trinity

note: this fic took me a while to write it and also stressed me out. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Dex looks back at the months before he ever knew you existed, and he can’t believe how everything changed. He used to maintain his schedule, but now his entire life revolves around what you do. He didn’t plan to follow your path home or learn your daily habits when he first saw you. It started out as a random coincidence on a Tuesday night, yet it turned into a fixation he couldn’t stop. Now he spends his evenings watching your windows from the shadows across the street, and he remembers every single detail of the moment his small little world got disrupted. It happened late at night at the local supermarket while you stood in the brightly lit produce section. You were inspecting the fruit display when you already had two large pineapples resting in your basket.

Dex stepped up right beside you to check the pile for himself because he needed something to do with his hands. He watched your face as you turned another pineapple around to check the surface, and he wanted to speak up before he could hold himself back. He wanted to see how you would react to being interrupted. You moved your hair out of your way, but you didn’t look up until he initiated the conversation. He picked up a fruit of his own and turned it in his hand before he spoke. “That’s plenty of pineapples for a girl like you,” Dex said as he rolled the rough texture under his palm. You stopped what you’re doing while heat flooded your face because you knew what people thought about that specific fruit.

Your shoulders tensed up while you clutched the handle of your basket tightly to hide your sudden discomfort. Dex sensed the immediate change in your posture, and he realized what his words implied. “Oh, god. No, no,” Dex muttered while he held his hands up to show he wasn’t trying to be crude. “That’s not what I mean at all,” he added before you could walk away from the display. “I have a big family,” you lied as you tossed the third pineapple into your basket and tried to look confident. He could see right through the deception because your nervous blinking gave everything away. “Sure, pineapple girl,” Dex replied with a chuckle before he turned on his heel and left you alone with the fruits.

You thought the strange encounter was over, but he waited outside the glass doors until you finished paying for your groceries. He kept his distance on the dark sidewalk as you walked towards your apartment building, which was only a short distance from the store. He trailed behind you on the dark streets, and he carefully watched how you walked. You reached the front entrance and unlocked the door before you stepped inside without checking behind you. He watched from across the road until a single light flipped on in a third-floor window, and he confirmed his initial suspicion. There was no big family waiting inside that apartment because you lived by yourself. Living alone without checking your surroundings isn’t safe at all.

What if a different person found you instead of him? Someone else might easily have bad intentions if they followed you to your door. Dex wouldn’t do anything actually to hurt you, though. He constantly tells himself he only wants to watch over you. He believes he’s doing you a massive favor by making sure nobody else can get close. You’re unaware of how vulnerable you are every single night. Dex cared about you enough to learn every detail of your life. He knows you have an old laptop you only ever use for writing. He didn’t know who you were writing about at first, but he looked it up later. He learned that you write stories about characters in movies or on television.

The internet showed him that whatever you do in your free time is called fanfiction. Dex only found out about your hobby because he cared enough to pick the lock of your apartment while you were out. He found the same key for your door online, so he could come back whenever he wanted. He also cared enough to install multiple cameras from different angles inside your apartment. You won’t ever find them because they’re well hidden in places you barely ever look at or touch. The only place lacking a camera right now is your bathroom. He knows he’s a huge hypocrite for putting a camera in your bedroom without putting one in the shower too. He prefers to draw a weird line right there so he doesn’t feel like a creep.

He wants to watch you sleep or type on your bed rather than cross that one boundary. It makes him feel like a protector instead of a bad guy. Dex rarely follows you around the streets when you actually leave your home. He does it sometimes, but doing it in person is a lot more tiring. Trailing behind you in public has way too much risk compared to breaking in. He much prefers watching over the camera screens when he relaxes comfortably at his own place. He finally started reading some of the stories you wrote by opening your laptop while he stood right inside your bedroom. Dex already figured out the fanfiction part earlier, yet he didn’t realize you were writing pure smut until he actually clicked on the specific documents.

He never expected a girl like you to write something so dirty and he couldn’t even imagine doing half the things he read, but you somehow brought them into reality. What only drove him to jerk off in the first place was when he found out your hidden drafts on that old laptop. Finding those files made him start digging your dirty panties out of your laundry basket whenever he visits your empty apartment. He uses the unwashed fabric to jerk off to the scenes you wrote while he takes a spot on the edge of your bed. He imagined it was you and him doing it while he read a draft where the characters were fucking over a table.

He easily pictured bending you over your own table to make you read your own words out loud while his cock thrusts inside your cunt. Dex swears he always brings the garments right back to their spot in the hamper so you never notice they went missing. He was never sloppy when he did those kinds of things in your apartment. He never actually took your clothes home because he made sure they were strictly for one-time use. He would find a pair of dirty panties, and he always put them right back in the same spot after he finished. He never left any evidence behind that could prove he was inside your bedroom while you were gone. He knew your schedule well, so he knew how much time he had to finish his business before you came back.

He never let himself get distracted enough to make a careless mistake. Dex likes to think he’s a good guy at the end of the day. He might admit he’s a little perverted, but he’s just a normal guy. What else was he supposed to do when he read those things on your screen? His cock got hard as soon as he pictured you doing those acts so that he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t just take care of it right then and there. He convinced himself it was natural for a man to react that way to such graphic writing. He didn’t feel guilty because he believed anyone else in his position would do the same thing. He even went into your bathroom to clean himself up whenever he had extra time. He memorized how everything originally looked before he ever touched your things, so he remembered where every item belonged.

Dex’s condition actually helped his case during these visits because he couldn’t physically rest until everything in the room looked the way he’d left it. He would adjust the laundry basket or wipe down the sink until the apartment was spotless again. He made sure the entire place looked untouched so you would never suspect a single thing. He left your home as he found it every time. What he doesn’t know is that you aren’t stupid or clueless at all. You felt it for weeks, and maybe even months. You get a strange feeling that someone has been inside your apartment while you were gone. You always feel like someone is watching you, but proving it is hard. Trying to confirm your suspicions never works out because every single item is where you left it.

Sometimes the whole apartment smells different when you walk through the front door. There are times you smell a trace of an unknown laundry detergent on your bedsheets, or you notice a different cologne in the bedroom. The place smells like a man when you come back home. You start taking photos of your rooms before you leave. Your camera roll fills up with pictures of your bookshelf, desk, and kitchen counter. Then you compare them on your phone once you get back home, but every object matches the photos, so it only makes you feel crazier. You didn’t tell your friends about the situation since nobody would ever take you seriously. They would blame it on your stress or point out how burnt out you are.

Your obsession with horror movies and documentaries would become their excuse for your fear if you ever told them, so you prefer to hide the truth. It bothers you too much that you wonder if you are mentally unwell, especially those nights when you wake up from interrupted sleep because you feel somebody is standing right beside your bed, yet the room is always empty when you look around. Your paranoia led you to change little things on purpose to test your sanity. Leaving your laptop directly on the bed instead of your desk is your first attempt at setting a trap, but nothing happened. You try turning a random book upside down on the shelf. Sometimes you even leave a cabinet door slightly open in the kitchen before walking out of the place.

Everything is the way you usually leave it every time you return home. It scares you more than you’ll ever admit. A normal person breaking in would never bother cleaning up after themselves, or at least they would get sloppy enough. You decide to do something about the situation to cope with it. That’s why you start writing a new story about your experience. It’s obvious a stalker must check their victim’s gadgets too. The plot revolves around a stalker character and a woman who knows somebody is watching her but can’t prove a single thing, which is basically just your situation. Typing it out helps you manage your anxiety at first. You use the story as a test to see if anyone is actually looking through your laptop.

What you don’t realize is that Dex is actually reading those drafts. He sees every single word you type about him, but simply writing about the situation doesn’t rattle him. It pushes you to try something more direct, where you type out a new scene in which the victim leaves a sticky note beside her laptop. The note contains three simple words asking who the stalker is. You write that draft late at night, and you have absolutely no idea he knows what you are doing because he watches you type through the hidden cameras inside your bedroom. You tell yourself to wait for the morning to actually write it on the paper, and you stand by your word when you grab a sticky note from your desk the second you wake up.

You write the same question and leave a simple ‘Who are you?’ right beside your closed laptop so your room matches the draft before you leave for the day. You expect to feel a sense of control over the situation, yet your stomach drops the moment you lock your front door. The anxiety follows you everywhere you go and makes it difficult to focus on anything else because you only want to get back home to check your desk. You expect to find a clear answer waiting for you, but everything looks the same when you step inside. There is nothing different, and not even a single item is out of place. It leaves you feeling disappointed after seeing the paper resting there without anything written on it besides your own handwriting.

The scene ends where you left it, without a single letter edited in your document, too. You desperately want him to react, and the lack of proof frustrates you more than you would ever admit. It makes you wonder if you are losing your mind over nothing. That frustration only pushes you to try harder, so you write another scene showing how the victim feels like she is going crazy from the silence. You write that the character leaves a new message claiming ‘I know you’re here.’ before you put a second real note right beside your laptop. You refuse to move the paper or write anything new since you put that on your desk, and you force yourself to wait for him to make a move. You spend three days checking that same spot every single morning and night without getting a single reaction.

The agonizing wait only makes you more bothered by every little sound in your apartment until you decide to escalate the situation after waiting two more exhausting days. You write about the victim leaving a cup on the kitchen counter to catch her stalker, and you put a sticky note underneath a mug in your actual kitchen right after you finish typing. What you do in real life becomes a reflection of what you write on your laptop. You ask a simple question on the paper and put, ‘Are you reading this?’ to test if he actually reads your screen. You spend your entire time outside your home distracted, as you constantly wonder if this attempt will finally work. Maybe it’s fate that your instincts are telling you something because there are finally changes when you push your front door open later that night.

The mug is positioned where you left it, so nothing seems obvious at first glance. The sticky note waits hidden at the bottom, and you almost throw the paper away in defeat until you notice the mug is facing the wrong direction. You realize that the small detail has to be an intentional answer. The handle originally pointing toward the refrigerator now points directly at the sink. Nobody else would ever spot such a small difference, but you only notice it because you took a photo to compare against the counter. Your hands shake while you hold your phone up close to the cup. You don’t call the police or tell your friends about the update regardless of how you feel. You immediately run to your room to finish the draft you’re working on instead.

You type out how the stalker visited the apartment and moved the mug so the victim finally gets her proof. A sick thrill takes over you after finally confirming a real person was actually inside your personal space. That adrenaline makes you write another update where the victim becomes much bolder about the whole situation. She stops asking whether somebody is there because she already knows the undeniable truth. You refuse to let that rush of adrenaline die down, so you quickly plan your next move. The chapter ends with her wanting to know what the stalker wants from her. You stick a new note directly onto the center of your laptop screen asking, ‘What do you want from me?’ right before you leave your apartment the following morning.

It brings a personal risk, but you crave the closure it might bring. The note is where you left it when you finally returned hours later. You pull it off the screen, and your heart races while you flip the paper over. You trace your trembling fingers over the letters because his only response is a handwritten ‘Keep writing, sweetheart.’ on the back. The reality of the situation slaps you in the face while you stare down at his handwriting. Who actually does something like this? What kind of sick freak thinks this is a game? You are so pissed that your fingers dig into the edge of the desk. You grab a marker to write a message telling the stalker to fuck off. You leave the paper on your desk and threaten to call the police if he ever comes back.

“Just leave me alone,” you mutter to the empty room. That was your boiling point to stop writing more drafts to entertain a sicko. You shut your laptop hard enough that it makes a loud sound against your desk, and you almost throw the machine across the room. Dex watches you through the live feed on his monitor with a small smirk on his face. He leans back in his chair because he loves seeing you get all fired up, yet he avoids your apartment for the next few days to give you space rather than backing away out of fear. He wants you to deal with your own anger. The silence he gives you almost makes you believe your threat scared him away. Are you safe? Did he actually listen to you? It feels like you can breathe again, but you should have known a guy this obsessed would never easily give up.

You should have known he would pull some tricks on you, like leaving a rose right on your kitchen counter. How the fuck did he even get inside again? You grab the flower and then throw it into the trash without a second thought. Dex watches you destroy his gift through the screen before he rubs a hand over his face in frustration. He can’t understand why you would do that, but he also loves pushing your buttons. Did you not like the flower he picked? Who wouldn’t like roses? It was the first flower he bought to test the waters since it was always a classic choice. He is a persistent guy, so he leaves more bouquets despite your refusal to acknowledge them. He knows it pisses you off, and he thrives on it even when every single one ends up in the garbage the second you find them.

He switches to tulips the next time he visits your place, but you don’t even try to smell them. Flowers are not cheap in this economy, yet he is willing to buy different kinds of flowers as gifts for you, only to see how mad you can get. His next choice is peonies because he hopes to figure out what will make you smile, or maybe he wants to see you snap again. What does he expect you to do? Thank him for stalking you? Write him a love letter? Those gifts might feel less threatening, but they invade your personal space. The way you ignore every delivery starts working, though, because it drives him crazy. He might be getting frustrated by you, but your fear starts to turn into pure annoyance. You hate yourself for starting to expect flowers waiting for you after a few weeks, and that makes you angry because he acts like a boyfriend instead of a stalker with crazy tendencies.

Why is he playing house with you? It makes your stomach churn that you have to check around out of habit to see what kind of flower he brought inside. You know what he’s doing, and he’s fucked to think he can train you to act like a pet waiting for a treat from its owner, but this time you refuse to let it happen. You are not dumb enough to ignore the break-ins, and you are tired of his shit. He’s wearing down your patience to the point where you’re considering hiring someone to replace the locks. You pay good money so that you can feel safe again, but replacing them does absolutely nothing. Dex picks the door in seconds, like he always does, before he leaves another bouquet on your kitchen table the next afternoon.

How is he doing this? Is your privacy a joke to him? Him picking the new lock pisses you off way more than the flowers do. He has no boundaries at all, and he wants you to know it. “You have got to be kidding me,” you groan out loud while tossing the fresh flowers into the trash. You start leaving hostile written messages scattered around the apartment knowing he will read them. You want him to know how much you despise his actions. You put notes on the fridge or the bathroom mirror out of spite to tell him how much you hate his presence. Dex collects every piece of paper you leave behind like he enjoys making you angry. He never leaves a written response to any of your notes because he wants to see how far your frustration will push you.

His responses come through actions instead, like leaving a basket of groceries on your counter or dropping off a new book you wanted. Does he think he is taking care of you? Is he treating you like a pet? You reach your breaking point when you open the fridge to find a new carton of milk he bought for you. The audacity makes you want to move away and live somewhere else. “Stop hiding like a coward!” you shout at the ceiling before grabbing a marker from the counter. You write a message telling him to show his face if he plans to continue entering your home because you are done playing his stupid game. Dex watches you slap the paper onto the fridge, and he smiles knowing you finally gave him the invitation he wanted.

His only response to your angry message is a short note left right on your bathroom mirror. It says ‘See you soon’ without any other explanation. You spend the next few weeks waiting for him to make a move. The first week is hell because every noise outside your apartment makes you think tonight is finally the night. You spend hours staring at the ceiling while wondering if he’s standing right outside your door. Your mind goes right back to how easily he got inside before every time you try to find some comfort, everything might be over. You even start looking inside your closet or pulling back the shower curtain every time you come home. How long can someone continue living like this before they finally lose it?

Nothing happens yet, but somehow that makes everything worse because it feels like you’re just waiting for him to show up. The lack of effort from him makes the anticipation worse. The paranoia drains your energy until you can barely hold your eyes open during the second week. You stop checking the door every few minutes because you’re too tired to continue doing it. All you could do was get through the day, then come home to an apartment that’s constantly messing with your head. That exhaustion lets your guard down when the third week passes without any new flowers or rearranged groceries. You convince yourself the note was just another way to scare you. Maybe he got bored and found someone else to mess with.

You actually think he gave up after you didn’t find any sign that someone got inside again. You slowly start to believe you’re alone again, so you don’t bother checking every corner of your bedroom before climbing into bed. You don’t even remember falling asleep because the next thing you know you’re staring up at your ceiling again when something wakes you up in the middle of the night. You don’t think anything of it at first because you’ve been waking up like this almost every night. Nothing bad ever happens when you wake up like this, so why would tonight be any different? You only wait there for a few seconds before pushing yourself up against the headboard to rub your eyes because all you want is to look around the room before going back to sleep.

Everything seems normal at first glance until you notice somebody sitting right at the edge of your bed. This can’t actually be happening right now. You instinctively yank the blanket up closer around yourself while staring at the intruder who somehow got past your door again. How the fuck did he get inside? It takes a few seconds for your brain to process who it is. The guy isn’t some random stranger because you recognize him from the supermarket. You shouldn’t even remember that awkward conversation about pineapples, yet everything suddenly makes sense. Everything leads back to him, and you try to process how long he has been waiting there watching you sleep. Dex doesn’t move closer to you or try to touch you.

He looks comfortable, as if being in your bedroom in the middle of the night were the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t move from where he is to let you process the situation before he speaks. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says calmly while he looks right at you. He notices the fear on your face before he tells you that he genuinely believes those words should reassure you. Those promises mean nothing coming from a man like him. You don’t find his reassurance comforting in the slightest bit because he already crossed every possible boundary long before he appeared in your bedroom. There isn’t a single part of this that is okay. What kind of logic makes him think those words are enough, after everything he’s already been through?

The audacity of his calmness sparks anger right beneath your fear. He already broke into your home to watch you sleep, so there is no excuse for this. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” you demand while trying to steady your shaking voice as you point toward the bedroom door. You expect him to apologize for sneaking in, but he acts like this entire situation is normal. Dex ignores your order from the edge of the bed. “I’m one of the good guys,” he says calmly while watching your reaction. You let out a breath because you can’t believe a single word coming from a man who spent months stalking you. “Good guys don’t break into houses to watch people sleep,” you snap back at him while gripping the blanket.

The lack of guilt on his face makes you want to punch him since he honestly thinks he did nothing wrong. “Your intentions don’t matter after everything you already did, so prove it instead of expecting blind trust,” you say while maintaining your distance from him. Dex nods before reaching toward the waistband of his pants. You tense up because you genuinely think he’s finally about to attack you. He slowly pulls out the gun he brought with him instead. You expect him to aim it, but he places the firearm on the mattress right between the two of you. He gently nudges the pistol toward you so it sits closer to your hands. You stare at the object while trying to figure out his actual plan.

“Take it,” he says while he checks your face for a reaction. “If you really think I’m here to hurt you, then you should have something to stop me,” he explains while leaving his hands visible. He rests his palms against his thighs, so you know he isn’t grabbing anything else. This action is meant to reassure you, but it only reminds you that you have no idea what he is thinking. You hesitate to grab the pistol because every instinct tells you this is a bad idea. What if he just wants an excuse to hurt you? You eventually reach out to snatch the gun off the sheets before you can change your mind. You grip the handle tightly and point the barrel directly at his forehead without even thinking about it.

You expect him to dodge or hold his hands up in defense. Dex doesn’t flinch or argue with you at all. He doesn’t try to take the gun back either. You can feel the sweat forming on your palms while you hold the weapon up. He sits on the bed while you aim the firearm in his direction with shaking hands. You wait for him to do something while resting your finger right next to the trigger. The room is silent while Dex slowly scoots closer across the mattress instead of backing away from the gun. “Stop moving,” you warn him while tightening your grip on the pistol. He ignores your warning without acting aggressively at all. He moves forward until the barrel is only a few inches from his face. You push yourself harder against the headboard to get away from him.

He leans forward until his forehead touches the metal. He looks you straight in the eye without blinking. This gesture isn’t a bluff or some kind of challenge to him. Dex genuinely believes he’s proving he never intended to hurt you. You are dealing with someone whose mind works nothing like everyone else’s. “Shut the fuck up,” you warn him while pushing the barrel against his forehead. Dex doesn’t flinch away from the metal. “You’re not going to shoot me,” he says, and watches your expression. He talks like you hold a toy instead of a loaded gun. “You spent months leaving notes to make me show up,” he explains before pointing at the weapon. He believes those papers were an open invitation. “You wanted this as badly as I did,” he adds without a hint of fear.

You shake your head to shut down his twisted logic. “I wanted to know if I was going fucking crazy,” you snap back at him and push the gun harder against his skin. You insist you only left those messages to prove someone was breaking in. “I never wanted some creep inside my apartment,” you tell him while your chest heaves with every breath. Dex doesn’t look convinced by your anger. “We’ve been communicating for months already,” he argues like you two were exchanging friendly letters. He views the situation as a normal relationship instead of an invasion of your privacy. He ignores the weapon to bring up private details nobody else should know. “You’re a good writer,” he says, and looks into your eyes.

“Don’t bring that shit up,” you warn him while your finger twitches over the trigger. “I opened every document on that laptop because I wanted to know you,” he confesses while watching your face. You think he lies to get inside your head. “Even the drafts you never posted,” he adds before quoting a line from a scene where a character begs to be fucked on a desk. You never posted any of those drafts online, yet he knew the exact lines, so you realized he had really gone through your computer. Dex doesn’t stop there because he wants you to know what he does in your bedroom. “I read those stories way before you started leaving me notes,” he reveals while a smirk forms on his lips. He casually mentions how much he enjoyed reading your dirty drafts whenever he broke into your place.

You stare at him as you try to process the invasion of your privacy. “I didn’t expect you to write things like that,” he says before chuckling at your reaction. The way he talks about your personal files makes you feel exposed. “You have such a dirty mind,” he says without any shame. Dex finally lifts his hand from his thigh and reaches forward to touch your face. He brings his hand up to the back of your head while his thumb gently rubs your cheek. He slowly runs his fingers through your hair like he is trying to calm you down. You let the gun fall onto the mattress so you can place both hands against his chest to push him away. His body doesn’t move an inch when you shove him backward.

You try to push him a second time, but he ignores your effort. Your frustration boils over so you punch his chest before your hands grab handfuls of his shirt. “Get off me right now,” you demand while glaring up at him. Dex caresses your hair without acting bothered by your anger. “You can punch me all you want,” he says before he looks down at your hands. He tilts his head because he feels the anger radiating off your body. “I really don’t want to hurt you,” Dex promises while looking right into your eyes. You don’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth. He notices your doubt, so he tries to explain himself again. “I have no intention of harming you,” he insists while his voice sounds calm.

You want to scream because stalking is already a crime. “I never left any threats around the apartment,” he points out before defending his actions. He acts like unlocking your door is no big deal. He even reminds you of the times he fixed things around the apartment without asking for a thank-you. “I only ever left you flowers or groceries instead of anything dangerous,” he reminds you while his fingers massage your scalp. You know he is right about the gifts, but having a stranger inside your home is terrifying enough. You refuse to let him play the good guy. “You broke into my house,” you remind him while tightening your grip on his shirt. He nods slowly because he understands why you are so angry.

He knows you never asked for this situation, but he genuinely believes he is doing the right thing. You want to wipe that understanding look off his face so you insult him. “You’re just a lonely fucking loser,” you spit at him while hoping to finally piss him off. You try to find the cruelest thing to say. “You have no life so you have to stalk mine,” you add while watching for a reaction. Dex doesn’t look angry or offended by your words at all. He expects you to hate him so he accepts the insults without arguing back. He doesn’t think you should be grateful for his presence. “I know you hate me right now,” he replies while his hand continues stroking the back of your head. His voice sounds way too sincere for a home invader.

“But I just want to protect you from everyone else,” he explains like that justifies all his actions. His twisted reasoning baffles you. “What if some other guy found those stories on your laptop?” Dex asks before he scoffs at the thought. He shakes his head while imagining a different scenario. “Another guy would just force himself on you after reading all that,” he tells you while his fingers move softly against your scalp. He expects you to thank him for reading your computer. “You’re sick in the head,” you tell him because his reasoning is insane. Dex chuckles again while he stares down at your hands holding his shirt. He tilts his chin down to look at the space between your bodies.

“If I’m so sick, then why am I stopping you from calling the cops?” he asks without raising his voice at all. You look at your arms and realize he isn’t restraining you at all. “I’m not even holding you here by force,” he points out while his hands rest gently against your face and head. You hate to admit his trick actually works on you. He acts like you have full control over the situation, only to mess with your head. You know he could easily hurt you right now if he actually wanted to do it. “You think I believe that bullshit?” you ask him while your hands grip his shirt tighter. What kind of idiot would trust a man who breaks into homes because they think they’re protecting you? He’s playing a twisted game to see what you’ll do.

His claim that you can call the cops is obviously a lie. You know damn well he would run away, or you would end up dead long before the police ever arrived. He wants you to believe you hold all the power, but you know how dangerous he really is. “I promise you’re safe with me,” he whispers while his fingers move softly through your hair. The way he repeats he won’t hurt you messes with your head. He holds his other hand on your face as his thumb rubs your lower lip. You hate how your body reacts to him because you instinctively part your mouth without even meaning to. You end up breathing through your mouth the second your lips open under his thumb. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he tells you again like it’s the absolute truth.

The way he touches you makes your brain forget how messed up this whole thing is. It feels disturbing to experience something like this in reality. There are times you read books or watch movies about obsessed guys, but you never expected a stalker to actually show up in your bedroom. You always thought you would fight back or scream if this ever happened, yet here you are just letting him touch your face without doing a single thing to stop him, and it makes you feel pathetic. Dex watches your face carefully before he speaks again. “You call me lonely, but you’re exactly the same,” he points out while looking right into your eyes. He knows you spend all your time alone so you don’t have anyone else to take care of you.

He thinks you need him just because you don’t go out with friends every weekend. The pure arrogance in his voice makes you want to slap him. “I can take care of myself just fine,” you argue back before trying to turn your face away. He moves his hand with you to maintain his grip on your jaw. “You shouldn’t have to do it all by yourself,” he replies before he finally tests the waters. He slips his thumb past your parted lips to rest it directly against your tongue. You let out a muffled sound against his finger because you didn’t expect him to actually do that. His thumb tastes a little salty right on your tongue. You try to back away, but his fingers tighten in your hair to stop you from escaping, and you glare at him.

“I want to take care of you,” he adds while watching your chest rise with another deep breath. Dex uses his thumb inside your mouth and pushes it down on your tongue. The pad of his finger scrapes against your teeth before resting deep inside. You try to use your hands on his shirt to shove him away again. You want to scream at him to get out, but you can’t even form a word. He simply leans over you and uses his body weight to press you against the headboard. His chest pushes against your arms while his thumb stops you from speaking. “I really want to take care of you,” he whispers right to your face. He acts like having his fingers deep in your mouth is an ordinary part of the conversation. “You never let anyone else do it,” he adds as he watches your chest rise.

He looks you straight in the eye while you struggle to breathe around his hand. You try to swallow around his thumb, but the action makes your throat tighten uncomfortably. A muffled sound slips out before you can bite it back. You glare up at him with hatred right in your eye and want to look disgusted, but your body betrays your anger. The warmth of his hand on your face feels entirely too good, so your eyelids flutter shut for a second while a breath hitches in your chest. The involuntary reaction happens before you can even stop it. You open your eyes again to find him staring down at you. He watches your pupils dilate with a satisfied smirk on his face. You want to punch him for making you feel like this, and you hate that you just gave him what he wants.

He notices every reaction you try to hide from him, and he sees the exact moment your anger turns into something else. “Fuck,” Dex mutters under his breath as he takes in your expression. He sounds genuinely amazed by the way you react to him. “Look at you,” he whispers before a smirk forms on his face. He knows what he is doing to you, yet he points out how fast you gave up fighting him despite how much you claim to hate his guts. His arrogant tone makes you want to wipe that smirk away. You try to bite his thumb to erase that look off his face. Dex easily slides his finger deeper before your teeth can actually catch him. He pushes his thumb down harder on your tongue to force your mouth open again while his other hand grips your hair more firmly to tilt your head back.

The way he effortlessly pins you down against the headboard makes your stomach drop, and you feel fear with an unwanted thrill. You start to question whether you actually enjoy what he is doing to you right now. You wonder if you are really dumb enough to fold for a guy who broke into your apartment. A part of you wants to know if his gentle actions prove he won’t actually hurt you. Your brain struggles to process all these confusing thoughts at once. You should be fighting for your life, but your body wants more of his attention, and that’s when you realize you are leaning into his touch instead of pulling away. You look down and see how your hands are tangled in his shirt, and you’re no longer pushing him away from your body at all.

You clutch the fabric of his shirt while his hand rests firmly in your hair. Dex leans down until his lips almost brush against your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers directly against your neck. He promises he will walk away forever if you just say the word. You know he would never actually let you go, and he wants you to admit you want this just as much as he does. He turns his head until his mouth grazes along your jawline. He slowly pulls his thumb out of your mouth to leave a wet string of saliva behind, and you let out a whine when he does that. He wipes his damp thumb on your top before his hand drops down to grab your waist tightly. “Tell me to quit leaving things and watching you,” he begs, like he actually needs your permission to leave.

He waits for your answer while his chest is inches away from yours. You don’t say a single word while your hand moves up from his shirt. You slide your fingers to the back of his head to gently caress his hair. You look at him and realize you don’t want him to leave even though you know he is crazy for doing all of those things in the first place, but having him right here feels better than being alone. Your hand moves from his hair down to his shoulder instead of bringing him into a kiss against the headboard. You push against his chest just enough to create some space between your bodies. You don’t tell him to stop or leave the apartment, but you finally make him back off. “Go get my laptop from the desk,” you tell him while pointing across the room.

Dex looks confused for a second because he clearly didn’t expect you to say that. He stands up anyway before walking over to grab the laptop. You crawl forward to sit right in the middle of the mattress while he has his back turned. You want him to realize you are not just going to roll over for him like he expects you to. He walks back over to the bed and hands the device over to you. You flip the screen open and log in before pushing it right back into his chest. “Open your favorite one,” you instruct him while watching his face. You know he has a preference after spending so much time snooping through your files. You want to see what kind of things he enjoys reading the most. “Read it out loud to me,” you tell him while pointing at the screen.

You challenge him directly to see if he can actually handle the words he claims to enjoy. You want to hear his voice saying those sentences. “Read the part you liked the most,” you add, so he has to make the choice himself. Dex actually hesitates for a second and gets flustered by your words. He just had you pinned against the headboard, but now he suddenly looks caught off guard. He tries to look at the screen instead of looking at your face. His fingers hesitate over the keyboard while he stares blankly at the folders. He just sits there in silence without clicking on a single file. You watch him struggle to type the title into the search bar. “Are you actually shy right now?” you ask him while leaning slightly closer to his face. You cannot believe the guy who broke into your house is suddenly struggling to speak.

You let out a short laugh because the role reversal is almost funny. “You had absolutely no problem sneaking into my apartment and watching me,” you point out while he refuses to look up. You remind him that he crossed every single boundary long before today. You make sure he realizes how stupid his hesitation looks. “You already read all of them behind my back,” you remind him while waiting for a reaction. You know he spent hours staring at your laptop while you were gone. “It’s pathetic you’re suddenly embarrassed to read them out loud,” you add while watching him swallow. He scoffs at your insult, but he finally starts typing the title of the story. He clicks the document open before scrolling down the page to find the specific paragraph.

He reads the words on the screen silently to himself for a few seconds. “Why do I even need to read this out loud?” Dex asks while focusing his eyes on the text. He tries to act unaffected while sitting right across from you. “It’s not like you’re actually going to let me fuck you like this,” he adds while pointing at the screen. He is obviously trying to provoke you so he can take control again. You might fall a little right into his game without even thinking about it. “I didn’t tell you we wouldn’t,” you answer back while looking right into his eyes. You don’t give him a clear yes-or-no, but the vague reply works perfectly. Dex smirks a little bit before he clicks the cursor at the top of the paragraph. He clears his throat and prepares to read your filthy words back to you.

Dex clears his throat before he glances up at you. He places the laptop onto the sheets right beside him so he can view the screen. He looks back down at the document as he prepares to read your words out loud. “He pushes her legs open to get a good look at her cunt,” Dex starts reading directly from your laptop. He sounds casual while saying filthy sentences. You stare at him because you can’t believe he actually said that without any shame. Hearing your own words spoken out loud makes your stomach drop. He reaches his free hand forward to grab your knee right after he finishes the line. You watch him push your legs apart while his eyes scan the next paragraph. Dex drops his eyes back to the screen while his hand grips your thigh.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says while quoting the dialogue from the character. He uses a deeper voice so it sounds like he’s genuinely saying it to you. His hand sneaks up your leg before he rests his palm right between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his arm blocks you from moving. You part your lips when his knuckles brush against your sleep shorts. “His eyes can’t look away from between her legs,” Dex reads next while he looks right at your crotch. He looks where his hand cups right over your cunt. “Open wider for me,” Dex demands while pushing your knee further to the side. He doesn’t look at the laptop to say that part because he wants you to obey him right now.

You hate how easily your body listens, so you let your legs fall further apart. Dex smirks while watching you expose yourself to him. He drags his thumb right over the seam of your shorts to tease you. He looks satisfied before he glances back at the screen. “She begs him to touch her while her hips buck up against him,” he reads aloud as he moves closer to you. You try to close your legs, but he forces your knee back down. “Mm- stop it,” you complain while trying to grab his wrist. He easily dodges your hand before he pushes his palm firmly against your crotch. You try to squirm away on the mattress, but his grip on your thigh holds you where he wants you. He knows you want this even if you try to fight him off.

“I haven’t even read the best part yet,” he replies while his eyes look over the next few lines. He uses the heel of his hand to grind right against your cunt through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. “Nngh-” you gasp out as he finds the right spot. He applies more pressure while rotating his hand around your cunt. You realize he plans to use your own story to turn you on while he touches you just like this. “You’ll take it so well for me,” Dex reads aloud while his palm rubs against your sleep shorts. He looks back at the screen before he continues reading the next paragraph. “He guides his thick cock right against her cunt and drags the head through all her wetness,” he quotes as he pushes his hand harder against your crotch.

You hate how good it feels against your body. “He teases her by sliding it up and down her folds without putting it inside, yet,” he finishes the sentence while staring right at your face. Your legs part then close involuntarily because he grinds the heel of his hand over your clit. “You’re dripping for me,” he adds while his hand rests right between your thighs. You know what you wrote on that laptop. You know you never typed that specific line he just said. “You just made that part up,” you accuse him while trying to control your breathing. You glare at him because he just twisted your own words. “Maybe I did,” he answers back with a smug look on his face. He clearly enjoys seeing you get so defensive about it.

“It fits the situation,” he argues back before he pushes his palm firmer against your crotch. The unexpected pressure makes you grab a handful of his shirt. “I can already feel the dampness soaking right through your clothes,” he tells you with a smirk. You honestly have no idea if he’s bluffing or telling the truth. He continues reading the filthy scene to tease you. “He pulls her hips backward so he gets a clear view of her wet cunt before he lines his cock up,” he reads aloud while watching your reaction. You try to look away, but his eyes follow your every movement. “He pushes the tip right against her cunt and slowly slides his entire length inside,” he recites while grinding the heel of his hand against your shorts.

You feel worked up by his touch, and making him read the story out loud was supposed to give you the upper hand. You wanted to make him embarrassed, but the plan backfired since he’s the one touching you. He clearly enjoys having control over you right now. He scrolls down the document to skip to the part he loved the most in what you wrote. “He forces her onto all fours so he can finally take her from behind,” Dex recites while his thumb finds your clit through the fabric. You gasp out loud when he circles the sensitive spot. “His hands grab her hips tightly to hold her in place on the mattress,” he continues reading as he grinds his palm right over your center. “He pulls his cock almost all the way out before slamming it back deep into her cunt,” he quotes aloud before pushing down harder against your shorts.

He watches your hips buck slightly upward to meet his palm. “He fucks her from behind without giving her a single second to recover,” he reads next while he moves his palm faster against your shorts. You try to squeeze your thighs shut, but his arm blocks your legs from closing. “He shoves his cock inside her cunt repeatedly until she screams for him to fuck her harder,” he finishes the paragraph while his thumb circles your clit. You hate that he knows how to get you so worked up. “Nn- your reading voice fucking sucks,” you insult him to hide how good he makes you feel. You try to sound annoyed, but your body betrays your words. He just chuckles at your pathetic attempt to insult him while he continues to torture you with his hand.

“Then why are you grinding right against my hand?” he asks as you involuntarily push your hips up into his palm. You realize he’s right since your body reacts to every single movement he makes. “Hah- shut up,” you gasp out when his thumb pushes down harder. He loves watching you lose your mind over his fingers. “Mm-” you complain instead of giving him a real answer. Your hands grip the bedsheets instead of actually shoving him off. “Do you want me to stop reading now?” he questions while his hand continues working between your legs. He knows you won’t tell him to stop because you want him to touch you. “Did you finally prove your point?” he asks to remind you that your little plan failed.

You reach forward to push the laptop screen down so he finally stops reading your writing. “Shut up, and do something,” you demand while glaring up at him from the mattress. Dex looks at the closed laptop before he grabs it off the sheets. He leaves his spot on the bed to place the device safely on the floor. “You want me to take your clothes off?” he asks as he turns back around to face you. He sounds almost surprised by your unexpected change in attitude. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” you challenge him before you scoot right to the edge of the mattress. You lift both of your arms in the air and wait for him to make a move. He lets out a short chuckle while looking down at your raised arms.

“Are you really going to make me work for it?” he questions before he takes a step closer to your legs. You know he wants you, so you make him prove it. He clearly enjoys the new challenge. “Is it too hard for you to just do it?” you ask sarcastically while holding your arms up high. Dex scoffs at your attitude before his hands grip the bottom hem of your top. He pulls the fabric over your head and then tosses it somewhere across the dark room. It feels absurd to ask the guy who stalks you to undress you, yet you don’t even try to cover up. You aren’t wearing a bra since you just woke up from catching him staring at you earlier, so your breasts are exposed to him. He looks at your chest before he instinctively reaches a hand out to touch you.

You lean away from him so his fingers grasp nothing but air. You drop your hands down to his belt, but you stop trying to undo the buckle when he tries to touch you again. “Fuck- sorry,” Dex mutters while he pulls his hand back fast. He clearly didn’t expect you to avoid his touch so fast. “I just wanted a feel,” he tries to explain himself while looking down at your exposed body. He sounds a little desperate as he looks you over. You can see how much your body distracts him right now. “They look really good,” he adds while his attention refuses to leave your chest. You roll your eyes at his pathetic excuse before you grab the front of his pants. You pull him closer by the waistband so he stands right between your parted knees.

“I know I look good,” you reply with a scoff as your fingers struggle with his belt. You enjoy watching him lose his composure. He usually takes whatever he wants, but right now he just stands there with his hands at his sides. “That’s why you stalked my apartment,” you point out before you go back to working on his zipper. Dex watches you fumble with his pants before he grabs the bottom of his own shirt to pull it over his head. “Yeah, maybe you’re just a stupid good-looking girl who is about to get into bed with her stalker,” he argues back as he throws his shirt onto the floor. He watches you take way too much time trying to unbutton his pants. He eventually slaps your hands away so he can do it himself.

“Let me do it,” he mutters before he quickly undoes the belt and shoves his jeans down his legs. He steps heavily out of the denim without bothering to take off his boots and kicks the fabric aside while he leaves his boxers in place. You just sit there on the edge of the bed and stare up at his body. He actually looks incredibly good standing there in front of you. You wonder why a guy like him would ever choose to be a stalker. He could easily find a normal girl to fuck him instead of breaking into apartments at night. It’s a very stupid idea to sit here half-undressed, but your gut tells you he isn’t going to hurt you. You never planned to let things go this far tonight, but your thoughts scatter when his hands grab the waistband of your sleep shorts along with your panties.

“You’re staring at me,” Dex points out as his thumbs slip under the elastic band. You look up at his face to find him watching you. The corners of his mouth turn upward into a smirk. “No- I’m not,” you lie while shaking your head to make up a random excuse. Your face heats up because he caught you checking him out. “I was just thinking about something else,” you add while trying to look away from his stomach. Dex makes a sound of agreement before he nods like he believes your lie. “I want to take these off,” he tells you while his thumbs hook under the elastic. You give him a small nod, and he starts sliding the fabric down. You lift your hips off the bed to help him push the clothes past your waist. Dex takes a step backward between your knees as he drags the shorts and panties down to your ankles.

He grabs the garments before tossing them somewhere across the bedroom. He holds your knees and pushes your thighs apart to get a better look at you. He takes a breath while his eyes stare directly between your legs. He licks his lips like he is hungry for what he sees. “I honestly don’t know what to do first,” Dex admits while his hands rest firmly on your knees. He traces his thumbs over your kneecaps. “I don’t know if I want to use my mouth or just-” He cuts himself off while looking back up at your face. His eyes trail downward when you try to close your legs, but he firmly prevents you from moving. “You’d better figure it out fast before I change my mind,” you scoff at him while shifting slightly on the mattress.

You feel vulnerable, but you refuse to let him know it bothers you. “I might just kick you out then file a restraining order,” you warn him with a small chuckle. Dex shakes his head right away while his hands slide up your thighs. “There’s no need to do that,” he replies as he steps closer to your open legs. You cross your arms over your chest when another thought crosses your mind. “Do you even have a condom?” you ask him since you expect some basic protection. Dex stops moving entirely as a confused look takes over his face. “What?” he questions before leaning forward until his mouth hovers right next to your ear. He wants to make sure you hear him clearly. You feel his chest brush against your crossed arms.

“I’m not using a condom with you,” he whispers right next to your ear. He sounds offended that you even asked. “I want to feel every part of you,” he adds while you feel his warm breath brush over your neck. You lean your head back to give him an annoyed look. “What if you aren’t clean?” you ask him while dropping your arms to rest your hands on the mattress. You take something to prevent pregnancy, but you worry about everything else. “I don’t want to catch anything,” you tell him directly as you glare up at his face. Dex looks offended by your assumption. He lets go of your thighs and places his hands firmly on your hips instead. “Do you seriously think I have time to sleep around with anyone else?” he asks with an insulted tone.

He glares back at you to show how much the question bothers him. He wants you to realize how devoted he is. “I don’t even look in another woman’s direction,” he defends himself while his fingers dig into your waist. He hates the idea of you picturing him with another girl. “You’re the only person I want,” he reminds you as he uses his hands to drag your hips against his thighs. You roll your eyes at his words before you look him up and down. You notice he is wearing his shoes even though he is standing there in nothing but his underwear. You let out a small chuckle while looking back up at his face. “You want to do all these things to me, but you have your shoes on?” you ask him with a teasing tone. You point out how funny he looks standing in your bedroom with his shoes on.

“Are you really going to fuck me in just your boxers and your shoes?” you add to mock him a little more. Dex looks down at his feet before he lets out a short scoff. “I didn’t even realize,” he admits as he steps back from your knees. He bends down to remove his boots before he kicks them across the floor. He stands back up to face you again. You reach forward to grab the elastic waistband of his boxers. You use the fabric to pull him right back between your parted knees. You drag the material down just enough so you can see the base of his cock. You want to see if he understands the clear hint you are giving him. Dex watches your hands for a second before his own fingers take over the job. He shoves your hands away so he can strip the underwear off.

He kicks the fabric aside until he stands naked in front of you. You stare at his hard cock while he steps even closer to the mattress. He doesn’t give you any time to speak before his hands grab your shoulders. Dex pushes you backward so you lie down on the mattress. You were sitting right on the edge, so your legs ended up dangling off the bed. He steps into the open space between your thighs. Your legs naturally fall to rest against his sides while he stands over you. He takes up all the space right between your parted knees as he looks down at your exposed body. “You look so fucking good like this,” he tells you while checking your reaction. He watches your chest rise and fall before his eyes drop lower to get a perfect view of your cunt.

Dex brings one hand up to gently touch your thigh. His fingers trail slowly up your leg before moving across your stomach. He continues the path upward to drag his hand over your breast. You wonder if he can feel your racing heartbeat under his palm. His hand feels incredibly hot against your body. You take a deep breath when his fingers travel up your shoulder to caress your neck. You watch his eyes track every single movement of his hand over your chest. It makes your stomach drop because he looks captivated by you. You want to ask him to hurry up, but your throat feels dry. He finally cups your cheek while his thumb rubs right over your cheekbone. His other hand reaches down to wrap firmly around his cock.

He guides the head right against your wet folds to coat himself in your slick. He rubs his length back and forth across your wet cunt. “Fuck- feels nice,” Dex mutters out as he feels the dampness between your legs. He pushes the broad tip right against your cunt to tease you a little more. You lift your hips upward because you desperately want him inside. “Nngh- j-just- put it in,” you whine back while your hands grab the bedsheets tightly. Dex pushes the head of his cock inside you while his hand caresses your cheek. His thumb brushes your face as he slowly slides deeper. He thrusts into your cunt very carefully, like he fears he might hurt you. You lie directly against the mattress without any pillows beneath your head.

He finally pushes all the way in before he closes his eyes. “Shit,” he grunts as he buries himself deep inside your body. Your toes curl when his thick cock fills you out. You bend your knees to wrap your legs securely around his waist. He drops his free hand down to hold your hip firmly. Dex slowly slides out and then pushes right back into your cunt. He watches your chest bounce every time he moves inside you. “You look so good taking me,” he tells you while staring down at your body. “Ah- hah- just go deeper,” you whine, but he refuses to thrust faster. He wants to watch your body react so he doesn’t speed up at all. He takes his time sliding in and out of your wet folds. You reach up with one hand to hold the wrist he has near your face.

Your other hand drops down to rest directly over your stomach. You grind your hips upward right when he pushes deep inside you. “Nngh- such a loser,” you insult him while pushing back against his cock. You clench your cunt tightly around him. “Mmph- yeah?” Dex questions as his jaw clenches. You can tell your degrading words affect him more than he wants to admit. You squeeze your cunt around him again just to mess with his head. His nails dig right into your hip. Dex moves his hand away from your cheek so he can reach the back of your head. He tangles his fingers into your hair to hold your head down on the mattress. “But you love having this loser inside you,” he reminds you while his hand tightens on your hair.

The look in his eyes proves he dropped the gentle act. “Hngh- god-” you gasp out when he thrusts much harder into your cunt. He stops worrying about hurting you and just starts fucking you how he wants to. You scratch your nails across his wrist to stop him from going so deep. “Nn- don’t do it so hard,” you complain while your heels plant firmly against his back. Dex hums in agreement to trick you, but he immediately does the exact opposite. He pulls his cock out until only the tip rests inside your cunt before he thrusts his entire length back inside you. He knows he acts like an asshole right now, yet he refuses to stop. His fingers tangle more firmly through your hair because he just needs something to hold onto while he fucks you.

“Mm- s-stop being so rough,” you gasp out as your eyes roll back. Dex ignores your demand since he likes feeling your cunt clench around him. He moves his hand away from your hip so he can reach up to grope your breast. He thinks about how long he waited to finally touch you. Having you right here feels better than he ever imagined. He pinches your nipple right between his fingers to make you squirm under him. Dex feels satisfied as he finally touches the person he stalked for months. He knows he crossed every boundary to get here, but he honestly doesn’t regret a single thing. He used only to watch you walk around this bedroom through the hidden cameras he planted behind your furniture.

Now he gets to see everything right in front of his own eyes while he pushes his cock in and out of your cunt. Having you respond to him is what he wanted. “Fucking creep- ahhn- you’re so messed up,” you degrade him while your other hand rests directly over your stomach. Dex knows you only say those insults because you feel stupid for sleeping with your stalker. “You think I care what you call me when you wrap your legs around me like this?” Dex asks while he feels your toes curl against his lower back. He knows you are conflicted about this situation, but your body tells him what you actually want. You part your mouth to gasp when he hits that specific spot deep inside you. He knows what kind of pace gets you going.

The degrading names you use only make him want to go harder. Your nails naturally dig harder into his arm the deeper he goes. “Hah- shut up- mmph!” you whine back while scratching your fingers over your stomach. He chuckles at your pathetic attempt to insult him because your moans give you away. The way you react to him actually mesmerizes him enough to make him slow his pace down. Slowing his pace gives him time to take in every detail of your face, as he wants to memorize how you look when he takes you. Seeing you take him so well satisfies him even while he thinks it is funny how you try to act tough. You notice his head tilting downward to watch his cock slide in and out of your entrance.

He wonders if you enjoy looking at the sight of your bodies moving together just as much as he does. You see his eyes move from your stomach right back up to your chest. He thinks you look perfect like this and wants to burn this exact image into his memory. Staring openly at the breast he gropes makes him consider using his mouth on you instead before he watches your other breast bounce with every single movement he makes. Knowing he has your full attention pleases him because he genuinely enjoys making you feel so flustered. You notice him looking right at your face next, yet you fail to figure out what goes on inside his head. “Nngh- what are you looking at?” you ask because his constant staring bothers you.

You hate how he always studies you without explaining himself. You want him to speak up instead of being so quiet. Dex ignores your question and stops moving his cock inside you. He keeps staring right into your eyes while he slides his hands from the back of your head to your shoulders. He pulls you up from the mattress until you sit upright on the edge of the bed. Your legs are already wrapped around his waist while you naturally reach out to grab his shoulders for balance. “Hold onto me,” Dex commands before he slides his hands down your sides. He places his hands on your waist to hold you in place. He starts pushing his cock in and out of your cunt again. You hold his shoulders tightly so you don’t fall backward while he fucks you.

“Nngh- why can’t we just do it in one position?” you complain about him moving you around too much. Dex ignores your whining before he leans forward to bury his face into your neck. He lets his mouth touch your collarbone while his hands hold your waist firmly. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt as he brings his lips right next to your ear. “I just want to create every position you wrote,” Dex whispers directly into your ear while he shoves his cock inside you. Your cunt squeezes tight around his cock right after he says those words. Hearing his plan brings a rush of pleasure to your body. You think about what position comes next to fucking you while sitting like this. You wonder if he plans to flip you over the bed to fuck you on your stomach.

Dex bites down on your shoulder before he grunts against your neck to hide a whimper. He pulls his cock almost all the way out before shoving it back in. He likes the way your body responds to his twisted ideas. “Do you like that?” Dex asks as he feels your cunt clench around him. He wants to know if you enjoy the idea of having him in all those different positions. “Hah- s-shut- fuck-” you gasp out while your back arches. You hate how his crazy obsession actually turns you on. He chuckles softly at your denial because your actions contradict your words. He lets you dig your nails into his shoulder while his hands squeeze your waist tighter. Dex kisses your collarbone while he shoves his cock inside you.

He gets too caught up in the pleasure to filter his thoughts. He loves having you right here instead of just watching you through a monitor. “Mhm... You look so much better than the scre-” Dex stutters against your neck before he forces his mouth shut. He almost exposed the hidden cameras he planted around your home. He bites his bottom lip to stop himself from ruining the moment with a stupid mistake. You place both hands on his chest to shove him away from your neck so you can look at his face. “Ahhn- what were you going to say?” you ask while narrowing your eyes at him. You know he hides things from you. Dex slows his movements down so he can think of a lie while his hands caress your waist.

“Come on- it’s nothing,” Dex replies as he gives you a sloppy excuse to brush off your question. “I just meant you look better than I imagined,” he adds to cover his tracks. You want to question him more, but he refuses to give you the chance to speak. Dex leans forward again to bury his face against your chest this time. He takes your nipple into his mouth to suck on it hard. “Hah- wait-” you gasp out as his teeth bite down. He takes one hand off your ribs to slide it down between your bodies. He finds your clit before he starts rubbing it with his thumb. He uses it to his advantage to make you forget what he just said to you. Your hands move up from his chest to grab his hair while he works your clit.

He rubs his thumb over the sensitive spot as he continues moving in and out of your cunt. “Oh god- nngh- right there,” you whine out while your hips buck upward against his hand. Dex swirls his tongue over your nipple before he grazes his teeth over the tip. He moves his mouth away about an inch to kiss your breast before he goes right back to sucking hard on the peak. He thinks about how long he craved this exact taste while the soft whimpers you make only encourage him to bite down harder. He wants to leave a mark you will feel for days. Dex moves his face over to give the other side the same attention. You grip his hair firmly before you lean your head down to nuzzle your face right into his sweaty hair. “Mm- you really like it there,” you whisper while your hips buck up against his hand.

He feels right at home against your body, and having your hands all over him feels better than anything else. He knows he would never change a single thing if he could go back to the moment he first saw you at the supermarket. His therapist used to tell him his moral compass was never broken, but he just needed someone to guide him. He realizes now you are that person, but he never expected things to get this far. He was only supposed to watch you from a distance without making contact, and he never wanted you to find out he was stalking you. You were just too smart for him to hide from you. You played a clever game to expose him, and he fell right into it. His thumb slows down over your clit because he gets distracted by your breast.

He wonders if you notice how easily you affect everything he does, even with the way you arch into his touch. You can feel his cock twitching deep inside your cunt, and the feeling makes your breath hitch. The bed creaks loudly underneath you every time he shoves his cock in and out of you. “Ahhn- right there- fuck-” you moan out as the heat builds up between your bodies, and sweat drips down your chest. Everything he does pushes you closer to your limit, especially with how he moves fast before he goes slow. Dex grunts from the sensation while he continues to use his thumb to circle and rub your clit. It makes your toes curl while you struggle to catch your breath. “Hah- god- right there-” you whine while your cunt squeezes around his cock. Your nails dig into his scalp as the pleasure builds up because you want him to push you over the edge instead of just teasing you.

He sucks harder on your nipple, and you tilt your head back when his cock finds your g-spot. “Hah- god- I’m getting so close,” you pant out while your hips buck upward. Dex finally moves his mouth away from your breast so he can watch your reaction. You bury your face right into his chest because you refuse to let him look at you. You turn into a moaning mess against him as the pleasure brings you right to the edge. He hates it whenever you try to hide from him when he wants to see every single expression you make. “Nn- please,” you whine directly against his collarbone. He loves hearing you beg for him. He removes his hand from your clit before he uses that same hand to push your body away from his chest.

He pushes you back just enough to see your face properly. “Stop hiding from me,” Dex commands as he forces you to look at him. His hand moves up to the back of your head to tilt it backward while his other hand slides from your waist down to your hip. He enjoys the feeling of holding you in place while he fucks you when you look exactly how he always pictured you. You can’t help but part your mouth when you moan before you close your eyes, and you can feel your clit pulsing without his touch. Your cunt clenches around his cock while he watches your expression carefully before a smirk forms on his lips. He knows how to push you over the edge, and he loves knowing he causes this kind of reaction in you.

He leans down a little closer to your face to spit right into your open mouth. “Mm- hah-” you gasp out in surprise as the spit lands on your tongue. You open your eyes in surprise since you never expected him to do something like that. Your face heats up with embarrassment even though you actually enjoy what he did. His spit inside your mouth makes your cunt clench hard around his cock to the point he slows his pace down before he stops moving his hips entirely when you start cumming. His cock throbs inside you, and you tremble against him. He holds your hair and your hip firmly to brace himself. Dex closes his eyes while his mouth parts, but he quickly bites down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from being too loud. “Ahhhnn- fuck- Dex-” you whine out as you finish around his cock.

“I know,” Dex whispers while his hand moves to caress your back. He takes his hands off your hip and head before he unwraps your legs from his waist. He steps back to slide his cock out of your body. He wonders if you have any idea how much he loves the mess he makes out of you. He watches how puffy your cunt looks right after you finish, and he stares at how your clit pulses while your cum trails down your skin. You feel glad he backed away because your chest heaves as you catch your breath. You suddenly remember he hasn’t cum yet, but he grabs your arms before you can bring it up to force you to stand up. He turns you around to face the bed before he pushes you down onto your stomach. You react quickly by crawling forward until you get on all fours so your legs finally make it onto the mattress.

“Hah- what are you doing?” you complain while he climbs onto the bed right behind you. You hate how he always catches you off guard. His unpredictable behavior frustrates you to no end. “Shh- I told you we’d do another position from what you wrote,” Dex replies as he places a pillow under your stomach. He grabs a second pillow to put it directly beneath your face. You look over your shoulder with a pissed expression, but you look forward to what he plans to do next. “I haven’t cum, yet,” Dex states while his hand finds its way to your hip. His other hand reaches down to guide his cock right against your cunt. He easily slides inside you because you are so slippery from your own cum. “You don’t want to give me blue balls, right?” he asks while looking down at your back. His tone sounds more like a warning than a genuine question. He knows how much you crave his attention.

“Nngh- wait- I’m too s-sensi-” you try to say before his actions cut your words off. He shoves all the way in without any warning while his guiding hand moves up to hold your waist. “Ahhn- I just came- Dex,” you whine out while trying to adjust to his size. Your words tick him off enough to make him drag his cock out to the tip before he slams back in whole. “Well, I didn’t,” Dex grunts while he hits you deep inside. You stop looking over your shoulder to let your face hover inches above the pillow. You don’t care if your eyes close or if your mouth hangs open while he fucks you relentlessly. “I know I could finish in your mouth,” Dex says as he continues thrusting behind you.

Your hands grip the bedsheets while your toes curl against the mattress. “Mmph- then why didn’t you?” you ask him between breaths.

Dex shoves his cock deeper into your cunt before he leans his chest over your back. He uses his body weight to push your torso down against the stomach pillow. “There is nothing comparable to this,” he answers while he fucks you harder. You know he plans to take a lot more from you until you tire out. You aren’t against the idea because you actually look forward to it. Experiencing this kind of thing usually only happens when you read other people’s writing or your own stories. You never expected you’d end up getting fucked in so many different ways tonight. It feels like a win since it all happens right here in your bed. Your body manages to take every inch of him while the deep friction makes you gasp into the sheets.

His weight presses heavily against your back. The firm pressure holds you down and securely pins you to the mattress. Your face rests against the top pillow while your stomach pushes into the second one as his cock goes in and out of you. “Mmmff- hah- oh god-” your moans get muffled into the sheets from the way his body pins you down. Dex places one hand on your hip while his other hand reaches around to grab your side. You hear the loud sound of flesh slapping together whenever he thrusts his hips forward. You can also feel his balls hitting against your ass with every single movement he makes. It feels degrading to take him like this, but the sensation of his cock sliding over your cunt only turns you on more.

You find it embarrassing to admit how much you enjoy every dirty thing he does to you. “God, you feel amazing,” Dex grunts while he buries himself as deep as he can go. He knows how to use his heavy pressure to get the hardest reactions out of you. He leans his head down so his lips brush right against your shoulder blade. Dex eventually gets careless, and he realizes that the moment he opens his mouth to brag about what he saw on his monitors. “That guy from last month couldn’t even hit your spot like I do when he f-fucked you-” Dex stutters before he forces himself to shut up. He realizes he almost exposed his hidden cameras again, so he punishes himself for his sloppy mistake by biting down hard on your back.

“Ahhn- god- right there,” you whine out as the feeling of his teeth makes your cunt squeeze around his cock. Dex loves the way your cunt takes him, so he just lets himself continue fucking you into the mattress while he leaves bite marks all over your shoulder. You don’t even care about his confession because you are too exhausted to process what he says. He gives you back a few more bites before he stops leaning his weight over you. He raises himself to kneel right behind you. He grabs your hips to pull them higher so your lower back arches while your ass sticks up in the air. He raises his hand up before he slaps your ass roughly. The loud smack of flesh echoes through the room right before his fingers dig firmly back into your hip.

“Mm! Y-yes,” you gasp out while your nails scratch at the bedsheets. Dex groans loud enough for you to hear as he matches his fast pace with your needy sounds. He knows he can last for hours since he waited so long for this exact moment. Dex moves his free hand to your ass to squeeze it. Your chest rests against the bed while the side of your face lies on the pillow. You try to push your upper body off the mattress to get on all fours again. Your arms shake instantly when you try to lift your weight up. You feel too weak to hold yourself up, so you fall right back down to where you started. Dex chuckles loudly at your pathetic attempt to move. “Aww, poor girl can’t even support her own weight,” he mocks you while rubbing his hand over your ass cheek.

You let out a frustrated huff into the pillow since you hate it when he makes fun of you. He slides his hand under your stomach to help you out. “Bring yourself up,” Dex commands as he lifts your torso away from the bed. You try again with his help until you manage to get on your knees. He moves you all the way back so your back rests directly against his chest. He wraps his arm securely around your waist to hold you upright. You reach your hands out to hold onto his forearm for balance. “Good girl,” Dex praises you awkwardly because he never usually says things like that. He pushes his cock into your cunt to test how this new position feels. “Does this feel okay for you?” Dex asks while he thrusts his hips slowly behind you.

You want to adjust a little bit so you look towards the top of the bed. “Mm- let’s move closer to the headboard,” you suggest while leaning back against him. He nods before he takes his cock out of your cunt. He uses his free hand to remove your fingers from his arm. He guides you forward, so you both scoot across the mattress on your knees. It only takes a few short movements until your hands find their way to the headboard. You lean forward to rest your chest against the pillows stacked against the wood. Dex whistles at the sight of you bent over the headboard. He loves how you arch your back for him to fuck.

He raises his hand to slap your ass hard enough to leave a loud smack in the room. “Ah!- Dex,” you yelp out while your fingers curl around it. He grabs your hips firmly before he slides his cock right back inside your cunt. He starts thrusting deep into you again while you adjust to his size. “Too many interruptions tonight,” Dex whispers right near your ear as if he wants to taunt you. He knows he causes all the delays, but he loves acting like an asshole to annoy you. You clench your cunt tight around his cock on purpose to stop him from thrusting. You hate his arrogant attitude right now. “Ahhn- so are you telling me I’m an interruption?” you ask while looking over your shoulder to glare at him. The way your cunt squeezes makes it hard for him to move his hips.

“Fuck- wait- ngh,” Dex groans behind you as the tight squeeze makes his cock throb deep inside you. He easily folds because he knows he needs to play nice with you. You are literally offering him what he wants tonight. Anyone else would have pulled the trigger of that gun you held against his forehead earlier. He knows he is lucky you decided to fuck him instead of shooting him. He struggles to catch his breath while his cock pulses inside you. He hates losing control, but he hates the idea of you stopping even more. He doesn’t know how to process his emotions properly, so he struggles to find the right words to say. “I’m sorry- just stop doing that,” Dex whispers awkwardly while his fingers squeeze your hips.

He never apologizes to anyone, but he acts desperate to continue fucking you. “Nngh- please let me move,” he begs you while resting his forehead against your back. He tries to convince you to stop squeezing so he can reach his orgasm. He knows he sounds pathetic, but he only wishes that you would let him have it his way. You listen to his clumsy apology for a moment before you stop clenching his cock purposely. You grind your ass back against him to let him know he earned your mercy. You push your body directly into his crotch to make him take the hint. “Mm- you better behave then,” you warn him as you let him slide all the way in. Dex takes a deep breath before he starts moving his hips slowly behind you.

His hands squeeze your hips to balance you against the headboard. “Fuck- you feel so good,” Dex grunts out while he pushes deep into your cunt. The slow pace feels amazing as he hits every sensitive spot inside you. You let your eyes close while your fingers wrap securely around the wood. He eventually speeds up his thrusts once he realizes you aren’t going to stop him again. He slides his cock almost out before he shoves it back inside your cunt. “Ahhhnn- right there,” you moan loudly into the pillows while your back arches for him. Dex watches the way your spine curves while he fucks you from behind. He loves the way your body responds to everything he does. “God- you take it so well,” he groans out while his thumbs rub over your hip.

He makes sure to hit your g-spot with every single thrust so you forget about his cocky words. You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from being too loud in the room. He just continues fucking you until your legs start trembling against the mattress. Dex closes his eyes while his hips move in a careless manner behind you. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt before he grinds his hips against your ass. He pulls out to the tip to take a few seconds to breathe. He shoves back inside you when you expect it the least. “Fuck- you take me so perfectly,” Dex whispers out while he forces himself inside you. He doesn’t know the exact right words to say, but he wants to give you a genuine compliment. “You are so good to me,” he grunts as he slides against your g-spot with every thrust.

He stops moving for a few seconds every time he buries his cock deep inside your body. You grind your ass back against him to help him out because you want him to continue. “Hah- don’t stop- nn,” you whine out to urge him forward. Dex feels the way you push back against him while his cock pulses inside your cunt. He connects your needy movements to how close you are to another orgasm. He loves seeing you get so desperate for his cock when you’re right on the edge. You look over your shoulder to see what he does behind you. You find his head tilted back as he shuts his eyes tightly. You actually think he looks gorgeous like this even though you hate admitting it. You let go of the headboard with your right hand so you can reach backward.

You try to find his arm while he starts thrusting his hips again. Your fingers brush against his forearm to get his attention. “Mm- Dex,” you gasp out while your hand slides down his wrist. Dex opens his eyes the moment he feels your fingers touch his arm. He leans closer to your back so he can place his hand right beside yours. He easily intertwines his fingers with yours before he brings your hand forward to secure it against the headboard. “Shit- wait,” Dex curses loudly because that simple touch pushes him right over the edge. He thrusts his hips much faster while he fucks you without any mercy. “Fuck- I’m going to-” he whispers directly against your ear as his pace gets rougher. You feel his cock burying deep inside you every time he thrusts his hips forward.

You realize you can’t hold back your own orgasm when he moves this fast. “Ah!- y-yes- fuck,” you stutter out while you brace yourself against the wood. Dex shoves into you a few more times before he finishes deep inside your cunt. “God-” he grunts out as he unloads his cum right into you. Your body reacts to his climax like a switch flips in your brain to make your walls squeeze tight around his cock. You feel sensitive from the overstimulation, while the warm feeling of being filled makes you melt into the mattress. It feels stupid to let him finish inside you, but you refuse to stop him since it feels too good. He moves his chest away from your back to stand up straight on his knees before he lets go of your hand to hold your hip.

Both of his hands grab your hips to hold you in place while he slowly thrusts back inside you. He watches the way both of your cum coats his cock with every slow movement to see the mess he made. He never misses anyway, so seeing his load deep inside your cunt makes him feel proud. He loves watching how messy he left you tonight. Dex looks down at your body to check on you while his hips push forward. You are slumped against the stacked pillows with your arms hugging them tightly. Your ass arches up in the air for him, but your face buries into the fabric. “How do you feel?” Dex asks you while he rubs his thumbs over your hip bones. You feel too exhausted to form a proper sentence, so you shake your head at his question.

He raises his eyebrow at your silent response before he decides to ask you again. “Are you going to answer me?” he asks as he slowly drags his cock out of your body. You let out a long breath when you feel him leave your cunt empty. “Tired,” you mumble into the pillows. He chuckles at your honest answer because he knows he wore you out tonight. Dex looks over at the clock on your nightstand before he moves away from your back. He crawls up the mattress to sit right beside your head so he can lean back against the headboard. “Lie down flat,” Dex tells you while he helps guide your body onto your stomach. You follow his instructions so you can rest your body while hugging the pillow under your face.

He puts his hand right on your lower back to caress you slowly. He feels the sweat under his palm from how hard you worked tonight. You have your arms wrapped tight around the soft fabric because you feel exhausted. “Mm- it feels so late,” you whine into the pillow even though you never checked the time. Dex agrees with you before he moves his hand up from your back to reach your head. He gently caresses your head to comfort you. “It’s 4:23 in the morning,” he casually tells you while he continues petting you. You have no idea how long you actually had sex with him tonight. It feels like a lifetime has passed since he first pinned you to the mattress. You don’t even know what time you originally woke up to find him watching you sleep.

He probably stood in the dark corner for hours before he made his presence known. The terrifying thought should bother you, but his gentle touches make you feel stupidly safe instead. You realize you have no clue how long he has actually been inside your house. You adjust your head so you can turn your face towards his direction. Your cheek rests against the pillow now so you aren’t hiding your face from him anymore. You look up at him while he sits there looking comfortable in your bed. “You look like you plan to stick around,” you point out sarcastically as you narrow your eyes at him. He acts like he owns the place right after he finishes fucking you. He looks way too relaxed for a guy who broke in just a few hours ago.

You hate how easy he makes this look. Dex scoffs at your comment before he takes his hand away from your head. He reaches down to slap your ass hard to punish your attitude. “Ah!- hey,” you gasp out while he squeezes your ass cheek right after he slaps you. You glare at him because he acts so smug about having you right where he wants you. He clearly enjoys seeing how irritated you get when he treats you like his property. “Yeah, well, maybe I will just move in here,” Dex jokes back, but he actually means every single word. You probably assume he will leave when the sun comes up, but here he is, thinking about how easy it would be to watch you up close if he lived with you. He knows it will be so simple to insert himself into your life now that you have just had sex with him. He smirks down at your tired body and has no idea that he thinks about never letting you go.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

“Can you just stop talking for one second?!”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You froze in the kitchen doorway, still holding the glass of water you’d brought him.

Dex stood near the table, shoulders tight, breathing uneven. There were dark circles under his eyes, his FBI jacket half-unzipped, hands trembling faintly from exhaustion. He’d barely slept in two days. Barely eaten. Every muscle in his body looked wound too tight.

But the second he saw your face—

He broke.

“No—”

The anger vanished instantly, like someone ripped it out of him.

His expression collapsed into horror.

“No no no…”

The glass shook slightly in your hand as Dex stumbled toward you too fast, panic flooding his features.

“I didn’t mean that.” His voice cracked immediately. “I didn’t—I wasn’t yelling at you, I just—”

He swallowed hard, eyes already watering.

You’d seen dex kill a man without blinking.

But this?

This destroyed him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter now. Desperate. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

You hadn’t even realized you looked hurt until he said it.

Dex grabbed both sides of his head like he was trying to physically stop himself from unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated shakily. “I’m so fucking tired and everything’s loud and I—I took it out on you and I swore I’d never do that.”

His breathing became uneven.

Then the tears started.

Not dramatic nor manipulative. Just terrified.

He looked at you like he genuinely believed one wrong move would make you leave.

“Please say something,” he whispered.

The glass barely made it onto the counter before he caught your wrists carefully, almost afraid you’d pull away.

“I didn’t mean it,” he kept saying, voice breaking more each time. “I don’t want to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

“Dex—”

“I know what I sound like when I lose control—I didn't mean it I swear” A tear slid down his face and he looked furious at himself for it. “I know what I am when I get like this.”

Your chest tightened.

Because beneath the exhaustion and panic, there it was—

Fear.

Not fear of being alone.

Fear of becoming someone dangerous to you.

Dex lowered his head suddenly, gripping your hands tighter.

“I’m trying so hard,” he said quietly, crying now without even hiding it. “I’m trying so hard to be good with you.”

That did it.

You pulled him into you immediately.

His entire body jerked in surprise before he folded against you like he was holding himself together by threads alone. One arm wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt while the other covered his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You ran your fingers through his hair carefully.

“You scared me for a second,” you admitted softly.

Dex let out a broken sound that was halfway to a sob.

“I know.”

“But I’m not leaving.”

He went still.

Then he finally looked at you, eyes red and wet, like he didn’t quite believe what he heard.

“You’re not?”

You shook your head gently.

Dex stared at you for a long moment before pressing his forehead against yours, breathing shakily.

“Don’t be nice to me right now, slap me, punch me...” he whispered painfully. “I don’t deserve it. You're being too kind to me.”

Your thumb brushed under his eye.

“Good thing I decide that. Not you.”

For the first time all night, his shoulders finally loosened.

Only a little.

But more than enough.

The clock on your wall ticks past midnight, its soft rhythm in the back of your head. You've been pacing the living room for almost an hour, unable to settle after the reports running through the streets- another brutal night for the punisher: bodies found in places, blood on the streets. These few years of knowing Frank, you'd seen enough darkness in this city to know the moment when worry twisted into something that kept you from sleeping. Especially when it involved him. And it was happening now.

The first aid kit sat ready on the kitchen counter, stocked with everything he might need. You told yourself it was just habit. But deep down, you know it wasn't. It was months of attachment and building love that had you waiting like this.

Before you know it, he knocks three repeated bangs that rattle the door in its frame. Your heart beats against your ribs- you know that knock. You cross the room quickly, your bare feet slapping against the cool wood as you hurry towards the door, then throw it open without checking who it is. Of course, it’s frank who fills the doorway, rain dripping down his bleeding face and off his black jacket as he clutches his front in pain.

Blood streaks his temple, and his posture tells you that his pain is fresh. His shoulders are hunched, and it breaks you, seeing him in so much pain, but his fists are still clenched like he's ready for anything.

He doesn't wait doe you to invite him in, he just steps inside, tracking mud across your rug with his boots. The door slams shut behind him, sealing the two of you in the dim glow of your lamps. Your cozy apartment- with its mismatched couch and bookcases suddenly feels invaded, and it makes your chest tighten. This is your space-he's come here, bleeding and broken, like always, waiting for you to fix him. And the worst thing is you wouldn't want it any other way. You need him to need you like this.

"Frank," you say, as you hurriedly move toward the kit. "Shit- are you okay?” Your breath hitches, “Just- sit down before you bleed all over my floor.” You sigh as you look through the kit. “God, why do you do this shit to yourself?” you frown, hurt at seeing him in this state. Hurt is an understatement, his pain is your pain now.

He ignores your suggestion, and shrugs off his jacket with a grunt. You can tell he’s hurting. It hits the chair with a wet slap, revealing his dark shirt underneath, which is torn and stained dark red across his ribs. His deep eyes sweep the room once, then lock on you. You gasp softly at the state of his chest. For a split second, something vulnerable flickers in his eyes, buried fast under layers of anger and not caring. Only for a second though. "Didn't come here for a damn lecture. Or your pity." he sighs, looking away.

You frown in confusion, but grab the antiseptic and gauze anyway, anger already simmering low in your stomach. Months of this. Months of him showing up half fucking dead, letting you patch him up, then vanishing like you don’t mean shit. You'd fallen for him in these months- in the rare times his hand would brush yours for a beat too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke of the past. You’ve become hopelessly in love with a man who carries revenge like it’s armour. But tonight, something feels different. You aren't in the mood for his shit.

"Pity? That's funny" you say calmly, balancing the gauze along with other things in your arms. You step closer, about to reach for the hem of his shirt. "You show up at my door looking like this, and I'm meant to ignore it?" You sigh, closing your eyes before opening them and taking a deep breath to calm down. “Just let me help, Frank. Stop being stubborn and sit down."

“Whatever” he sighs, hovering above the chair, watching you ask you walk over. Something about you just makes him feel different. You make him want to be different. You reach your hand forward and whisper, “Just let me help.”

That seems to ignite something in him. He catches your wrist before you can touch his shirt, his grip firm but gentle. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your floor and god, is he is sight to see. "I can handle my own shit.” he begins, not even raising his voice, which throws you off. “Don't need you playing nurse like I'm some stray dog.”

Strangely, the words sting, but you pull your hand free. "I've been here for months helping you and sitting through your silences when you disappear. And you call it playing nurse?" Your voice rises, sharp with frustration that had been building too long. "Just let me look- you're bleeding through your shirt, for fuck's sake."

He doesn't move, towering over you in your own kitchen, watching your gentle face twisted into frustration, deep down he wants to be gentle with you, tell you it’s okay, and thank you darlin. But he can’t. Who will it be helping to get you more attached to eachother? Instead he stays silent, the air thick with the tang of blood and rain. Finally, he let you peel the fabric aside. The slice is deep enough to need stitches, and you aren’t sure you can do them without him flinching.

Your hands work quickly, cleaning the edges of his wound with the antiseptic that makes him hiss through his teeth. Your touch is meant to be clinical, but your fingers linger on the scarred skin around his wound, feeling the heat of him. God, you love him. Even like this. Especially like this.

But the sadness doesn't fade. It coils tighter as your hand shakes, holding the needle to his skin. You begin stitching him up, the once quiet room filled with groans and cursing. Frank tilts his head back in pain, with a groan of, “Ah fuck.”

You gently wrap a bandage around the stitched up wound, trying to be soft despite your frustration. "There. Now tell me why you came if you're just gonna push me away again."

Frank straightens up, wincing, and paces a little in the small space. The rain lashes harder against the windows, mirroring the tension between you. "That's what this is." he chuckles. "You wanna collect people who are broken. Fix them." His voice is flat, rough as concrete. Your eyes water instantly at the accusation, hot tears pricking unbidden. It hits like a slap, after all the nights you'd stayed, all the quiet ways you'd shown you cared.

He notices the glistening in your eyes, the way your lashes clump together with moisture. Internally, Frank curses himself to hell.

Christ frank, you piece of shit. She’s standing there heartbroken because of you.

The thing is, he loves you hopelessly, like a drowning man loves air, but he’s gutting you to save you. He needs to push harder. Make you see you deserve better than him. Than his suffering and pain. But his face stays the same, no crack in his armor. No softness.

"And they all leave eventually," he goes on, relentless. "Even the ones who don't die first." Your eyes are glistening, you're trying so hard not to cry- but his words are killing you. "Maria did what she could with what I was. You? You're young. Got years ahead of you, and they don't have to end in blood darlin’."

For fucks sake, why does his brain work like this?

"You gotta leave, or I drag you down with me. That's the truth. Being strong means cutting this off before it poisons you too." He shakes his head, looking down before dragging his palm down his face in frustration. He's still pacing back and forth.

Tears are spilling down your cheeks, but your anger is stronger. You swipe them away angrily, stepping infront of him to block his pacing. You wish he would just listen, just reason.

"You show up here bleeding and expect me to just fix you and send you off?" Your voice climbs and you're shouting now, echoing off the apartment walls. "I'm not collecting anyone- I'm here because I care- more than you fucking know. I see you under all this rage. I see you as the man who fights for innocent people, even when it costs you everything." You feel hysterical, flailing your hands around, trying to get something into that thick skull of his. "Let me help carry it, stop acting like being a man means suffering alone."

He looms closer, his dark eyes blazing. "You don't know the half of what I carry. Sweetheart, I push because I don't want to hurt you. Strong is handling my war alone. Not leaning on some kid who has a life ahead of her."

"Kid?" You shout louder, shoving at his chest with both hands. He doesn't budge, but the contact sends sparks through you- anger and that hopeless pull. "I'm not some fucking teenager. I've sat with you when you had nothing. Don't you fucking dare dismiss me like that." Your voice cracks with raw emotion, tears streaming freely now. The apartment suddenly feels smaller and you can't breathe. "If I'm such a burden, why the fuck do you keep coming back?"

The argument spirals back and forth. You pace after him, pouring out your heart. How his silence hurts more than words, how his rare touches leave your heart aching. Frank counters in that low, gravelly rumble talking about the blood on his hands, the enemies who’d target anyone close to him. "Darlin, I’m too old for this fantasy you're spinning. You'll wake up and see.”

“Fantasy?” You yelled, voice hoarse but fierce, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve bled worry for you every time you’ve vanished! I’ve cleaned wounds that should’ve killed normal men! I know your pain, Frank, and I still choose to stand here and reason with you.”

He grabbed your wrists again, holding them steady against his bandaged ribs. His heartbeat thunders under your palms betraying the uncaring mask he’s put on. Inside, the love claws at him. You’re everything. Your fire, your stubbornness, the way you see him. He’s in love with you so deeply it terrifies him. But you’re young. He’ll ruin you.

Push her away you bastard. Save her.

“Why do you care so much?” he finally growls, the question shooting out of his mouth like a bullet. Your face drops. “Why the hell do you keep doing this to yourself- to me?”

The moment swells, emotions fill the room. Your chest heaves, tears burning down your cheeks. All the months of swallowed feelings explode suddenly. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Frank? That I’m in love with you? That seeing you like this kills me? That I would do anything for you, even stand here and shout because I can’t fucking walk away?”

His lips part as you shout, but nothing can leave his mouth. He watches you spit words out furiously as you cry, and all he can say softly is, “darlin’-” while he is still holding your soft hands against his chest.

“Don’t fucking call me that” you cry, face screwed up in anger and sadness as you try to get out of his clasp, but you can’t. “For months, every goddamn time you fucking showed up like this, every scar I’ve touched- it was love! And it hurts like hell because you won’t let it in! It makes me feel like a fucking idiot Frank. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Your words echo like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Silence fills the air right after. His grip tightens slightly on your wrists, his plain expression slipping for a heartbeat. His eyes widen with raw pain and his jaw clenches against the shoot of emotion that goes up his chest. That same agonising love roars inside him, matching the depth of yours. He loves you achingly, you’re a light in his shitty world. But that only makes him have to push you further. You’re too young, too good. He’d destroy that light.

He releases you slowly, stepping back like your confession burned him. “Look, you’re not thinking straight,” he says, his voice edged with frustration, as he forces the words out like it hurts. “What do you know about love? You’re young. This isn’t love- it’s just attachment. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you sweetheart, full of possibilities.” He looks at your tear stained face as you stand in front of him, and his heart breaks at your sweet face. “I know what love is- you don’t. Love breaks you. I’m pushing you away because I don’t wanna drag you into my hell.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and his shoulders slump, showing how defeated he is.

All the while, you shake your head, violent tears still running down your face. “You think this doesn’t break me Frank?” You swipe furiously at your eyes, not wanting to cry anymore. He already thinks you’re a kid and you can’t add on to that. “You pushing me away hurts, no matter why you do it. My heart aches because of you.”

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face again in frustration. He doesn’t know what to do in this shitty situation, he cares for you so much, but he just can’t risk it. “I can’t have this conversation.” he says calmly, turning around, a hand on the back of his neck.

“Of course.” you scoff bitterly. “Why am I even surprised.”

He shakes his head, broad back still to you as he scratches his neck and says defeatedly, “Just cut it out.” Your breath hitches in disbelief, you just can’t understand how someone can be so fucking stubborn. “You’re too young and that’s the end of that.” he says, but his words kill him too.

You feel your blood boiling again, and you don’t know whether to cry or shout or hit him. “Fuck you frank.” You finally say, fighting back the endless tears. “Fuck you for hiding behind that, using my age as an excuse.” You sniffle, moving your hair out of your face. Frank turns back to face you, his broad chest glistening ever so slightly, and it’s like he’s punched in the gut again when he sees your beautiful face crying. You see his expression falter, and his eyes sadden. “What are you so fucking afraid of?” you finally whisper demandingly, watching his broad figure move towards the glass table besides his chair and lean over it.

As he hovers over the table, he slouches forward, holding himself up with his muscular arms, his head lowered. “Just stop it” he sighs, defeated. He’s trying so hard to bottle it all in. He calls your name softly in protest, begging you to end this conversation.

But you won’t accept that shitty response. “No, answer me.” you demand.

“I said cut it out please.” he groans, and it’s like he’s holding himself back from something.

You shake your head, “No, why are you so fucking scared to let me in?” you shout.

And abruptly, you hear a shatter. Your eyes search for Frank and you forget everything. Once they find him, all you can see is red. The table beside him is in pieces, and his hand is in a fist, blood dripping onto the empty frame, and the floor. “Frank.” you gasp, your breath hitching.

“Because I care about you too much.” he roars, and you realise you’re terrified of him in the moment. “Everyone I love dies. ‘Cuz of me.” he shouts, wincing as he holds his bleeding hand in the air. “If anything happened to you I’d never fucking forgive myself for it.”

Your lips part, and you want to talk but you’re left with no words in your mouth. No air in your lungs. The only thing you can say is the cursed name that’s had a hold of you all these months. “Frank…” you gasp, walking towards him. He turns his head, eyes threatening to spill tears, but he doesn’t shout or dismiss you, or even walk away.

You move your hands to his bare chest, trying to be careful with his stitches, and his now bleeding hand. “Frank,” you say again softly, “look at me.”

And how could he ever deny that soft voice of yours? You’re the only light in his life at the moment, the only thing he thinks of besides pain and hurt and regret. You’re his only escape. He turns his face to you, looking down at your doe eyes and croaks out, “I can’t lose you too.” with a soft shake of his head.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to gather yourself together. “You won’t Frank,” you say softly, taking hold of his forearm and guiding him to sit back down on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, almost to yourself more than him. He sits down, yearning for you as he watches you sit infront of him, pulling out more bandages and things of the sort.

He’s so tired. So tired of being himself, of pushing you away, of regretting his choices. You’re all he wants, and he’s selfish enough to know it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll take any action. No, you deserve better. You deserve someone young who can give you what you want. Someone who is capable of loving and caring.

He groans as you pulls the shards of glass out of his hand, putting them to the side with a clink. You work gently of course, but with the you-shaped wound in his heart, everything is too much to bear today. He nearly cries when you pour alcohol over his hand, throwing his head back with a low wail. “Shh, I’m sorry.” you whisper, hushing him gently.

He straightens himself up as you grab some bandages, watching your slender fingers work quickly to unravel it. Eventually, you put your hand out, asking for his in return. Slowly but surely, he gives you his wounded hand, grunting as you start wrapping it up. He stares at you carefully as you finish the task, and strangely, raises his hand to his head, with yours still holding his. His eyes flick to your face without you seeing, then with a tilt of his face, he presses the most gentle kiss to your hand. “Thank you.” he croaks, and a pang of emotion shoots through your heart.

“That’s not fair,” you say softly, not moving your eyes away from his. He lets go of your hand slowly, like he’s suddenly aware of what he’s done, and whispers, “I know.” You nod your head disappointedly, turning away and walking out the room, your footsteps growing more distant.

You don’t know what to do, or what you can do, but lock yourself in the bathroom to stop and breathe. Because God knows you haven’t been breathing properly with him here, like this. He curses quietly to himself as he hears you leave, wondering what the fuck is wrong with himself, why he’s doing this to you- to himself.

Once you’ve locked the bathroom door, you turn to the mirror and give yourself a shitty smile. You breathe slowly, feeling stupid for letting a man do this to you. Except he’s not just a man, he’s Frank and you care for him, maybe you even lo- yeah. But your emotions are stronger and before you know, you’re sniffling, gently dabbing at the mascara under your eyes. The past hour has been insanity. And you’ve witnessed scarier things of course, but this? Finally telling Frank how you feel?

You’d only just stopped crying too, but now you’re hovering over the sink, hot tears dribbling down your face again, silently this time.

Franks head perks up, and he can hear you shuffling around the bathroom. He doesn’t stand get up to check, but he can hear you sniffling. Not only is he angry at himself for being the reason for your tears again, but the worst thing is, you’re alone in the bathroom, trying to hide it. You’re in there trying to be silent. He doesn’t want you to feel like you have no one, because you have him. He would do anything for you. He’d die for you, live for you, even live for you.

He wishes he could tell you that. Tell you what he wants most in this world is to be yours and live with your beautiful heart everyday. But he can’t get close to you, closer than he already is, because he’ll hurt you. He can never protect the ones he loves, and if anything happens to you, he won’t see the point of living anymore.

Before he can realise what he’s doing, he’s stood up, and his feet have led him to the bathroom door. He lifts his hand to knock, before stopping himself and letting it fall to his side, too conscious of his own every move now. He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, then calls your name, trying hard to sound softer. “You alright?”

You sniffle an unconvincing “Yeah,” and he furrows his eyebrows in frustration with himself. “You sure darlin’?” he calls back, and your heart clenches.

“I’ll be two secs,” you say, carefully pressing your finger to the corner of your eye, drying up rogue tears. You smile again at yourself in the mirror, tucking your hair behind your ears, and stepping towards the door. It clicks open, and Frank is greeted with your red raw face.

“I’m sorry.” he says, eyes flickering as he looks over you. He wants to talk, but his mouth is glued together. You shrug, wiping your eye again, acting like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t breaking your heart by just standing there. “Frank, it’s whatever.”

He shakes his head, and he’s quickly filled with emotion too. “No, it’s not.” You look up at him, eyebrows furrowed a little, patiently waiting for him to talk. His mouth opens, and your heart patters in anticipation. But it just closes. You nod, feeling like a fucking idiot again, stepping to the side, and walking away. He freezes, standing in the empty door frame, eyes hovering over the spot you left.

Frank remains rooted to the spot long after you’ve brushed past his bare torso. The doorway feels too small for all the things neither of you can say. You make it halfway down the hall before you hear him move behind you. “Hey,” his voice is quiet, almost uncertain. You stop, but you don’t turn around. “Please,” he whispers, the word hitting harder than it should. You look back slowly, and Frank’s still standing there, shoulders tense, hands hanging uselessly by his sides.

“What?” you ask, and the exhaustion in your voice surprises even yourself. His jaw tightens. Then loosens. Then tightens again. You almost laugh at the repetitiveness of it. “That’s exactly what I mean.” you sigh, shaking your head, and his eyebrows pull together. “You keep looking at me like you wanna say something.” you shrug exasperatedly. “And then you just- dont?”

He glances away, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks genuinely stuck. Not awkward, scared. The realization only makes your chest hurt more. “Forget it,” you mumble, about to turn away.

“Wait” he says, the reply coming fast enough to stop you. You freeze as he takes a step forward and soon enough, you’re stood in front of eachother. He raises a hand and lets it rest on the side of your face. “Oh god,” he sighs, and you can’t help but nuzzle your cheek into his warm hand. He lets his hand slide lower, smoothing over the line of your jaw, then gently moving it higher, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. “Darlin’,” he groans, as you look up at him with those pleading eyes.

He moves his hand to the back of your neck, fingers laced between your hair, the other hand creeping to the small of your back. Frank pulls you closer, and for a moment you’re relieved, this is all you’ve been thinking about for the past few months. But it’s not fair for you, when this isn’t even real.

His lips brush over your hairline, but he doesn’t kiss you. He just lets you feel him, loving you without having to say it. “I’m so sorry baby.” he sighs, softly tilting your head back to look at him, hand still in your hair. “I only push you away to keep you safe. I can’t live without you- I can’t risk losing you.”

“But you won’t lose me Frank,” you sniffle, “I already said, I’m not going anywhere.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he looks away.

“You don’t know that sweetheart. The world fucks over everyone, even if they’re good.” He looks back down at you, eyes skimming over your soft lips, your glistening eyes.

“I know Frank, but you can’t live in fear.” You press yourself against his bare skin again, inhaling his comforting scent. “You have to try. Is your fear stronger than the love you have?” you ask him, desperation dripping off every word. He’s silent, reflecting on your words, before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly, lowering his face, letting his lips meet yours. The kiss is desperate, like he’s been holding back forever. You groan into it, splitting your lips to let his tongue slide wetly over your bottom one. His hand is still on the back of your head, keeping it safe as he walks you both to the nearest wall, pressing your body against it. He devours you, need pouring out of his mouth, out of every part of his body.

Frank presses his calloused hands against the wall, trapping you between the cold surface and his muscular chest. His mouth trails to your jaw, peppering wet kisses along it, moving down to your neck. You moan as he kisses you passionately, his lips on your collarbone now. He’s exploding with desire, needing to love every part of you. His hand hooks beneath the hem of your sleep shirt carefully, and once you whine, “please” he slips it off, lifting your arms to get it over your head.

“My sweet girl,” he moans in awe, his mouth loving every bit of you now, jaw grazing over your chest, creeping lower over the fabric of your bra. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters. He presses a kiss to your breast over the lace, lowering himself to lick and nibble down your sides, over the flat of your stomach.

“You’re an angel baby,” he whispers, hands on your soft thighs as his mouth trails lower. He’s on his knees, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes as you slip your fingers through his short hair. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Please Frank,” you whimper, and he doesn’t waste any time.

“i know baby, I know,” he coos, hands moving up, caressing your skin beneath your sleep shorts. “I’m gonna take care a’ya okay?”

You nod desperately, brows knitting together as he starts to pull your little shorts down your legs. His eyes flick up to yours again as he hooks his thick finger into the side of your panties, making sure you’re okay with everything. He drags them down slowly, with excruciating care, then stuffs them in the back of his jeans as you look down at him.

He’s level with your core now, hands on the back of your plush thighs as he pushes his soft lips to your inner thighs. “Frank” you gasp, and he continues dragging his lips over your thighs. His stubble grazes the skin of your inner thigh, sending a wave of shock through you as you whine, needing him closer.

His breath is hot against your skin as he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Easy, baby. I got you.” Gently, he squeezes the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you steady as he finally moves his mouth higher. Slowly, his tongue drags a hot trail up your slit, savoring the your sweetness with a deep groan that makes your knees buckle. You cry out, fingers tightening in his short hair as he licks again, a little firmer this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.

“Oh god- Frank,” you moan, hips twitching toward his mouth. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he keeps lapping at you, tongue flicking and swirling to explore every fold while his calloused hands keep you pinned to the wall. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your inner thighs with every movement, making your back arch even more. He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes heavy with adoration as he watches your lashes flutter and your chest heave.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your core, the words muffled as he slides a thick finger inside you, curling it till your face is screwed up. “Let me hear how good it feels.” he coaxes, adding second finger and pumping slowly, his tongue working at your clit in devastating strokes. Your thighs tremble around his face, pleasure hot in your belly as he worships you, completely lost in the taste and sound of your pleasure.

You haven’t came yet, but he moves back, pressing a kiss to your clit and pulling back. You whine, breathless and needing release, but he just stands back up on his feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You deserve better than a wooden floor baby” he says gently, tilting his head as he strokes your cheek. “Could you show me to your bedroom? Is that okay sweetheart?”

You nod bashfully, unsticking yourself from the wall as he watches your beautiful body. He presses a paw to your lower back, respecting your bare body, and follows you as you start walking towards your bedroom. He’s right behind you, his expression softening at the sight of your room. It’s sweet and warm, just like you. Your bedding is white and pure, a few stuffed animals scattered around it. Your bedside table has a book in it, with a cute little alarm clock, and a photo frame of your family. The walls are decorated with more pictures, and posters too. He can’t hurt you, not when you’re still young and pure and have a beautiful life to live.

“Thank you for letting me in your room darlin’, it’s beautiful” he smiles, rubbing your back. You shrug sheepishly, cheeks flushed as you mumble, “mhm.”

“C’mere,” he whispers, pulling you close again, but then hoisting you up, hands holding your thighs steadily. “Let me show you how sorry I am.” You wrap your legs around his waist, throwing your hands over his neck as you’re almost skin to skin, besides that damn scrap of fabric you have over your breasts. Before you know it, he’s loving on you again, lips all over your neck, under your ear. He’s whispering apologies into your neck, telling you how much he needs you, and how sorry he is. He forgets about his stitches, ignores the pain of you rubbing against them because his pleasure overpowers it.

He takes a few steps towards your bed, carefully leaning forward to place you on your back. “Oh babydoll,” he croaks, looking at you like you’re a gift for him splayed out on the bed, an angel of some sort. “You’re so beautiful.”

He places his hands on both sides of you again, leaning down to kiss you passionately, like he can’t live away from the taste of your mouth. His hand trails down your body, then skims back up, hovering over your chest. “Can I see you fully, baby?” he asks. Once you nod, he lifts your torso ever so slightly, so he can unclip your bra, and throws it off to the side. His lips part in awe as he sees the soft swell of your breasts, and he runs his hand across them both. “You gotta have the most perfect tits I’ever seen sweetheart.”

You can’t do much but blush again, and then moan when his mouth is leaving wet trails over your chest. “I think they need some lovin’ too” he coos, hand cupping a breast and beginning to knead, the other one tucking your hair behind your ear. “That okay sweet girl? That feel good?”

You whine “mhm” desperately, unable to form words with how overwhelmed you are with need. “I’ll make you feel so good doll, don’t you worry your little head,” he says, pulling away, hands trailing to his belt. You watch his muscles flex as he works at the clasp, then pulls it off, unbuttoning his jeans now. You don’t know how you managed to control yourself to not pounce at him till now, while he’s been walking around your house all night, shirtless.

He’s bare now besides his boxers, and those are only on in respect for you. You shift yourself up a little, head on your pillows and he climbs into your soft bed, his chest hovering over yours again. “Tell me what you want sweet girl. I’ll give you anything you ask.” he coos, brushing your cheek with his thumb again.

“I need to feel you,” you whimper, and he nods, lifting you up and sitting you onto his lap. He presses another gentle kiss to your hairline, cherishing you so softly.

“Are you sure doll?” he asks, making you know that you can take it slow. “You’re still young, we don’t have to rush.” You shake your head firmly.

“I’m sure Frank, I want you to make love to me- please.” you say, leaning further into him, your skin pressed warmly together. You’re careful not to press against his stitches, so as not to hurt him. He groans, hands resting over the swell of your soft ass cheeks while you straddle him.

“Alright, since you’re saying it so sweetly.” he smiles, tilting his head to look at your shy face. “Just like this?” he asks, looking down at the two of you, bodies pressed together.

“Yeah,” you agree, as he admires your beauty, “I wanna feel you while we do it.” He smiles softly at your words, nodding as he gives you another gentle kiss, this time on the side of your mouth. He lays you back, freeing himself to pull off his boxers, then moves back beside you, his back pressed against your headboard. His cock rests stiff and sore on his thigh, and he gently pulls you onto his lap. You can feel his need under you, but he doesn’t rush anything, only goes with what you want.

You gasp when your hot need finally meets his, and he lets out a low groan, feeling you wet against him. “Whenever you wanna start,” he whispers, like it hurts to speak, and places his manly hands on the sides of your waist. You nod, lifting your hips so he can free himself, and he takes his cock into his hand, breath stuttering as he groans. “Okay, now sweetheart?” he asks, affection on every word that leaves his mouth.

“Please Frank, I want you so badly,” you whine, and he nods, one hand beneath your ass, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Alright baby, shh shh sh” he whispers, sliding his sore tip back and forth against the slick of your pussy. His eyes meet yours again and he says lowly, “I’m gonna put it in now, okay?”, checking to make sure you’re ready. He knows realistically- it’ll hurt. He doesn’t have much of an ego, but it’s obvious he’s big, and he knows that without proper care, you’ll end up sore and gaping afterwards.

His mouth falls open with a low groan as he finally slips inside you, gently pushing you down onto his dick, inch by aching inch. “There’s my girl,” he croaks, caressing your sides as you finally sink into him fully, plush ass against his thighs. “Fuck- you feel amazing doll.”

You moan at the feeling of being overwhelmingly filled, needing something to be your anchor. All you can do is press your hands against his chest, careful not to move the bandages right below. You shudder in pleasure, and Frank tells you softly, “I’m gonna move now sweetheart.” He starts to buck his hips up into yours, and your eyes close in pleasure.

“Oh god,” you moan, feeling him deeper at every buck of his hips. Frank groans throughout it, whether because of the pain beneath his chest, or this pleasure- you don’t know. You lean forward, wanting to feel his body around yours, and he gets the memo. Carefully, he leans forward, off the headboard so that he can hold you. His big, bear arms wrap around your torso, and he ignores the shooting pain beneath the bandages. “I want my pretty girl in my arms,” he says quietly, only for you to hear, stroking your back as he keeps you covered with his arms.

You grind back and forth a little, trying to make it easier for him. The friction on your clit is driving you insane, and all you can think of is to keep moving to reach that pleasure. “You’re doing so well f’me,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My best girl.”

His words go straight to your core. All you wanted was to be his girl, and now- you just might be. You keep grinding, chasing your high as he makes love to you, hands caressing your back. “I can’t lose you,” he croaks into your ear as you move, “you’re my whole life.”

“Frank.” You moan as you feel the pleasure building, your body loosening with contentment, knowing you’re safe here- with him. “I’ll always be here, I promise.” His manly arms squeeze around you even tighter, like he can’t risk letting go of you.

You moan helplessly, on the verge of release, and Frank can tell. “That’s it, we’ll get you there” he reassures, helping you grind on him. He leans further into you, holding you skin to skin as his cock drags up and down your walls, filling you completely. He leaves wet trails all along your neck with his mouth, your hair tangled around his face. Neither of you can think of anything, just the feeling of eachothers bodies.

“Frankie,” you moan crudely, your hips slacking, “mm- I’m so close.” He nods understandingly, pushing your bodies forward to rest you on your back, making sure not to pull out. He strokes your forehead with his thumb, softly dragging his lips along your jaw as he whispers, only for you to hear.

Frank keeps a thick arm braced beneath your back as he gently lowers you down, never once slipping from your heat. The shift changes the angle instantly- deeper and fuller. You gasp sharply, legs falling open around his hips. He follows you down, covering you with his broad body like a warm shield, careful of the bandages on his chest but refusing to let even an inch of space come between you.

“Easy, baby, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low with adoration. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every bit of you. One of his big hands slide down to grip the back of your thigh, spreading you wider for him. “Gonna take care of you now. Just let me make you feel good.”

He starts moving again, slow at first, but eventually building with purpose. He fucks you deeply, thrusts dragging his cock against that spot inside you over and over. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice anything except you. His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your bottom lip.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Wanna watch my pretty girl come apart for me.”

You try to keep your eyes open, but it’s hard when every thrust punches the breath out of you. He’s so thick and deep, hitting places that make your back arch off the mattress. Frank groans softly each time you flutter around him, praise dripping off his every word.

“Attagirl, you’re taking me so well.” He leans down to kiss you, his tongue slowly tongue sliding against yours in time with his hips. When he pulls back, his voice is wrecked. “That’s my baby. Let it build, okay? I gotcha.”

His pace quickens just enough, still loving and controlled, but relentless. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing perfectly against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The pressure inside you coils tighter faster than you expected. “Frank- frankie-” you whimper, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “Come on, angel. Come for me. You’re so close, I can feel it.” He reaches between your bodies, calloused thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm strokes. The sensation of his thick cock driving into you deep, and his thumb working at you shatters the little control you had left.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your body seizes up, thighs shaking around his waist. Waves of pleasure rip through you intensely, your pussy clenching desperately around his length. Frank keeps moving through it, fucking you through every pulse, his voice keeping you conscious.

“There she is, that’s my girl” he coos, stroking your cheek through it, “keep going, baby, let me feel it all.” His thrusts grow a little sharper, chasing the way you grip him, but his hands ate gentle, stroking your sides, cradling your face, whispering endless praise against your skin. “I’ve gotcha. I’ve always gotcha.”

Even as you break down around him, Frank doesn’t stop moving. He rides out every aftershock with you, slowly, kissing the tears of overwhelming pleasure that escape the corners of your eyes.

When you finally start to come down, body lump and exhausted, he stays buried inside you to the hilt and holds you close, murmuring loving words into your hair. “You did so good f’me.”

You whine like a desperate animal, brain mush from the pleasure. Softly, his thumb brushes beneath your eye again, collecting the stray tears. “I’m sorry for pushing you away baby.” Your breath hitches as you’re caught off guard by his words. “You’ve only been good to me sweetheart, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“It’s okay Frank,” you say quietly, “you were just trying to keep me safe.” He nods as you speak, but you can tell he disagrees. He inhales deeply, clearly upset with himself.

“But I wasn’t, was I? I was only hurting you more.”

“Frank,” you start. You know he’s right, and that his actions weren’t logical at all, but you also know he’s sorry now, and that there’s no changing the past. You don’t want him to dwell on things that have already happened. You’re good now, you wanna keep it that way.

He cuts you off, shaking his head. “No baby, I was wrong.” He sighs, still holding himself above you, he’d crush you if he fell. “I’m gonna spend every day making it up to you, okay? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay Frank, it’ll be okay,” you reassure him, moving the back of your hand across his cheek.

He leans down, kissing your mouth softly, before moving back. Gently, he starts to pull out, hushing you as you moan at the feeling of being empty. “Easy baby, easy.” He flops down onto your side, dick still hard, his tip blazing red.

“Frank,” you say, a little shocked, leaning onto your side, “you didn’t cum.” He shakes his head, dismissing the sentence.

“Wasn’t about me, s’bout you doll.” You frown, sitting up as you watch him, selflessly just laying on his back. “What baby?” he chuckles, looking at you pouting, “it’s not important.”

“Of course it’s important!” You protest, sitting there with your arms crossed. He just chuckles, sighing relievedly, knowing how much he loves his girl. He lies there on his back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, a thick arm draped over his eyes, cock still heavy and against his stomach, glistening from you. He looks completely content just having taken care of you. But that’s not fair.

You crawl to him slowly, thighs still weak. He lifts his arm just enough to peek at you when the mattress dips under your weight. “Baby?” he murmurs, voice rough. You don’t answer with words. Instead you lean down and press a soft, open mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock. Frank’s breath catches hard, and before he can say anything, you drag your tongue up the full length of him, them taking him into your mouth.

A deep groan rumbles out of his chest the second the wet heat of your mouth envelopes him. His hips twitch upward instinctively before he catches himself. “Fuck-”

You don’t let him protest. You want to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. One of your hands wrap around the thick base he barely fit inside you earlier, stroking with slow bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls around the tip as you suck gently, then firmer when his groan turns into curse words.

Frank’s hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through your hair like he needs something to hold onto. “Jesus Christ, baby- you don’t have to-” You hum around him, taking him deeper and relaxing your throat as best as you can. The vibration makes his thighs tense and his other hand fists the sheets beside him.

You pull off just long enough to look up at him, your lips shiny with him. “I want to, Frank. I want you to cum.” His eyes are dark and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat when you sink back down, working him with eager strokes. You pour every bit of love and gratitude you feel for this man who just spent his time making sure you came apart first.

His breathing grows ragged, hips starting to rock up into your mouth despite his desperate effort to stay still. “Ohh- you’re so good, angel. So good to me.”

You moan around his length, the praise making heat bloom low in your belly again. His groans turn deeper, and mofe desperate, the hand in your hair tightening “Baby- I’m gonna-” he warns, voice wrecked. You pull away, taking him in your hand and working him until he’s shaking.

Frank comes undone with a groan that seems to rip out of his soul, his hips stuttering as thick pulses of cum spill across his stomach. You keep touching him through it til he’s trembling and panting beneath you, whispering your name between shaky breaths.

When he finally starts to soften, you pull away, pressing a gentle kiss to his abs before crawling up his body. Frank immediately hauls you against his side, arm wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His heart is hammering under your cheek.

“Christ, doll,” he rasps, pressing kisses to the top of your head, your temple, anywhere he can reach really. You nuzzle your face in his side, wishing you could just melt into him. You breathe together, heartbeats synchronised as you lay on your soft bed. “Hey,” he whispers softly, “you okay?”

You nod a quiet “mhm”, opening your eyes and giving him a small smile before you nuzzle your head back into him. “Of course I am.” But despite the calmness of the moment, he can’t stop thinking about what just happened before.

“I’m sorry for everything” he says quietly, almost ashamed, “you didn’t deserve none’a the shit I put you through.” His words throw you off guard slightly, your brain still caught up in the softness of this moment.

“Frank, it’s okay-”

You got to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “I pushed you away when I shoulda been grateful you even wanted to help me." He runs a rough hand through your hair again, letting it rest on your back. "You deserved more than that. You deserve love and gentleness." He sighs softly, the next words hesitant to leave his mouth. "I know I'm not exactly the epitome of that, but I'm gonna try."

"Frank," you call softly, hand smoothing over his bandages carefully, down to his stomach. "Thank you." But he just sighs, like he's still disappointed with himselt.

"I hurt you, and I'm gonna make it up to you every single day, if you let me."

“I know Frankie," you whisper, kissing his side, "you're a good man, you're just stubborn. He chuckles softly, nodding at your words as he circles his thumb on your back.

"Yeah baby, I'm a stubborn bastard. And a stupid one, pushing your sweetness away like that." He sighs again, but the weight is lifted slightly off his shoulders. He feels like he can breathe again. A quiet moment passes as he watches your face, lashes fluttering in the moonlight shining through your window, the sheen of sweat on your forehead.

"You know I love you?" he says quietly, breaking the silence filling the room.

Your heart patters softly at his confession, not because you didn't know, but more because you're surprised he's admitted it to himself. "I love you too Frank" you breathe, closing your eyes against him. "I promise you won't lose me."

“I know I won’t baby. Not if I can help it.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, holding you a little closer. For a moment, neither of you says anything, content to listen to the quiet hum of the night. "Good,” you murmur, a small smile in your voice.

As you’re wrapped in each other's warmth, the weight of your old fears feels a little bit lighter, and before long, sleep finds you both. You drift off, Franks arm still steadily around you, keeping you close to him.

So it was both shocking and incredibly irritating to him the way it got under his skin when you laughed a little too loudly at something the EMT said to you. The same EMT who had been flirting with you for three straight shifts.

No one in the ER knew you were dating except for Dana. The two of you had decided it would just be easier that way, especially as you were still his resident. When Dana saw the way he was eying the two of you… well, it was the greatest thing that had happened to her all shift.

“You gonna kick him out or are you just gonna keep staring at him like you’re deciding where to hide the body?” Dana leaned into his shoulder.

Robby looked at her with disdain and then took the lab results she was holding out to him. He furrowed his brow as he tried to focus on what was in front of him and not the lilt of your voice.

“Repeat head CT in three hours. We can discharge if it’s clear.” Robby handed the iPad back to Dana and put his glasses back in his pocket, returning his attention to you.

You smiled and then placed a hand on the man’s forearm before walking away. Robby couldn’t stand the way his blood pressure rose. Immediately, he followed after you.

“Have a second?” He asked, but didn’t wait for your response as he steered you by the arm into an empty patient room.

You laughed as he closed the door, “What the hell is this?”

A great question. Robby had no idea what he was doing, he had simply let his annoyance drive him, and the regret immediately washed over him. He scratched the back of his head, “I just um, wanted to see about the, uh, trauma one, if surgery came down to get him yet?”

You stared at him opened mouth for a moment, “Robby, you were there when we stabilized him and when Garcia said the OR would be ready in ten minutes.”

He was already nodding while you were speaking, the tips of his ears growing red with embarrassment, or frustration. Likely both, “Right, and so did Garcia come back down to get him?”

“I don’t know,” You said slowly, “Why don’t you ask Dana?”

You started to walk around him, but he blocked the exit, “Sorry, I just, we’re okay, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “We don’t do this at work. That was your rule.”

He sighed, “I know, I know—“

Dana opened the door, “Sorry to interrupt, incoming pedestrian struck in a crosswalk, five minutes out.”

They both followed Dana back out into central, Robby’s mind still on that EMT. Your laugh and your soft touch on his arm.

When the trauma came in, he watched, gloved up as you and Langdon bickered back and forth about how to best handle the internal bleeding to stabilize enough for surgery. “Langdon’s running this one,” He reminded you mildly, “His decision.”

Langdon smirked at you snidely and you rolled your eyes. When they had mostly stabilized the patient, Langdon took the opportunity to jab at you, “So, Y/N, when are you going to put that EMT out of his misery?”

Robby’s eyes shot up to Langdon and his heart rate picked up again. So he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

You frowned, “Who? Peter?”

“Ah, Peter,” Langdon said in a mocking tone, but you looked at him blankly, “Oh, come on, the guy’s been drooling over you for like a week now. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.”

Robby watched as you blushed. You actually blushed.

“It’s not like that, he’s just friendly.”

Langdon laughed, “Right. Sure. I mean I have never seen an EMT so thrilled to be hugging the wall for close to hours, but yeah he’s probably just friendly.” You shook your head and sighed. “Or maybe he’s a serial killer, he does watch you with more intensity than just romantic interest.”

With the patient stabilized and surgery coming in, you and Langdon started degloving, Robby following quietly behind.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because it just so happens that I’m… seeing someone.”

Robby blinked, unsure he had heard you correctly. Your face was beet red as you looked anywhere besides Langdon and Robby.

Langdon scoffed, “Since when?”

You huffed with agitation, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Frank. But there is nothing going on with me and Peter, okay?” Now you looked from Robby to Langdon. You had picked up on Robby’s silence, perhaps connected the dots between his conversation with you earlier and Langdon’s interrogation.

“Oh, I am not involved in this conversation,” Robby said quickly, backing away with his hands up and quickly turning away.

He should be relieved that you denied it and that you even made it a point to affirm that you were in a relationship, he was sure that addition was intended for him and not Frank.

And yet… You had blushed when Frank implied that he was flirting with you. Again, he felt ridiculous that it bothered him, but he didn’t want you blushing thinking about anyone but him.

It was so difficult to fluster you that in the beginning, he had seen it as a challenge. What could he say, where could he touch, that would bring that pink to your cheeks.

They didn’t talk about their relationship at work, it was a rule he had established early on in order to keep their resident/attending role separate. He did his best to think about you as just a resident when you were here and just his girlfriend once you stepped outside.

But boy, he was struggling with it today. Every time he saw you he wanted to pull you into a private room and remind you of all the ways you were his.

And apparently, it wasn’t just Langdon who had noticed the flirty EMT. He saw several nurses exchanging looks the next time Peter came in with another patient and made his way over to you.

“So, what’s your vice?” Peter was leaning over your workstation while you were trying to chart.

“Excuse me?” You peered at him over the top of your computer.

“You know, coffee, tea, alcohol, cigarettes… Mine’s definitely coffee, I have like, four cups a day. What’s yours?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” You shrugged, “I guess coffee.”

“Painful to watch, isn’t it?” Mohan had sidled up next to Robby.

“What?”

Mohan nodded to you and Peter, “Y/N and the sexy EMT.” Robby looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I don’t call him that, that’s what the nurses call him,” She said quickly, “Yeah, I’m just gonna go.”

Robby shook his head and sighed. He was still talking to you. Thankfully, you weren’t laughing anymore, but he was awful close to you and there was that pink tinge to your cheeks. The same pink tinge that rose to your cheeks when he whispered something dirty in your ear, or squeezed your ass in public, or cooed what a good girl you are—

He couldn’t watch this anymore. Pushing off the hub, he marched over to you.

“Sorry to interrupt,” He said, and turned to Peter, “Do you have a patient here?”

“Uh, yeah,” He jerked a thumb towards the ambulance bay, “We’re waiting for him to be admitted.”

Robby nodded, “Well I would appreciate it if you got back to monitoring your patient instead of flirting with my resident.” He said coldly.

Peter narrowed his eyes at Robby, and then looked back at you. You were definitely blushing now, pretending to be incredibly interested in charting. Finally, Peter scoffed, “Yeah, sure.” He looked back at you, “I’ll bring you a coffee next time.”

You watched him as he left and then looked up at Robby, shaking your head.

“What?” He asked, it came out sharper than he intended.

You shrugged, “Something bothering you, Dr. Robinavitch? You seem tense.”

He smirked and ran a hand over his face before leaning in closer to you, “Do you enjoy it? His attention?” He asked lowly.

“He just wanted to know if I like coffee.” You said, but seeing Robby like this was making your stomach flip and your face heat.

“Really?” He was too close, much too close, you glanced around to see if anyone had noticed— “Look at me.”

You met his gaze which was hotter than the sun. He looked like he wanted to devour you, “We don’t do this at work,” You repeated firmly, desperately.

His gaze traveled lazily to your mouth and then back up, “You didn’t seem to have an issue when it was Peter.”

You scoffed and looked away. He was going to ruin you, here, at work. You could feel your arousal pooling between your thighs already.

Robby had never been jealous. It wasn’t uncommon if he had stepped away from you for a minute for a man to try and buy you a drink. And he would casually insert himself between you, not even look at the other man, just whisk you away. But he was always so casual and indifferent about it. You had never gotten the impression that he was threatened by it.

But now, he was acting positively possessive. And while it was absolutely inappropriate timing, you found it, unfortunately, unbearably attractive.

You stood from your work station, iPad in hand, and leaned in close to his ear, “If you don’t back off, it’s going to become very clear to everyone in the ED who it is that I’ve been seeing.”

As you move to walk by him, his hand grasps your arm and pulls you back in front of him. Your eyes travel from his hand on your arm in disbelief up to his eyes that are still looking at you with unabashed desire.

“Flirt like that in front of me again, and I will do more than just make everyone wonder if we’re sleeping together.” His hand was still gripping your arm and your breathing faltered at the feel of his breath on the shell of your ear, “Understood?”

You swallowed, hard, and then smirked, “Promise?”

He gave a short chuckle and released your arm, “Don’t play games.”

You leaned in close, close enough to kiss him if you wanted. For his part, he didn’t move away, his eyes snagging on your mouth again, “Don’t threaten me.” You whispered, and then you headed to your patient.

Peter was back. His patient was finally getting admitted and of course, you were the one guiding him to the room. Robby followed a few steps back.

“So… Coffee?” Peter said. Man, was this the best game this guy had? The best the “sexy EMT” could do was ask you about coffee? Maybe Robby had nothing to worry about. “How do you take it?”

You shook your head, smirking, “Cream and sugar.”

“And do you ever… go out for coffee after a shift?”

Robby sighed audibly and your eyes shot to his before quickly looking back to Peter, “No,” You said as you all walked into the room where the patient would be staying, “With all the coffee I drink during shift, I’d never sleep if I had more after.”

Peter nodded, “What about for a drink, then?”

You chuckled nervously, the patient between all of you looking interestedly from you to Peter. Robby watched, irritated when that tell tale flush started creeping its way up your neck again.

“Dr. Y/N.” Robby interjected, “The patient, if you would be so kind? Peter, thank you for your help, we’ve got it from here.”

Peter looked from Robby to you expectantly. As if he thought you’d interject here.

When you didn’t, the fucker had the nerve to ask again, this time abandoning the pretense of it being a casual conversation, “You get off at seven, right? I could meet you later.”

You looked up at Robby first who was watching you with calculated calm. Arms crossed, rocking gently from foot to foot. You doubted anyone else would sense the level of agitation, but it was easy for you to see just how pent up and frustrated he was.

Peter and the patient both followed your gaze to Robby, and then Peter looked back at you, question in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” You said finally, tearing your gaze away from Robby, “But I already have a date after work… with my boyfriend.”

It took everything you had not to reflexively look up at Robby at the end of your sentence, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Peter was already looking from you to Robby, rapid calculations occurring as he put together the pieces of the past day.

Finally, he gave a short breathy laugh, “No fucking way.” The flush worked its way into your cheeks, your ears, your forehead. “He’s old enough to be your dad.” Peter hissed.

That was enough for Robby. Peter wouldn’t leave, and so he’d have to excuse himself before he called security. It wasn’t like this was the first time it had been pointed out to him how young you were. He had thought about it extensively, hating himself, from the moment he realized his affection for you went far beyond that of just a mentor.

“You’ll call if you need me?” He asked, waiting for you to meet his eyes.

You nodded and watched him go, “You should go, Peter.” You started your exam on the patient until eventually, Peter gave up and left.

“I would have picked the doctor with the sad eyes, too.” The patient said in the silence and you laughed so hard you snorted.

The rest of the shift, you worried that Robby was actually upset with you. He barely spoke to you the rest of the shift and avoided being in physical proximity to you if he could help it.

When the day finally ended, you quickly packed up your things and caught him at the hub as he was getting ready to leave. He noted your presence with his eyes, but said nothing as you followed him outside.

You trailed after him like a puppy, hoping he would say something, but he didn’t. When you got to his apartment, he finally turned to you as he closed the door behind you with a hand over your shoulder.

“You never answered my question earlier.” He said softly.

“What question?” You asked, breathless from his closeness.

“If you liked his attention?”

A self satisfied smirk worked its way across your face, “No,” You said finally, shaking your head slowly and biting your lip, “I liked that his attention led to more attention from you.”

“Even though he’s… Far more age appropriate for you?”

You brought your hands up to his face, tilting your head just a bit, “I’ve told you before, your age is inconsequential to me. If anything, I find it more attractive.” He rolled his eyes at this, “I’m serious. Guys my age are arrogant and have the emotional capacity of a brick. You are… leaps and bounds ahead of them in terms of empathy.”

He huffed a laugh, “I’m not sure how not being an asshole correlates with my age.”

“Experience and wisdom and all that, yada yada, but I’m not interested in this conversation right now. You’ve been looking at me all day like…”

He raised his eyebrows, “Like what?”

You cover your face with your hands, suddenly embarrassed. Another thing you loved about Robby was that he had absolutely no trouble verbalizing what he wanted in bed or how badly he wanted you. And he loved when you did the same, but you were still hesitant. Still a little worried he would find it too much, would find it gross, or shameful. Feelings you were still working through from past relationships.

Carefully, he pushed your hands out of your face, his cocky grin greeting you immediately, “Don’t do that,” He said, his voice low, “I’ve wanted to see you blush all pretty for me all day long.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He laughed, “The only thing I’m mad about is that you still have your clothes on. You’ve been driving me fucking insane all day.”

“Me? Driving you insane?”

“Yeah, smiling at him, touching him, blushing for him.”

“I was not—“

“You were.” He said softly, but firmly, “And I gotta tell ya, it made me want to pull you into the bathroom and have my way with you. Really make you blush like I know you do when I’ve made such a mess of you you can hardly speak.”

Your heart rate was picking up, and with it, you were sure, your breathing, “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for then?”

He grinned and then he was kissing you, hard and hungrily, like there was an ache inside of him he couldn’t satisfy until he tasted you. His hands were in your hair, on your waist, under your scrub top, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Open mouthed, he stole the breath from your lungs, breathed you in greedily as a hand palmed your breast.

You couldn’t help the moan that tumbled from your throat as he gently pinched your nipple between his fingers. In response, he pushed his leg between both of yours and you gasped at the friction it created there. Wanting more of it, you ground down on his leg and were rewarded with a guttural sound from Robby.

He grabbed your jaw and pushed you slightly to give himself access to the curve of your neck where he began sucking at the sensitive skin there.

“Peter was probably wondering what you taste like all day.” He grazed his teeth against your skin, “Or how you would feel grinding down on his leg like this. So pretty when you move your hips like that.”

“Stop talking about him,” You ground out.

Robby laughed and pulled away, the loss of friction from his leg made you whine involuntarily. Mercifully, he didn’t comment on this, just took your hand and pulled gently towards the bedroom.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve been thinking about the way you taste all day.” He pushed you down onto the bed and pulled at the drawstring of your scrub pants, “The way you grind against my mouth when you’re really needy.” He’s pulled your pants and panties off in one go and crawls over you. Settling between your thighs, he pulled a leg over his shoulder.

You’re quiet, nearly holding your breath in anticipation and he looked up at you. A check in, despite everything, despite how you had made it clear you wanted him and only him all day, he hesitated. Is this okay? His eyes asked.

It was sweet of him, but you were so frustrated. You wouldn’t admit it, but when he was acting so territorial earlier today, whenever you had allowed your mind to wander, it had been to this: Robby, head between your legs, beard glistening with your slick. If he had taken more than a cursory glance at your panties when he slipped them off moments ago, the evidence of it was all over them.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, “Please?” You managed, your voice a whine, a plea.

He smiled sweetly at you and looked back down. His finger glided across your folds and you both exhaled in unison, “This all for me, baby?”

You nodded and he lazily teased your dripping entrance with a finger, “Only for you.” You said, breathless.

You didn’t have to look to know that had him grinning. Then his mouth was on you, tongue slowly licking long stripes across you that have you quietly whimpering.

You reach a hand out to stroke the back of his head and he groans into you, the vibrations making your back arch. He pulls away slightly to look at you, his fingers circling your clit as he does so, “You’re close already, aren’t you, baby?”

Your only response is to lift your hips up into his hand, a silent plea for more.

It drove him crazy when you were like this. The fact that he had barely even touched you and you were already at the precipice. One practiced movement from him, a flick of his finger or his tongue, and you were so worked up you’d tumble over the edge.

Your face was flushed and sweaty, both from the shift and now, and you looked so fucking gorgeous.

He had been looking for too long. You were whining and arching your back at his lack of attention. He suppressed a laugh, “Okay, alright, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax.”

Slowly, he pushed a finger inside you, sighing at the way you felt around him. He would never get over how soft and warm your walls felt around him, how perfect. He lowered his mouth back onto you, sucking your clit gently into his mouth and then circling it with his tongue as his finger curled up into you.

It took only a few more seconds before you cried out and he felt your walls contracting around his finger. His cock twitched at the sensation, full and dripping in his pants.

Even in the aftershocks of your orgasm, you were already reaching for him, pulling him by the shoulder back up to your mouth where you kissed him hungrily. The taste of you still on his tongue drove you wild and you started clawing at his clothes, trying to tear them off while chasing his mouth with your own.

Robby laughed at your eagerness, “You want to feel how crazy you drove me today? You want me to fill you up until you can’t see straight, hm?”

You helped lift his shirt over his head, hands pressed against his chest before you curled a finger beneath the chain of his necklace and lightly tugged him towards you, “Please stop talking.”

He laughed against your mouth and hooked your hip over his own, his erection sliding against your slick folds.

“Fucking Christ.” He groaned as he slid over you, repeatedly teasing your entrance with his tip before pulling out.

“Robby,” You groaned in frustration, until finally he gave in, sinking into you fully, “Oh, fuck.” You sighed into his mouth and he licked into yours as he slowly moved in and out of you.

“Jesus, you feel so good.” He lifted the leg that was previously wrapped around his hip and brought it to his shoulder, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to your ankle, “Okay?”

You nodded and he leaned down, pressing your leg with him. He was so so deep now and you moaned at the sensation. He began rocking his hips, slowly at first, then faster, harder, until you were delirious with the feel of him.

“Such a good girl,” He cooed, as he continued thrusting into you, “You look so pretty like this.” Reaching between you, his fingers found your swollen clit with little effort and he circled in time with his thrusts, smiling at you when you moaned and he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.

“That’s it, baby, cum for me again like a good girl. Wanna feel you cum around me.”

You loved when he talked like this, gentle and encouraging. It was all it took to push you over the edge the second time. And while you rode it out, crying out his name as you did, you felt him release inside you as well.

The both of you were breathless as you came down, his forehead rested against yours. You caught his mouth in a sweaty kiss and he hummed into your mouth appreciatively. When you both had caught your breath, he pulled out and wordlessly stood to go to the bathroom. This was routine now, so you waited patiently, knowing he’d return. You heard the sink water running for a while, then it stopped.

Robby came back into the room, warm, wet wash cloth in hand as he smiled down at you. He quietly cleaned you up and then once he’d gotten rid of the wash cloth, laid down next to you, pulling you into him with one arm.

“We should take a shower.” He said softly, kissing the freckles on your shoulder.

You hummed, “Just a couple more minutes like this, please?”

He sighed, “Can’t say no to you.”

You huffed a laugh, “You say no to me all the time at work.”

“Yes, it’s my job to say no to you there. It’s my job to say yes to you here.”

“Ah,” You said, “Very convenient.”

He laughed and then let silence fall between you for a few moments. Then— “So, do you think Peter got the hint or do you think he’ll come with a coffee the next time?”

You laughed, “I cannot believe you are still thinking about that man.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

You sighed, “I think he got the hint, baby.”

“Good,” He said, “Because I have a strict no violence in the workplace policy.”

You shook your head, “You are a jealous, possessive man. I had no idea.”

This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.

It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.

A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.

This is a problem.

A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.

And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.

You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.

“Fuck!”

You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.

A second you don’t have.

With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.

You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.

So vivid.

Stop thinking about his hands.

Stop thinking about his voice.

Stop—

You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.

It doesn’t help.

By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.

“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.

“You’re late,” Dana says.

You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”

“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”

You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”

You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.

“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.

Only to turn right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Unmoving.

“Shit, I—”

You look up.

And your entire nervous system shuts down.

Dr. Robby.

“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”

His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.

His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”

You are not fine.

Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.

“I—I’m gonna—”

You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.

“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”

You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.

She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.

“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”

God. You could have chosen better words.

“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”

She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.

He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.

“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.

“Stop what?”

You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.

“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”

You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.

“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.

“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”

Abbot snorts. “Dana?”

You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”

“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”

Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”

Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.

You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.

You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.

“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”

You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”

She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.

On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.

When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.

After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.

Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.

“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”

The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”

You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”

As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.

You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.

Fuck.

Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.

God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.

“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.

When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.

“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.

Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”

Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”

They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.

“Malinaw,” Princess says.

You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.

You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.

“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”

Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.

He points at you as he walks. “With me.”

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.

“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”

“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”

Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.

His arm brushes yours.

Your stomach flips.

Focus.

“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.

You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.

“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”

“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”

You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.

“Trachea midline.”

Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”

“BP holding?” Robby asks.

The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.

“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”

Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”

“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.

“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.

“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”

Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”

“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.

You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.

“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”

You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.

You swallow. “Okay.”

Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”

You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.

The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.

“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.

Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.

You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.

“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”

You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.

“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.

Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.

“Good,” Robby murmurs.

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.

“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.

Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.

You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.

Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”

His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.

“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.

“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.

Until it stops.

Too much resistance.

“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”

He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.

You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.

He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.

His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.

Fuck. Now is not the time.

You tighten your grip on the tube and push.

Then—

A rush of air.

“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”

Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.

“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.

“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”

You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.

“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.

Abbot nods.

From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.

“Nice work, Doctor.”

You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.

As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.

You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.

“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”

“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”

Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”

You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.

“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”

You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”

“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”

As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.

And Santos notices—because of course she does.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”

You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She stares at you for a second.

“A sex dream?”

You nod miserably.

Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.

Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”

“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.

She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”

“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”

Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”

She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”

“Because he’s my boss!”

“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”

You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.

“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”

She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”

You nod. “Good.”

Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.

“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.

You sigh. “What?”

She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”

Your pulse jumps.

“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.

You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.

“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”

The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”

You glance up, and he nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”

“Will do.”

You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.

The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.

About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.

Except the way it made your spine arch.

Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—

“Doctor.”

You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.

“Sorry—what?”

Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”

You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”

He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”

“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.

You stare at him. “And?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”

You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.

“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”

Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.

Fuck.

You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?

So much for being a vault.

“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.

You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.

“Lucky us,” you mutter.

She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.

“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”

You shrug. “Just a little off today.”

She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.

She hums quietly.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”

You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”

She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”

You nod. “North Four, on it.”

You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.

“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.

“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.

“Oh.”

“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”

“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”

You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.

“Everything’s fine!”

You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.

On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.

So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.

Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.

You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.

You’re just… nervous.

Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.

You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—

“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”

You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.

Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.

The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.

And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.

“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.

She winces. “Not so good.”

“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”

She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”

You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”

She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.

“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”

“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”

You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.

“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”

She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”

“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”

“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”

“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”

She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”

You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.

“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”

You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.

“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”

Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”

Ms. Park sighs.

“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”

She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.

Not that you can blame her.

Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.

But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.

He’s looking at you.

You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”

Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.

You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.

“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.

Heat floods your face.

“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”

He glances at you over the top of his glasses.

“You had it handled.”

You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”

Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.

“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”

“I supervise,” Robby mutters.

Dana hums.

“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”

Hovering?

You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.

Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?

He hovers around every resident and med student.

It’s not like he was—

You shake your head.

No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.

You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.

Nowhere else to go.

“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.

You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”

You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.

“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”

Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”

She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.

“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”

She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”

You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”

“Caring?” she offers.

You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”

She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.

She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Your entire spine locks.

“What was that?”

McKay straightens, already grinning.

“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”

“But—you just—”

She laughs under her breath, already backing away.

“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”

Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.

You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.

“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.

“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.

Your eyes snap up. “You.”

Her brows lift. “Me?”

“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”

She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”

“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”

You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.

She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”

“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.

You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”

Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”

Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.

You glare at Santos. “Neither.”

“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.

“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”

“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”

You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.

“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.

Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”

Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.

“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”

Hovering?

Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”

“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”

Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.

Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.

Your pulse stutters.

“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.

“I threw it,” you blurt.

He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.

“I know.”

You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.

“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”

You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.

Right.

Charting.

You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.

With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.

After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.

The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.

“Back to charting?” Princess asks.

You nod. “The never-ending task.”

She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.

“You seem off today,” she says.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

“And red,” she adds before turning away.

You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.

With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.

Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.

Abbot.

You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.

Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.

Your stomach drops.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.

Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.

“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”

You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”

Then she shakes her head and walks away.

You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.

And today is not a day you want to stay back.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.

The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—

“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”

Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”

Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.

“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”

You tilt your head. “Oh.”

“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”

Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”

Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.

Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.

Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.

There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.

“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.

He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.

Still, your eyes follow it.

They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.

“Deep breath for me.”

Your pulse stutters.

Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.

The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Look at me.”

Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.

Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.

Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It wasn’t subtle.

Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.

His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.

You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

The word brushed over your lips.

You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.

God.

The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.

Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.

Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.

“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”

You blink at her. “Already?”

She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”

You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.

You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”

She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”

You glare at her. “I’m charting.”

“You’re drooling.”

You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.

Santos smirks. “Metaphorically.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Fuck who?” Whitaker asks, appearing beside Santos.

Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”

“Santos,” you warn.

She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”

“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”

Your stomach drops.

You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.

“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”

She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”

“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.

“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.

Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”

Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”

“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”

Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”

Santos smirks. “Yep.”

“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”

Perlah snorts.

Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.

“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”

Silence.

Perlah is staring at you.

Princess is staring at you.

Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.

And Santos—

Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.

“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”

No one answers.

Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.

Whitaker clears his throat.

Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.

“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.

Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.

He clears his throat.

Once.

“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”

That’s all it takes.

Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.

Whitaker rushes off toward triage.

Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.

And then it’s just you.

And him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.

And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.

But that would be ridiculous, right?

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.

How to function.

You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.

God.

This has to be some kind of HR violation.

Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.

Or worse—night shift.

You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.

Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.

Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.

Not when you’ve let it affect your work.

Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.

You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.

All you can do now is your job.

All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.

You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.

The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.

Whispered about, probably.

But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?

By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.

None of it requires you to look up very much.

Which is ideal.

You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.

And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.

Not that you’re avoiding him.

Obviously.

You’re just… busy.

You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.

Like nothing happened.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.

“Hey, you busy?”

You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”

“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”

“Of course. What size?”

“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”

You nod. “On it.”

“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.

You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.

You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.

You’re just being helpful.

But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.

You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.

“Oh—shit.”

It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.

Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.

“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.

McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”

She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.

“Scalpel slipped.”

McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”

Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.

“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”

“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”

Fuck.

You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.

He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hold your arm out obediently.

His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.

“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”

Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.

“Come with me.”

The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.

“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”

Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.

“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.

Robby nods once. “Thanks.”

Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.

You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.

“Lay back,” he says.

Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.

He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.

His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.

You try not to think too hard about his fingers.

“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.

You nod. “Sharp blade.”

Like he didn’t already know that.

He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.

“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.

You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.

He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.

The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”

“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”

You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.

He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.

Completely calm.

Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.

The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.

“Breathe,” he says automatically.

God.

If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.

You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.

“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”

His hands pause for the briefest moment.

Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.

“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”

You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Mhm.”

The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.

Your stomach tightens.

“Busy department.”

He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.

“Not exactly what I meant.”

You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.

“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”

He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.

You feel like you’re about to throw up.

“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”

Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.

“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”

You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”

His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.

“Fired?”

You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”

He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.

“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”

Your face burns.

He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.

“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”

You stare at him.

“Concerned?”

“Mhm.”

He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.

“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”

Your stomach drops.

“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.

Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.

Hovering?

Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.

Why was he even there to begin with?

Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.

I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.

I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.

And suddenly the entire day looks… different.

Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.

Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.

Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.

“Keep that dry for the next—”

And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not graceful.

It’s barely even planned.

Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.

For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh—fuck. I—”

You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”

The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.

He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.

Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.

Your pulse is hammering.

“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.

His hand lifts.

The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.

Your breath catches.

He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.

Then he leans in.

The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.

For a second it’s almost restrained.

Then it isn’t.

His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.

The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.

He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.

Not stopping.

If anything, the opposite.

His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.

Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.

But definitely knows how to do.

And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.

You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—

The curtain whips open.

“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”

Abbot stops dead.

For half a second no one moves.

You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.

Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.

His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”

Robby straightens immediately.

Not panicked. Not flustered.

Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.

“Jack,” he says evenly.

Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.

“Michael.”

The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.

Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.

“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”

The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.

“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.

Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.

Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.

“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?”

His brows lift.

“Your text.”

Your eyes widen.

Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.

“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”

“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.

Abbot’s mouth twitches.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”

You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”

Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Your girl, huh?”

Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.

“Shut up.”

You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.

The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.

“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”

“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”

“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”

You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”

You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”

She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.

“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”

Your entire face goes hot.

You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.

Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.

“…Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

Your stomach sinks.

Will this day ever end?