be with. 

At least now, everything makes sense. You were nesting, like omegas do. That first night together must've been like a psuedo-heat. You healed much quicker than anticipated. You couldn't be away from them for too long or you got really sick.

It all clicks in Jack's head too. Why he was so ill when he went to work. Why he couldn't get you off his mind. Why he was completely enamored with you. 

For Pope, he knew the whole time you had to be his. There was no way he would feel anything for anyone that wasn't his mate. He doesn't usually feel anything at all so the fact that he cared about you was enough of a sign for him. He just needed the proof and he got that today. 

It nearly killed you but now, they know you're their omega. 

“You must be tired.” Jack lays his hand on your forehead. “You went from work straight to the hospital to do tests.”

You are tired. But you don't want to be away from them for even a second. 

“Will you both lay down with me?” You're nervous asking.

Pope doesn't answer you and just lifts you into his arms, gesturing for Jack to get up. Jack does and they take you to his bedroom, settling you down in the middle between them. You lay on your back, shifting your head back and forth to look at them. 

Your mates. Your alphas. 

They're all yours. 

“Is this okay?” You know it is but you're still anxious about it. Plus, it's probably good to talk now before your heat comes back in full force. 

“I've been waiting my whole life for you.” Pope says, his hand skating up and down the length of your arm, his touch both electric and soothing at the same time. “Of course it's okay.” 

Jack leans his head against your shoulder, finally giving into the desires he has wanted. Like getting to love you. “You're ours. It's more than okay.” 

“I get to bite her and knot her first.” Pope claims that right away. “Since you got her virginity.” 

“Fine.” Jack will concede since Pope's quick thinking earlier definitely saved your life. He looks back at you. “You should take the muscle relaxants and the birth control now, so they have time to kick in while you nap.” 

You bite your lip, not knowing if you should say this out loud but you decide that you aren't holding back anymore so you tell them, “what if I don't take the birth control?” 

Jack's grip on your hand gets tighter. Pope grabs a hold of your arm, squeezing. You feel flush from their reactions. 

So primal and possessive.

“Are you sure you want that?” Jack feels like his rut would start right now if you said you wanted him to fuck you until you were pregnant.

“I want you both.” You look at them, smiling softly. “And I don't want either of you to hold back anymore.” 

You all were holding back before. Every touch was laced with the fear it would end one day. 

You're making a vow to give them all of yourself. 

“You need to go to sleep before I fuck you right now.” Pope growls in your ear, his cock already hard and throbbing in his pants. The suppressants did not last, it seems. 

“Let me get you the muscle relaxants at the very least.” Jack has seen enough painful injuries from knotting that he knows this is an important medication to take ahead of time. 

You take them and then close your eyes because you will definitely need some sleep with them planning to keep you up later…

You wake up to your skin on fire and someone's head between your legs. You grip onto his hair with your hand, gasping from how close you are to cumming already. And you just woke up…

It's Pope, gliding his tongue up and down, the warmth and softness of it sending such subtle sparks through you. But it isn't enough. You want him inside of you already. 

He wants to be there too but he doesn't want to hurt you when he knots. He wants to make sure you only feel pleasure when he fucks you. 

“Are you fucking serious, Pope?” Jack comes back with a glass of water, staring in shock at the sight of his brother lapping up the orgasm you had the moment you realized Jack is there too. 

“She really likes it when you watch.” Pope hums against your clit and you squirm, feeling all shy.

“You woke her up.” Jack sits down next to you, lifting the glass of water to your lips. “Drink.” 

You nod, letting him gently pour it in your mouth. It dribbles off the side of your lips and Jack doesn't stop himself from leaning in and licking it up. And you don't stop yourself from pulling him in for a kiss. 

The smell radiating off of you is clouding his judgment. You smell so sweet and he just wants to eat you up. That's probably why Pope couldn't wait. Jack is barely holding on as is and he's used to being suppressed. It's impressive that Pope didn't start fucking you in your sleep. 

“You both smell incredible.” You take a deep breath, reveling in the scents that linger in the air around you. “Is this real?” 

“I still can't believe it.” If Pope truly gets to touch you every day from now on, he must be in heaven. 

“It's real.” Jack says with such certainty. 

Dr. Javadi showed them the results. You are only an omega in their presence and only when they're emanating their pheromones for you to consume. You would've lived your whole life as a beta had you not met them. 

You can't imagine a life without them now. 

“Do you both want this? Want…me?” Obviously, you can't control your biology but they could, theoretically, opt out before mating with you. It would break your heart but you wouldn't want them to force themselves to stay with you if they don't want to. 

“How can you ask me that when your pussy is on my face right now?” Pope growls and you can feel the rumbling against your sensitive skin. 

“I just want to make sure—” You grip onto Pope's hair the moment he dives back in, his tongue answering you for him. Your hips buck when your orgasm washes over you all of a sudden, his lips all wet and glistening from it. “Oh my god…” 

“I'm going to rinse my mouth now.” Pope sends Jack a look when he gets up. “Don't touch her pussy. It's mine.”

“For now.” Jack says back, smiling. “But I'm taking her the moment you finish.” 

Pope hopes he gets to fuck you for a long time before that then. He leaves to gargle the prescription mouthwash Dr. Javadi prescribed. 

Meanwhile, you turn to Jack and tell him, “will you finally let me put you in my mouth?”

Jack has been apprehensive about it all week because he didn't want another thing to obsess over you about. But now, he can actually fully enjoy it, knowing that you're his omega. 

“You really want to be sucking me off while my brother knots you?” 

You nod profusely. “Please.” 

Jack sits up against his headboard after he kicks off his pants, letting you see how hard his cock is. You're already drooling. You settle between his legs, dragging your tongue along the length of him like he's the best thing you've ever tasted. He might be, though you'll have to learn to treat him and Pope equally. You don't want either of them to fight because you're giving them more special treatment than the other. 

Jack leans his head back against the wall, groaning when you stuff him all the way down your throat. He could feel the base of his cock wanting to swell already. But it won't until he's inside your pussy. 

Like Pope will be soon. 

He comes back to you sucking his brother off and he should've guessed this would happen. There was no way he was going to be able to fuck you alone. It's just something he'll have to get used to. 

Though, the next time Jack is away at work, Pope is going to take his sweet time fucking you. He has to make sure you're going to have his baby. 

So, he'll start right now. Pope climbs back into bed and you feel the mattress sink behind you. The anticipation is killing you, your pussy throbbing, begging to be filled. Pope loves the way your body shakes when he rubs the tip of his cock up and down your pussy. 

You pull yourself off of Jack's cock to beg, “please, Andrew. Stop teasing me.” 

“I want to hear you say it.” He lines himself up, waiting. 

“I want you inside of me.” You tell him desperately. “I want your knot and I want you to make me yours, Andrew.” 

“Then put my brother's cock back in your mouth and try not to gag.” Pope snaps at you and you listen right away, sinking your mouth back down on Jack. 

The moment you feel Pope's cock slide into you from behind, you cum so hard, moaning on Jack's cock, pushing more of him down your throat. Pope closes his eyes when he hilts, needing to etch this feeling into his mind permanently. He feels himself wanting to swell up already but he needs to bite you first and make you his. 

“Be careful.” Jack warns Pope, putting his hand on the back of your neck, presenting it to him. “Base of her neck, you pick a side.”

“I'll take the right side, since I knew I was right about her being an omega.” Pope leans down, kissing the right side of your neck. 

You nearly cum from feeling his warm breath there. You need him to bite you now. 

When his teeth pierce the nape of your neck, you pull off of Jack so you can scream his name, “Andrew!”

That's all it takes for his knot to swell inside of you. You moan at the feeling of it filling you up, the pressure building in intensity. It only gets better when he starts to move, pushing his knot back and forth inside of you. 

You cling onto Jack, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, burying your head in his neck. You start kissing up the column of his throat until you reach his lips. Jack looks at you like you're the most beautiful person in the world before he leans in to kiss you.

Pope lifts off of your neck, dragging his tongue along his bite mark before focusing all his attention to filling your pussy up with his cum. He grabs a hold of your hips and without warning, he pops his knot out of you, only to shove it right back in immediately after. You gasp against Jack's lips as your orgasm shoots through you and you can't stop cumming. Because Pope won't stop. 

He purposefully pushes his knot in and out of your pussy until you're squirting with every thrust. Every time his knot shoves back inside of you, the feeling of being so full makes you burst, your orgasms getting more and more intense. 

You can't focus on kissing Jack anymore when Pope starts pounding into you, picking up speed, digging his nails into your hips so he can fuck you as hard as he wants to. You're screaming the word please over and over again. 

“Please what?” Pope smacks your ass, the sudden strike sending shockwaves through you, tipping you over the edge into another orgasm.

“Please cum inside of me.” You plead, wanting to feel that addictive warmth. “Please, I need it. I want to have your baby. Both of yours.”

It's your life's purpose, after all. You want them to breed you. You never want to feel empty again. 

You need them inside of you every single day, filling you to the brim with their cum until there's no way you aren't pregnant. 

Pope's thrusts grow erratic until you feel him spill inside of you, pumping every ounce of cum he's been saving just for you. His omega. The sound of his knot popping in and out of you drowns you in pleasure. 

You clench so hard around his cock when his hand slips between your legs and starts rubbing your clit. You explode, squirting all over his hand as his fingertips bully your swollen clit while he keeps fucking you. He's still cumming. You're still cumming. 

It feels endless… 

By the time his knot finally subsides, the sheets beneath you are drenched. Pope pulls out of you but then clamps his hand over your pussy, not wanting any of his cum to drip out. 

“Go sit on Jack's cock so you can keep my cum buried inside of you.” He demands. 

You nod, going to straddle Jack's lap but he shakes his head, turning you around so your back is against his chest instead. You sink down onto his cock, arching your back against him. He pulls your shirt off of you, so that he can cup your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers exactly the way you like. Then, he leans in, kissing along your shoulder blade until he's right at the nape of your neck. He sees where Pope bit you. 

“I'll get you the mouthwash.” Pope gets up and bring back an empty cup and the prescription. Jack gurgles it and then spits into the cup, handing it back to Pope. “You're welcome.” 

“I ain't thanking you. You should help me make sure she doesn't get an infection.” Jack presses a kiss on the left side of your neck, where he's going to sink his teeth in. “We'll take good care of you, our beautiful omega.” 

You bite back a bashful giggle at how sweet his words are. “Thank you, my lovely alphas.” 

You shift your head back so that Jack can kiss you. He loves the way you smile against his lips. 

When he pulls away, he whispers to you, “I love you.” 

Your heart soars in your chest. “What?” 

Jack chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “I said I love you. You don't have to say it back. I know you will feel the same way eventually. I just didn't want to wait.” 

“I love you too.” You tell him without any fear left. You really do. “Make me yours, Jack.” 

You turn your head when Pope climbs back onto the bed, having heard everything. “Do you love me?” 

You nod. “I love you too, Andrew.” 

“You better fucking bite her, Jack.” Pope settles in front of you, grabbing a hold of your face to look at you directly. “Or I'm going to keep her for myself.”

You smile at him and he loves that he can feel you smile against the palms of his hands. Pope has never been this happy before. Is this how it was always supposed to be? When he finally found his mate?

Maybe he should thank Smurf for making him come all the way out here. How else would he have met you?  

Jack brushes his fingers along where Pope bit you and you wriggle on his lap when he trails around the edges of the mark. He has seen many of these before at work, mostly ones that got infected because of carelessness. Yours looks…perfect, marking your skin exactly as it should, healing well already. He can't wait to make his mark.

“Are you comfortable?” Jack asks as he reaches between your legs with his other hand, grazing your clit, making you shiver all over. “Because we're going to be here a while.” 

“I'm comfortable.” You glance down at his prosthetic. “Are you? Do you want to take that off?” 

“I'm fine.” Actually, Jack is more than fine. He's great because you're so caring and considerate. 

It's going to make it harder for him to control himself. The suppressant is definitely wearing thin. His teeth are aching to sink into you like his cock has inside of you. 

“Quit stalling.” Pope glares at Jack. “I want another round after this.” 

He likes how your eyes widen at that. 

“Did you think I was done with you?” He smirks, leaning in to kiss you, saying against your lips, “we're going to fuck until you need us to carry you everywhere.”

Jack groans against your ear at the way you're tightening up around him at Pope's words. He's staring at your neck. He can't control himself for much longer.

“I'm sorry for what I'm about to do.” Jack whispers to you. “I can't hold back anymore.” 

Then, he bites down on your neck, pulling a gasp from your lips as his cock swells inside of you, the knot forming. Since you're on top of him, you feel it more prominently than you did before with Pope. It's like you're being spread apart. 

“Eyes on me.” Pope instructs, having you focus on him. 

He starts peppering you with lovely little kisses all over your face. It helps distract you from the pain of Jack's teeth embedding into the sensitive flesh of your neck. 

“Now, start grinding your hips.” Pope grabs your hips, helping you do the motion, and you can't describe how good it feels. It's like Jack's knot is rubbing up against your clit from the inside with every roll of your hips. You stare back at Pope with those glazed over eyes and he smiles. “There you go, riding his cock beautifully. You're doing great.”

All his praises satisfy something primal inside of you. You have a deep desire to be good for them. 

So, you keep moving your hips, grinding on Jack's knot until you feel his hands slip up to your chest, cupping your breasts. You bite back a whimper when his thumbs start rolling small circles over your hard nipples, getting you way too close to cumming. But you want to hold it in for a little longer. You want to feel him cum inside of you first. You want to share that pleasure. 

But then Jack lifts off of your neck to drag his tongue along the bite he just made, and the sparks it sends through you ripples into an unbelievable orgasm. Every breath you take is getting heavier and your skin is heating up all over. You can feel your slick pooling between your legs, more than ever.

What's going on—

“Fuck.” Jack lays his head against your shoulder, growling, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You smell so good. You feel so good. I didn't think it would be like this. I can't think straight.” 

Jack's vision has completely fogged over. It's like all he can see is red. All he can think about is fucking you until you're full of him. 

It's hitting Pope too. He thought you had already mated with him. He thought he was cooling down after a blissful moment together. But you hadn't actually mated with him, not truly. Your body needed both of them to mark you before the claim was made. 

And now that you're theirs, you're sending out the one signal neither of them can ignore. 

An undeniable, biological need to be bred. 

It's clouding every part of your mind. You only want to be used by your alphas. That's all that matters to you in this moment. 

That's why when Jack grabs your hips and pops his knot out of you before forcing it back inside of you, you don't scream. You just grab Pope and crash your lips against his, needing to taste him. He eagerly slips his tongue into your mouth as Jack starts thrusting upwards, finding a rhythm where his knot is catching inside of you for a second before he pulls it past your entrance again. The sensation of his knot pounding into you over and over has you clawing at Pope, your nails clinging to his shoulder blades for leverage. 

He wants to fuck you hard enough for you to draw blood when it's his turn. He'll bask in the marks you leave behind on him.

Tears are building up in the corners of your eyes because of how intense everything feels. You're going to burst if Jack keeps driving his knot into you like this. 

You pull away from Pope's lips so you can bury your head in the crook of his neck, breathing in his comforting scent, mumbling like a broken record, “I'm going to cum, oh god, I'm going to—”

“There's no god here.” Pope snarls at you. “You say our names when you cum. Got it?” 

You do exactly that when you feel Jack pumping everything he has wanted to release inside of you, drowning you in the warmth you'll surely never want to be without. You can never be empty again. You have to have this feeling every day from now on. Every second of every day if you could. 

Pope watches the way you drench the sheets, squirting all over Jack's knot. He's compelled to reach forward, dragging his fingertips in small circles over your throbbing clit. You scream his name when he does, coating his hand in more of your slick as you cum harder and harder. That sends Jack into a frenzy. 

He was expecting his knot to go away, like it had for Pope. But it isn't dying down at all. If anything…

“Are you getting bigger?” You dig your nails harder into Pope. “He's getting—it’s too—”

“You can take it.” Pope keeps rubbing your clit, helping you adjust to Jack swelling more inside of you. “You will take it because one day you'll have to take us both.” 

You can't believe how much the thought of having both of their knots buried in your pussy sends you reeling over the edge. 

“Would you like that?” Jack nips at your ear, his hot breath making you more feverish than before. “Feeling both of our knots locked inside of you, forcing you to keep all of our cum buried right here.”

He presses his hand into your lower stomach, right where your womb must be. Right where they'd fill you up. 

“You'd like being trapped in our hold. Our beautiful omega, at the mercy of her alphas.” His voice is intoxicating. You feel drunk hearing these words echoing in your mind. “You'd want us to ruin this little hole of yours, wouldn't you? Make it so that you could never be satisfied with anything else ever again.” 

“Yes.” You want that right now. “Please, fuck me. Both of you. I can take it. I want to take it.” 

The brothers share that look, the one that they're discovering really does sync them up. Because they're thinking the same thing. 

How are they supposed to say no to that? 

“You sit, I'll stand.” Pope climbs off the bed, gesturing to the edge. 

Jack lifts you off of him, which pulls a whine out of you. “Don't worry, you'll be nice and full again soon. Give her another dose of those muscle relaxants.” 

Pope comes back with those pills, asking, “can she take more than prescribed?”

“I'm a doctor. I can prescribe it.” Jack is well aware of the dose you can handle. You'll definitely need it for what they're about to do. 

You take them, trusting him. “I know neither of you will hurt me.” 

Pope walks up to you, grabbing you by your chin to lift your face to his, brushing his thumb across your lip, “even if it hurts, I'll make sure it feels good too.” 

Your heart is pounding louder in your chest now. There's so much lust in his eyes. It's consuming you with need. You love the contrast between Pope and Jack, how their personalities overlap. 

“Do you want to face me or him?” Jack asks you when he's sitting at the edge of the bed. 

“Don't make her choose.” Pope glares at him, mostly because he'd hate to hear you pick Jack…

“What would be easiest for what we're doing?” You're going to jump Jack soon if they don't figure this out quickly. You're dripping between your legs, unable to handle all the stalling.

It seems like they love to stall though, knowing how needy it makes you. They can smell it in the air. Your body is sending out those desperate pheromones, begging for them to fill you back up. You're clenching around nothing and you're trying to hold back whining about it. 

“Straddling me will be easier.” Jack says because it's true. But also because his cock is throbbing so much and if he isn't buried inside of you soon, he'll have to grab you and put you there himself. 

You hold onto his shoulders the moment you're on his lap and it takes all the willpower you have left not to sink right onto his cock. But Pope grabs your hips, keeping you in place so he can get into the right position. 

Then, he leans in and whispers in your ear, his tone too erotic for your feverish mind, “are you ready to take your alphas?” 

“Yes.” You're rewarded for your honesty with both of them thrusting into you at once. 

You gasp because just the tips of their cocks together feels like a knot in and of itself. Like a huge knot about to split you open. Then they start moving and you could die from how intense the pressure is inside of you, spreading you apart in ways you've never felt before. 

To think, you were just a virgin a week ago… 

Now you're taking two cocks at once. 

“I'm sorry.” You tell Jack when you unconsciously dig your nails into his shoulders, breathing heavy against his neck. “It's hard to hold myself up.”

They're barely halfway inside of you. How are you supposed to take them all the way? With their knots too? Maybe this was too ambitious—

Pope thrusts the entirety of his cock inside of you all of a sudden, knot included. You can't process how quickly you cum, the sudden forcefulness causing you to squirt all over Jack's lap. That gives him the slick to slide more of himself into you, groaning at how you're squeezing around both of them from how hard you just came.

Pope pops his knot out of you then says to Jack, “your turn.” 

“Wait—!” You can't stop Jack from grabbing your hips and forcing you down onto his lap, pushing his knot inside of you this time. You cum again, embarrassed at how much liquid is pooling between your legs.

You cling onto him, on the verge of tears from the pain melting into pleasure. Jack sees your exposed neck and it's like all the reasoning has left his mind. 

He bites into your neck, right where he had earlier, reveling in how you scream his name. “Jack!”

That gives Pope the opportunity to lean in and do the same, biting your neck exactly where he has earlier, right as he thrusts his knot inside of you completely. 

“Andrew!” You can't believe how full you feel right now. They're both inside of you. And they're both moving. “W-Wait—!”

No, they aren't just moving. They're fucking your pussy, their knots thrusting in and out of you in an almost too perfect rhythm. Like they're in sync. They know exactly where to grind, what angle to do it at, whose knot slides in before the other so that you're cumming nonstop, giving them that tight squeeze they love around their cocks. 

They still have their teeth sunk into your neck…

You can't shake either of them off of you. You're locked between them. Pope has his hands around your waist, pressing down at your lower stomach, massaging your womb, prepping you to take their release. Jack has his hands gripping your hips tightly, controlling the pace, paying attention to the raspy breaths you're letting out against his ear to signal exactly how him and Pope need to move to get you to cum over and over again. 

“I can't—” You can't handle it. 

They're fucking you faster now, rougher, slamming you down onto Jack's lap as Pope drives his cock into you from behind. Their knots are holding your hostage. You can't wriggle away. You can't stop the pleasure that's being dragged out of you with each overwhelming thrust. You can't run from how hard they're forcing you to cum on their cocks. 

You're seeing red, pure red, filling your vision. You're being eaten alive by their need to breed you. 

Jack lifts off of your neck then then growls in your ear, “you can take us. Be a good girl, cum a lot and get pregnant for us.” 

Pope releases his bite to whisper into your other ear, with the same resonance as Jack, “give into it. This is what you were made for. To be fucked by us. To have our babies. To be all ours, in every way.” 

Give in. You need to give in. You need to let them take you the way you were meant to be taken. You were made for this.

You were made for them. 

For your alphas to use your body to relieve their desire to mate. They won't stop until they're sure you're pregnant. They'd know when you are. 

And since you aren't yet, you need to let them fuck you until you are. 

You slip your hand between your legs, pinching your swollen clit, drawing out another intense orgasm that makes your alphas almost cum from how tight your pussy clenched around them. You keep playing with your clit with one hand then you grab a hold of Jack's hair with the other so you can pull him forward to crush your lips against his, sliding your tongue into his mouth to deepen the kiss. You cum when he groans against your lips from how good it feels to kiss you while he's fucking you like this. You love that sound. 

You love how wicked Pope's words get when he's jealous. “Get the fuck off my brother.” 

He yanks you off Jack by your hair and then crashes his lips against yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You moan against his lips and you bathe in pure bliss when he groans just like Jack when you squeeze around his cock. You're rolling your hips now, practically bouncing on their cocks, eager and willing. 

Jack leans forward, his hands arching your back so that he can take your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around each one, playing with them between his teeth. It sends shockwaves through you, your hand still laced in his hair, keeping him against your chest so he doesn't stop. 

Pope pulls off of your lips to ask, “do you like being ours? Do you like being fucked like this?” 

“I love it.” You say back, your soft, breathy tone causing both of their cocks swell even more than before. “I love you both.” 

Hearing you say that, knowing you mean it with all of your heart, is all it takes for them to ram their cocks as deep inside of you as they can before you're flooded with their release. It's like a dam has broken. 

Neither of them has ever cum that much in their lives. And it won't end. Pope has to grip your hips hard enough so he can keep pounding his cock into you because he can't stop cumming. 

“Back up.” Jack tells Pope, who listens because he knows what Jack is about to do. 

You don't, though. That's why you scream when Jack stands up all of a sudden, shoving his cock deeper inside of you simply from the gravity shift. You're grabbing onto him with all of your might, afraid to fall, but you couldn't drop even if you wanted to. Pope is keeping you held up by your hips and Jack has his arms hooked around your thighs. 

You're sandwiched between them, getting fucked at an angle you never thought was possible. And somehow, they're still cumming inside of you. The wet sounds of their cum leaking out of you every time their knots pop out of you has you in a frenzy.

You don't want it to leak out. You want all of their cum. You can't waste a bit of it. You need to get pregnant. 

“It's spilling out. Please don't let it spill out.” You whimper, drawing out a protective growl from them both. They don't want you to worry ever. 

So, they both push their knots inside of you and they keep them there, pumping their cum into you like that. You feel so full, it's incredible. Their knots create the perfect seal, trapping every bit of their release inside of you. 

They hold you steady as you cum harder and harder, your release drenching the floor beneath them. It's like every time you feel the warmth of their cum inside of you, your body can't help but squirt in response. 

“You're so perfect.” Pope nuzzles his nose against his mark on your neck before kissing it. “Milking our cocks so well.” 

Jack leans in to kiss his mark on your neck before telling you with a big smile on his face, “how did we get so lucky to find such a beautiful omega to make ours?” 

You wish you could enjoy their praise. But you're still cumming all over them. And it makes them both so happy. 

“How long is that going to last?” Pope asks Jack, seeing that he probably has more knowledge of how mating goes. 

“She's going to cum every time her body reminds her that our cum is inside of her. It's going to be a while.” Jack knows you won't snap out of it until your body is completely satisfied. 

“She'll need a lot of water.” Pope is certain you're going to be dehydrated if you keep squirting on their cocks like this. 

“I got an IV I can set up.” Jack looks you in your dazed eyes, his smile so lovely. “Are you still with us?” 

You nod but you can't really talk. The pleasure is overwhelming all of your senses. You've never felt this good before in your life. You feel so fulfilled, like you did what you were meant for. 

You really are in heaven. 

You're still cumming by the time their knots have subsided and they can pull out of you easily. Pope lays you down on the bed, keeping you company while Jack gets everything set up for the aftercare. He likes that glazed over look on your face, turning you to look at him laying by your side. 

“Do you need some more help?” His hand slips between your legs. 

You cry out when you feel his fingers rubbing your overstimulated clit, squirting hard enough to push some of their cum out of you. You tear up a little at the loss but Pope leans in, kissing your cheek.

“You got plenty.” His other hand goes to rub your soft belly. “Now it's time to relax.”

He keeps gently rubbing your clit, drawing out as many orgasms as it takes for you to regain your sentience. You finally do when Jack is back, looking up at the IV he has set up.

“Is that for me?” You didn't know he had one. 

Jack nods. “You won't feel it now but you will eventually so we'll push some preemptive treatment so that you aren't too sore later. Let's get you cleaned up first.”

You definitely cannot move your legs so Pope picks you up and takes you to the bathroom. This time, they both help you shower then Pope takes you out to help dry you off so that Jack can wash up and then they trade. Jack has you wait in the bathroom while he changes the bedsheets and makes his bed as comfortable as can be. 

But when he carries you back out to the bedroom, you ask, “can you take me to my spot?” 

He can't say no to you. If you're comfortable there, then he'll drag the IV out there for you. 

You give him a big kiss before he sets you down in your spot. Jack lifts the blanket to help settle you in comfortably and notices his clothes, mixed with some of the clothes he let Pope borrow, hidden underneath. He should've seen all the signs that you were an omega, with the way you were nesting here. It seems like he might have to invest in putting a bed out here if this is the spot you've chosen. 

Pope is back by the time Jack has you all set up with the IV. He yawns because he has gotten used to sleeping, since he feels so comfortable at your side. That's why he plops right down next to you, pulling you in towards him to spoon you. You giggle at how he peppers the back of your neck with kisses. He loves hearing you laugh. He also loves seeing his mark on you. 

“You should probably eat.” Jack should be responsible and go get some food. 

But you put your hand up, wanting him to lay down next to you too, and he can't resist, letting you pull him down beside you. 

“I want to enjoy sleeping with my alphas.” You rest your face against Jack's chest, breathing in his comforting scent. “Now that I'm all yours.” 

“Fine.” He really can't say no to you. That'll surely become an issue in the future but he'll deal with that then. 

Right now, Jack just wants to cuddle you, taking your hands in his and holding them to his chest. Pope is already snuggling you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You can feel his smile against your skin. 

You are unbelievably happy right now.

Because you've found your mates. 

A/N: Someone needs to stop me. How did I write over 20k+ words for this concept! I guess the heart wants what the heart wants…and I really wanted to get knotted by my favorite set of twins ♡ hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did! 

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

You find the second bathroom in the hall and another bedroom that Brendon uses as an office, but there’s frustratingly few pillows or blankets. You go through rounds of fluffing and positioning what you were able to find, laying in the nest, snuggling in, adjusting, then getting up and reorganizing. It is very much an instinctive, ancient practice, as you build the outer walls of the round nest with pillows, shaping the contours and smoothing down your own emotionally ragged edges. There aren’t nearly enough, but it’s a start.

With the skeleton down, you go back into the bedroom and put your hands on your hips. It’s minimally decorated, clearly done by an interior designer that’s left it with an impersonal feel. The lone signs of its occupant are the medical journal on the bedside table, a jewelry dish with a class ring in it, and a gym bag tossed in the corner.

You go for that immediately, disappointed to find empty water bottles, deodorant, sneakers, and an armband for his phone instead of lightly used gym clothes. The chest of drawers is basically empty too, so you raid Brendon’s walk-in closet.

This room actually smells more like him, though the laundry detergent is also interfering. Most of the clothing that’s hanging is too hard or rough as your hand passes over it: starched shirts, jeans, and suits. You open drawers, but the workout clothes have all been laundered recently and don’t hold his scent strongly enough. There’s a few soft t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants you grab, but the real prize is the last drawer you open full of sweatshirts and pajamas. You carry the haul in both arms back to your nest, practically humming.

You sort through the clothes, ultimately swapping the bathrobe you’d donned for a sweatshirt with John Hopkins on it. You were swimming in it and his scent, which was comforting as your skin was starting to get prickly and your hands twitchy as you tucked the clothing in and around the handful of pillows. Every now and then you’d catch a wisp of the scent of the sex you’d had last night on the blankets and your pussy would suddenly feel empty, an acute reminder that you were still in a pseudo-heat and that you had no clean underwear.

You sat back on your heels—giving your aching core a little pressure to take the edge off—and evaluated the nest. It was… basic. But it smelled like you and him, and the sad thing was it already looked better than your old one. You’d have to dismantle that and take the few good pieces back.

The bed would be for regular sleep, but the nest would be for the bad days, or the lazy days, or maybe… the nights when Brendon isn’t home.

You sat with that thought, stomach clenching, considering how big a difference it really was to have an Alpha in your life. You’d always slept alone except for the occasional one-night stand, who you’d mostly met because the craving for some kind of Alpha presence to hold you down, bundle you up, and fuck all the thoughts out of your head had gotten overwhelming. Now you could have that whenever you wanted. He’d be here. Sharing this space with you. Just the idea of his scent fading in your nest, of sleeping alone every night again, puts you on edge.

Normally the luxury of dating would have given you a chance to adjust to that, to figure out how to fit him into your life. Now it was all instinct, and those were clear. You shifted your weight, heel grinding on to your pussy, your cunt practically hollow, thinking of how he’d fit inside you just fine.

You squirmed, changing positions and gave in, burying your face in one of his shirts. It was nice, but not enough. Touch deprivation couldn’t be fixed in twenty-four hours, and nesting had only delayed the need a little. Time to get over your anxiety and address some real world consequences.

#

Brendon’s nostrils flared when you entered the kitchen, pausing as he plated the food to stare at you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you squeezed your thighs together at the frank lust in his gaze. His eyes tracked from the red on your face to the bite mark on your throat, down over his old sweatshirt that hung to your mid-thigh, and over your bare legs. You hadn’t even bothered to try putting your scrubs back on.

“Did you leave me any clothes?”

“Just the bad ones.”

He snorted, spooning out berries on to the plates. He’d made protein pancakes, sausage, and eggs, and your mouth watered at the smell. When was the last time you’d eaten a proper meal that wasn’t something thrown together on your lone day off or choked down from the cafeteria? The last time you and Samira had gone out to dinner? You weren’t even sure the last time someone had actually cooked you food.

“Sit and eat,” he ordered, sliding the plate on the stone counter to the barstool seats. There was a formal dining table off to the side of the kitchen that looked barely used, and to the right was the entry way and a spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows and an L-shaped grey couch. You were about to sit when you spotted a blanket draped over the back of the sofa, and instinct had you crossing the open-plan kitchen to check if it would feel good in your nest. You heard Brendon chuckle behind you, and felt a sudden self-consciousness at being such a stereotypical Omega.

He’d been joking about stealing all his clothes, right? Some Alphas really did complain about Omega hoarding tendencies, and you didn’t mean to take all of his stuff. He just didn’t have—

“I’ll take you nest shopping,” Brendon said, catching your hesitation, the sudden awkwardness as you reached out for the blanket.

“It’s okay,” you reassured automatically, without looking back at him. “I’ve got the basics, and there’s more at my place.” This blanket was a rougher weave, chunky and warm no doubt, but more for artful drapery than comfort. The throw pillow was likewise stiff with pointy corners. They weren’t really the kinds of things you wanted in your nest, but you weren’t sure which was worse: taking what stuff he did have, or making him buy more.