And you still remember how didn't feel like you were antagonists at all the day he left, when he gave you his most genuine smile through the frustration he felt as you kissed his cheek and told him to get better.

So it's safe to say you have no idea what you're going to say to him once you're confronted with it. Should you act like nothing happened? You don't want to come off as mean. But can you act like his best friend all of the sudden? That seems like a bit too much.

You think you have enough time to think about it until walk into the locker hallway and he's standing right there, letter in hand as he reads it carefully.

He looks good, is the first thing you can think about. Casual clothes look good on him, making you wish you had more opportunities to see that side of him. Hair covered by the sports cap, bomber blue jacket hugging his torso and jeans that fit him just right. The bag slung over his shoulder tells you he's in here for the same reason as you.

"Langdon." The name slips easily from your tongue. Not Doctor Langdon, not Frank — just Langdon and exactly like you'd call him before. "You're back." As if it's some kind of surprise.

Frank looks up, and you're surprised by the way his lips stretch into a wide smile. You're too used to the roll his eyes that's followed by a smirk, not a warm smile.

“Hey.” His voice is unusually gentle, and to add up to your shock he steps in for a hug. “It’s so nice seeing you.”

His hands find your upper back, head almost against yours. It takes you a moment too long to react, hands moving from their awkward place at your sides to rest on his waist rather uneasily.

"Am i the first to see you?" You ask once he pulls away, as casually as possible.

"Oh no, there was big 'welcome back' sign when i walked in." He jokes, though you catch an undertone to it.

You notice how subconscious he seems to suddenly be, like he feels that no one has paid any mind to his absence. Which is a lie, because you didn't realize how his antics with you were a big part of your day until he was gone. And you find yourself talking about him with Mel without even realizing.

So instead of feeling like rolling your eyes at his smug remark, all you want to do is be nice to him.

"It's good that you're back." You settle truthfully.

"Couldn't let you steal my thunder for too long." He playfully remarks, though it's obvious he doesn't mean it.

"Sure." You snort, having to busy yourself with opening your locker to hide how warm you feel.

Frank stands there for a second, still looking at you like he wants to say something but doesn't in the end. You pretend not to pay attention as the locker doesn't open when he clicks on the numbers, huffing in frustration once he looks over at the letter in his hands.

He kneels down to where is new locker now is, and you now feel bad for having a top shelf one as if you're superior to him.

Then you see it from the corner of your eyes, the way his face contorts with pain once he bends forward before quickly masking it away. It makes your stomach sink with realization, and you think about how he probably feels like it's mockery that suddenly his locker is at the bottom. A little reminder of the pain on his back that got him here.

The gears turn on your head as your next words come out impulsively, "Would you mind trading lockers with me?"

Langdon shoots you a confused look before you rush to explain.

"It's not that high up but i struggle to reach the back sometimes." You wave your hands towards your locker, hoping the excuse doesn't sound too made up.

Because if he were to inspect it, he'd realize it's a complete lie. Sure, you'd rather have a locker one row down but you can still reach just fine with little effort.

"Yeah, sure." He seems to take it, seemingly unaware of the true meaning behind.

His ears turn a little pink as he gets up, face slightly angled away and making you have to fight back a wince at the sight.

You pull the few things you keep in you locker out, transferring them into the new one as you trade codes.

"Sorry for the bother." You give him a small smile of appreciation, as if he's the one doing you a favour. You want him to think that, because the last thing you wish is for him to feel like you're pitying him.

"It was no bother." He murmurs as he pulls out some scrubs from his backpack before stuffing it inside the locker. His expression being free of pain brings relief to you.

A sense of protectiveness washes over you and you decide that if there's anything you can do to make this easier for him, you'll do it. Not because you think he needs coddling, but because that's a friend would do. At least that's what he seems to want to be.

You make way to the break room for your first coffee of the day, sipping on it a while later as Robby does a short debriefing before the shift starts. You watch as Frank's face falls at being told to take over triage, though you suppose it has some fairness to it — but you still throw him a sympathetic glance.

Your paths don’t cross much again until you’re midway through the morning, looking forward for a second coffee as you catch a small break.

And you’re surprised by his presence for the second time. Frank is sitting on one of the chairs of the break room, fingers playing with the bracelet in his wrist as he looks ahead.

“Oh, hey.” You greet, not wasting any time as you pull a cup and pour the brown liquid into it. “Want one?” You question politely once you realize he doesn’t have one.

His only answer is a nod, stance a little anxious. You don’t ask him about it, settling for making him the coffee the way you remember him liking before quietly placing it in front of him.

“Thanks.” His smile is tight.

You turn your back to leave, stopping on your tracks once he calls your name. “Do you have a second? Kinda wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Course.” You soften, pulling the chair beside him to sit. To be truthful, you’re not sure if you do have a minute but you’re praying no one interrupts it.

“I wanted to say that i’m sorry.” He starts, voice steady to make it clear he means it. “For a lot of things, really. Mostly for abandoning and disappointing you, none of it was your fault and i ended up just putting it out on you and making your time here a bit more miserable.”

Your heart tightens in your chest, and although you don’t agree with a lot of what he’s just said it’s still nice to know he’s acknowledging it. That he’s put thought into this and is trying to improve his communication.

“You didn’t abandon us. And you sure as hell didn’t disappoint me.” You retort with a reassuring look, even when you know he doesn’t believe it. “I was worried if anything.”

“I’m still sorry.” He clears his throat, sitting up straight in his seat. “I was addicted and made it everybody else’s problem. That’s not fair— even if our whole thing was being mean to each other.”

“You’re forgiven, then.” Your hands reaches to squeeze Frank’s, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“I kept like— meaning to text you.” The doctor cringes as the words come out, “Just didn’t know what to say. Felt weird.”

“It’s okay.” You chuckle.

But knowing that he had felt the same as you all these months brings relief to you.

“Missed you.” Frank breathes, vulnerable.

“Don’t go growing sweet on me, Langdon.” You huff, but the squeeze you give to his fingers tells him it’s okay.

You feel giddy once his cheeks turn slightly rosy at your words, a smile that shows teeth on his mouth. The roles would’ve been turned a few months ago, his flirty remarks thrown at you as you huffed in frustration when your skin grew as hot as a flame.

“You’re different.” You assert gazing at him.

“Good different?” He inquires softly, thumb tracing your knuckles timidly.

“Still under observation.” You shrug your shoulders, soft under the attention that he gives you.

You feel different around him now, more comfortable. Knowing him felt different before, all the ocasional intimate moments you shared with him didn’t come close to what this one feels like.

“So mean.” He gasps in false offense.

A laugh bubbles out of your throat, as gentle as you feel. You notice his eyes flicker to it but don’t think much of it.

The door opening has you pulling apart from his hand, as if being caught red handed. You’re not quite sure why you do it, because friends can hold hands.

Dana eyes you both with raised eyebrows before focusing on you without making any comment on it. “Mckay needs you on trauma 2.”

“Yeah, i’ll be right there.” You get up in a jump.

The nurse is out before you know it, already busing herself with something else.

The moment turns awkward and you avoid making it worse by heading towards the door with slight regret. Before your hand touches the handle, you turn back.

“You can still text me, you know? Just— about whatever if you need to.” Your suggestion is clear, hopeful look in your eyes.

“Yeah, i will.” He nods before picking up the coffee you made.

You leave the room feeling lighter, the weight on your shoulders finally off. Maybe it was meant to go this way. All you needed to start again was a little push.

The interaction has you feeling like a teenager, giddy and emotional. Your stomach tingling even more than used to when he’d brush his fingers against yours for more than needed.

Maybe different is good.

<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ

The keyboard clicks under your fingers as you type fast, something you've gotten better at over the years of charting that piles up if you don't learn to be organized.

It's always a nice short moment to rest your legs before getting back to running back and forth, from patient to patient. So you've started looking at it as a relaxing period.

You roll your neck as it starts to feel a little stuck from being in the same position for long, tapping your finger victouriously against the table as you finish what feels like enough for now.

"Think fast." Langdon appears on your right, throwing you a packet that you manage to catch successfully.

It becomes familiar once you turn it, your favourite chocolate. And maybe it was a hunch because you don't remember ever mentioning it to him.

"Thank you." You shoot him a grateful look, it has been a few hours since you last ate. "I'll pay you back later."

"Don't worry about it." He brushes your idea off, standing in front of the big screen to take a look at the patient list. "Choose your next patient yet?"

"Nope." You manage through a mouthful.

"There's a guy who thinks he got bitten by an exotic spider, has it in a jar and everything." He brings up before suggesting, "That could be cool. You should check it out."

You find yourself unable to hold back the amused glance you throw him. "I might."

The doctor's answer is a hum, hands behind his head as he stretches. You pretend not to pay attention to the skin that peaks from under his scrubs shirt.

With a sigh, Langdon bends on one knee to tie the laces of his snickers that seem to be undone.

You're about to reach for an ipad when you hear him groan, caught midway through getting back up for a second. It's obvious that the sound comes out without his permission, teeth coming to bite on his lower lip.

"Fuck." He curses, hand pressing against his lower back and neck red from either embarrassment or pain.

You rush to get up from your chair, thorn between doctor and friend mode. "Langdon," Your call is careful as you approach him with worried eyes.

"M'fine." He mumbles, not looking you in the eye. An immediate lie that you can see is reflexive.

"I didn't even ask if you were." Your words are soft, somehow proving a point. You watch him exhale, eyes shutting for a second longer from what you think is probably his ache flaring.

"Just got up too fast, don't worry about it." He brushes it off, still his teeth are gritted.

You touch his arm with your hand, "Are you in pain? You can sit for a bit, i'll cover--"

"I don't need help." Frank interrupts sharply and fast, taking a step back so your hands falls.

You chuckle nervously, "I didn't say you do."

The tension builds in your chest as he starts to build a wall between the two of you, refusing to let you see any vulnerability that comes from prickling on his back. You try not to let it get to you, maybe he's not ready to acknowledge it yet and would react like this with anyone else.

But are you anyone?

"You insinuated it." He crosses his arms with a huff, blue eyes set on anything but you.

You fight back a scoff, about to say something when he steps in again.

"Look, just don't tell anyone about this." It's almost a beg, though the way he looks towards you makes you sure he's mad at you.

Now you just feel frustrated, because you don't think you've given him reason to think you go around telling things about him. Or that he can't trust you. The frown on your face probably tells him exactly how hurt you feel, because he steps away again before you get a chance to speak.

"Gotta go check on a patient." He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly before practically running from you.

You watch him walk away until he's out of your sight, aware of how stupid you look standing there like you were stood up on a date.

"Trouble in paradise?" Dana questions with a sly grin when you finally go back to your chair.

"Dunno how this ER is ever a paradise." You ignore what she's so obviously hinting at, doing your best to look like it's not affecting you.

"Is there something i should know about,?" She asks more seriously now, tucking her glasses on the collar of her scrubs.

"There's no something." You huff, unaware of the scrunch of your eyebrows.

"Right." She snorts sarcastically. "You seemed to be at his throat a few months ago. And now you're actually nice to him. So there is something, honey."

"I just know when to stop, he doesn't need that right now." You refer to the dynamic you had before. Though you can feel it building back up after the last interaction.

"He sure as hell still looks at you like the sun shines out your ass." The nurse's smile is teasing as she says, but her look tells you she's being honest.

"He doesn't" You wish he did. "Besides, he used to hate me too." You prompt.

"Cause it was the only way you'd pay him attention." She retorts with raised eyebrows before adding, "That boy is head over heels for you."

You remember how your first impression wasn't the best, the way he immediately eyes you up and down and acted confident, way too confident. As if you had no option but to already be charmed by him.

Yet you barely spared him a glance, even when he looked taken aback. And from then on the bickering started. You pretended to hate him, he did too. That was the easiest way through the path you didn't want to go into in the first place.

You catch yourself almost believing Dana's words, having to shake yourself out of it when you notice her knowing stare.

"I need to stop listening to you." You declare, getting up from your chair with the intention of distracting yourself with a patient.

"Kids these days." Is the last thing you hear her mumble.

<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ

You make it your task to not be gloomy over one interaction for the rest of the day. Try to distract yourself with seeing as many patients you can, consequentely not having to see Frank again without having to look like you're avoiding him.

This not to mean that you're angry at him, you just have no idea how to act after that. Maybe tomorrow you can come back and pretend that it didn't happen, exactly like he wants.

So you get through your shift just as if it's just another one without him — like the many others in the past few months.

By the time it’s over you’re grouchy, bag thrown messily over your shoulder and earphones on as you make your way outside. The bus station is the last place you want to be right now and you feel like you might just take the long walk home.

The timing feels perfect, the 4th of july fireworks erupting through the sky when you’re making your way through the parking lot. It has you stopping for a moment, eyes looking up at the sparkling.

Hands stuffed on your jean’s pockets, you feel a little relieved at the fresh air hitting the back of your neck over the humid weather. A sigh leaves your nose, shoulders slumping as the tension of work leaves your body.

A hand touching your arm has you jumping, finding Langdon staring at you with an apologetic but tempting smile.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s now beside you on the sidewalk, back on his casual clothes.

“It’s fine.” You shrug, turning your attention back to the fireworks.

The silence between you goes slightly unnoticed by them, but becomes evident once the noise starts dying down.

“Heard about your closed cervical reduction.” You prompt, chewing slightly on the inside of your cheek in a nervous antic.

“Yeah.” He perks up, excitement in his voice. “I think i’m still shaking.” His hand lifts in the air, you try not think too much about how attracted you are to it.

“That must have been pretty cool.” You reply, a little regretful of not having been there to witness.

“Didn’t know i still had it in me.” Frank admits, self doubt all over the frown on his eyebrows.

“Of course you do.” You retort immediately, like it’s obvious. Because it is.

His whole expression softens at your words, big blue eyes staring right into yours and you think of how much he looks like a kicked puppy right now. It makes you want to smile.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.” His apology is genuine. And he looks regretful for having to do it for the second time today.

Your reflex is to want to say that ‘it’s fine’. But you don’t. Because it actually feels good to know that he is sorry. So you nod slowly, accepting but not leaving space for anything else.

“It’s still a little bit of a— sore subject? My back.” Langdon tries, grimacing at the way his words come out. “I’m working on it, i promise.”

You let your lips pull into a sympathetic smile, “I understand. Didn’t mean to make it seem like you’re weak or in need of help.”

“You didn’t.” He asserts with a shake of his head. “It was hurting. It hurts even more today because of how long i haven’t worked for.”

Your shoulders brush and you feel a shiver on your arms, even over how warm it feels. “Is there anything i can do to help?”

“Are you by any chance a good massager?” The doctor jokes with a teasing smile.

But you take it in consideration, fingers moving before you get to rethink your actions.

His eyes widen once he realizes what you’re doing. “I was just joking, you don’t—”

“I can do it.” You interrupt.

Your hand reaches for his lower back, moving closer as you press your fingers into the muscles there to try to bring some tension down. You use your thumb to make slow circles on the muscles on either side of his spine, pleased when he lets out a sigh.

“You forget i’m a pretty good doctor too.” You play, voice lower.

“You are.” He hums, a little distracted by the touch of your fingers even if over his shirt.

The realization of the intimate moments has your heart pounding against your ribcage, almost jumping out of your throat in the process. You’re glad he can’t feel how hot your skin right now.

“Does that help?”

“Yeah.” Frank breathes, air puffing out of his lips slowly — you can’t help but look at the way his throat looks good as it does, not even when he adverts his eyes back to yours.

You wish you had the courage to slip your fingers inside his shirt and feel his skin that radiates with warmth over the shirt.

With sudden embarrassment you pull away, breathing in a little too hard as you try to make yourself look composed. But the man next to you seems just as flustered, hand running through his hair like it became messy for no specific reason.

“Hey.” He calls after another moment. “Wanna go out for dinner?” It comes off casually, his lips pressed together in a line of an awkward smile.

You chuckle in surprise, “As celebration for your successful return?”

Something flickers in his eyes, “Sure.”

As much as you want to, it could get too late really quickly and you don’t have the will to walk all the way home late at night. “I’d love to, but i’ll have no way to get home after.”

“I can drop you off.” He says simply.

“Are you sure?” You ask with uncertainty, feeling a little like a bother.

The look Langdon throws you tells you he’s offended you’re even asking, eyebrows raised because the answer is obvious. “Never been more.”

“Okay.” Your words are sheepishly, “Thanks.”

“C’mon.” He motions with his head towards the street, arm reaching out for a moment like he’s going to wrap it around your shoulders before he drops it back on his side.

You end up getting take away, finding an empty bench on the park and making yourself as comfortable as possible with boxes scattered all around.

The hum that leaves your throat is honest as you have your first bite, stomach finally happy after not having a real meal for hours.

“I don’t know how you like those.” Frank grimaces as you stuff a french fry inside your mouth.

“They’re perfect.” You shrug with indifference, more interested in the food in front of you.

“They’re soggy.” He points with a bite of his own burger, sauce on the corner of his lips in an adorable way.

“More for me.” You retort happily.

Langdon can’t help but it set his eyes on you for longer than needed, taking in your tired expression and wrinkly clothes. Your untied shoes and the way you curl into yourself, eyelids closing and opening slowly. He could look at you like this forever, vulnerable and sweet.

“What?” You frown as you notice his staring, napkin coming up to your mouth in attempt to clean the reason of it.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head with a small smile. “‘S just weird. Us not arguing all the time.”

You cock your head to the side in confusion, “I guess.”

What you don’t know is that he’s scared you liked him better before. Because what you said about him being different is true and your words have stuck on his brain like a vine. He’s just hoping you mean it in a good way.

“Do you miss it?” The vulnerable question comes out before he gets to stop it, voice small.

“Miss what?” You ask after a sip of soda, still unaware of his distress.

“Our bickering.”

You pretend to think for a moment. “A little.” You answer teasingly, smirk on the corner of your lips.

Frank’s stomach drops just a little, “Wow. So rude.” He tries to joke back, but the way his chuckle comes out force has you looking at him.

“Frank.” You bump your shoulder with his as reassurance, “I like different.” I like this version of you. Although you don’t say it.

He takes it, relaxed at your words.

Conversation flows easily between you, and he feels like an absolute idiot for taking so long to finally get to know you and what you like. He’s wasted too much time. So he listens to you talking your mouth off about a movie you watched a week ago, paying attention like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever told him.

You talk about whatever comes to mind, work swirling into the conversation as you talk about your first day at work.

“I don’t even know why you hated me so much!” He quips in as you go on about how meeting everyone was.

“To be fair, you came off as quite cocky. Y’know, with your whole—” You gesture with your hands. “Perfect tidy hair and bluest eyes ever thing.”

Your defence has him grinning widely. "You think my hair is perfect?"

And the worse is that you truly do, eyes catching the strand that falls across his forehead in the most perfect pattern. You’d be stupid to say he’s not beautiful as hell. You’re sure a lot of girls think the same, it has brought a certain green eyed monster way too many times.

“Jerk.” You huff, not denying.

“I was trying to impress you, by the way.” He adds as if it’s an obvious thing.

“Right.” You snort in disbelief.

“What?” Langdon inquires, raised eyebrows. “You’re pretty.”

You’re hot at the compliment, food discarded as you clean your hands with a napkin just to have something to do other than looking embarrassed.

His fingers come to grab at yours, pulling your attention back to him and making it impossible to avoid his words. “Honest.” They squeeze your skin.

You can almost hear your heart as his eyes trace every inch of your face, stopping for an extra second once they land on your lips. The urge to lean in is stronger than you, only until you almost get to feel his breath against your skin.

Frank angles his body towards yours back, hand dropping from yours to rest on your knee. His thumb brushes over your jeans, tentatively eyeing you as to make sure you’re okay with whatever is happening. You don’t seem to hate it at all, your own eyes glued to his lips.

He clears his throat gently, “I want to do this right, i promise. I’m not screwing up this time. And i-“

“Frank.” You stop him.

“Yeah?” He’s almost waiting for your rejection.

“Shut up.” You mumble, holding back a smile at the way his eyes look a little glassier when he’s up close.

“Okay.” He nods vigorously, letting you take charge as you pull him into a kiss.

Fingers immediately reach into his hair, leaving it messy as you run them through it like you’ve always dreamed about doing. He hums at the gesture, free hand coming to rest against your ribs.

You’re sure he can probably feel your heart beating wildly against them, moving closer on the bench so his hand slips down to the slot of your waist more comfortably.

The soft squeeze he leaves there has you melting against him, fingers wondering down to his bicep and squeezing it in retribution. His muscles flex under your touch, pulling you flush against him with gentleness. His nose presses to yours with a sigh, intoxicating taste invading your mouth and having you never want to kiss anyone else again.

He’s the one to pull away after a few minutes, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek for good measure and keeping you close even without his mouth on yours.

“Everyone’s betting on this at work.” You sigh at his mouth against your jaw. “We should pretend to hate each other and make them all lose.”

“They’re all betting on us getting together?” He asks unfocused.

“Yeah.” Before adding with a tease, “Wonder where they got that idea from.”

He hums with a pinch on the softness by your hip, “Don’t think i’m gonna be able to pretend i don’t wanna kiss you all the time.”

You could be okay with that. You think as he pulls you into a warm hug, pressing one last long kiss to the top of your head.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.

And so, it came as no surprise to him that seeing you laying on your stomach on your bed—in nothing but one of his t-shirts and those soft pink panties that drove him insane as you read Wuthering Heights—made his cock twitch. The blood rushed south as you hummed, flipping a page while you read intently.

Maybe it was the fact he had just showered—his hair still a little wet and only wearing his boxers. Or maybe it was the t-shirt and panties combination you were wearing that made him so horny. That was definitely a contributor. But honestly? It was you reading that did it for him. He loved that look of concentration you got. Loved it when you got into whatever you were reading.

He walked over to the bed slowly—his cock straining against his boxers as you lay there reading without even noticing him.

His eyes roamed over your body as he stood by the edge of the bed—focused on the backs of your thighs, your calves. He could smell that sweet vanilla body lotion you used and he swears he gets even harder. And when you move your legs just so that his shirt rides up on you and he gets a view of your plump ass cheeks—he knows he can’t wait a second more.

In an instant, he’s leaning over the edge of the bed—knees either side of your thighs and cupping one hand over your eyes.

“Steve,” you groan, squirming beneath him as you try and move his hand—your book falling out of your hands and onto the bed. “I was reading—”

Steve hums, body shifting closer to yours. Not pressing against it just yet but enough to make your breath hitch . He moves your hair aside so he could press a kiss to the side of your neck—shamelessly lavishing the skin with his tongue after.

“I know baby,” he murmurs gently against your skin. “You just looked so damn good. Couldn’t resist.”

It’s then that he finally presses himself against you firmly—the hard press of his cock against your barely covered ass cheeks making you feel suddenly hot all over. A familiar warmth spreads through you. An exhale of breath leaving your lips as you press back against him instinctively.

“That book making you all horny, baby?” He whispers against your skin.

You almost laugh but stop yourself as you feel him grind against your ass—just a little. Just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“It’s not that kind of book—” you murmur, trying not to sound affected. Even though you absolutely were.

Steve hums, not really listening as he ducks his head down to press a kiss another to your neck—making sure to find that spot that always made you squirm (which he found with ease). “Sure thing.”

His hand still covering your eyes made it so all your other senses were heightened. The way you could feel every hard ridge of his cock against your ass. How your heart thumped against your chest—the hardened peaks of your nipples brushing against the t-shirt of Steve’s you wore. How the bedsheets felt against the skin of your legs. How he smelt of that expensive summery body wash you used—

“Stevie, you didn’t use my body wash again did you—”

A hand over your mouth is what silences you. The sensation shouldn’t turn you on even more but it does. Wetnesses pools embarrassingly quickly between your legs, dampening your panties as your voice is muffled behind his hand.

“Forgot about the body wash, baby,” he tells you—another slow grind of his hips from behind you. You moaned into his hand as the feel of his cock against your ass like the sweetest torture—your needy cunt clenching around nothing.

Steve seemed to know that you were getting worked up because Steve just knew your body—knew all your tells. How your legs twitched as you tried not to squeeze your thighs together. How your breathing picked up. How your fingers curled into the bedsheets beneath you, knuckles turning white. How your back arched just a little.

“Focus on me, yeah?” Steve murmurs—his lips still pressing sweet kisses to your neck as he adjusted his hand over your mouth. He pulls away just enough to brush his middle finger over your lips. “Open up for me, baby.”

You do it without question. Your lips part obediently and he slides his middle finger into your mouth, breathing heavily as it makes contact with your tongue. You moan around him, being unable to see anything due to Steve’s other hand still over your eyes. Your focus zeroed in on his finger. You swirl your tongue around the digit, before you wrap your lips around it fully. 

“Want more?” Steve asks you breathlessly. He watches in awe when you nod—easing his index finger into your mouth alongside his middle finger. And when you start to suck on his fingers like it was his fucking cock—head bobbing, salvia starting to dribble down your chin, fingers gripping onto the bedsheets—all he wants to do is slam his cock inside you and fuck you stupid.

But watching you suck on his fingers was enough for now. He didn’t mind suffering for a little while longer.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes out, his hips moving again. His heavy cock—still contained in his boxers and beginning to be freed—pressing against your back. The slight friction driving him mad. “You love my fingers, don’t you?”

You hum around his fingers before taking them deeper—hollowing your cheeks as you sucked. Steve was transfixed, he probably could have gotten off on just watching you suck on his fingers. But your needy, whiny moans around his digits told him you needed more.

He hand dropped from covering your eyes to lift your hips up, fingers sliding down to run over the damp patch in your panties. You couldn’t hold back your moan even if you tried. His fingers slipped from your mouth and you saw them coated in your spit. The sight was lewd, dirty even. You barely had time to react before he was tugging your panties to the side and pushing his fingers—slick with your own saliva—inside you. Your spit mixes with your wetness and the sound is obscene but you don’t care as Steve’s fingers begin pump in and out of you.

Moans fall from your lips and your hips move of their own accord. You were putty in his hands—as usual. He loved it—loved you. 

“So fucking pretty, baby,” he tells you, his free hand finding your hip and gripping it tightly to ground himself—holding back from shoving his boxers down and slamming his cock inside you from behind. His fingers continue to move in and out of you, your hands scrambling to grip the sheets beneath as your stomach tightens and tightens—

And then his fingers curl inside you and you cry out—

“Stevie—”

He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give you a second to breathe. Instead his thumb seeks out your swollen, needy clit and that was all you needed.

Your release courses through your entire body—starting from your lower stomach and travelling all the way down to the tips of your toes.You might even see stars. Steve watches—the way he always does because—fuck, your pussy squeezing his fingers as you moan out his name was everything and more.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to your shoulder before withdrawing his fingers—slick with your release—and bringing them up to his lips. Licking his fingers clean and moaning when he tastes your sweetness. “Best fucking thing I’ve tasted all day.”

“I literally made you breakfast,” you murmur, biting back a smile as you roll over to look up at him—still blissed out, still a little dazed.

“And it was so good, baby,” he tells you, hands finding your hips to tug you closer to him. You feel how his cock was straining against his boxers—feeling that little damp patch from the precum that had leaked from his red hot tip. “But you taste better.”

“How romantic,” you say.

“Baby,” Steve murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck as his other hand pulls down his boxers—his thick cock slapping against his stomach. “There’s nothing romantic about the way I’m about to fuck you.”

You laugh, pulling him down for a sweet kiss.

“Then fuck romance and fuck me Harrington.”

Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”

Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.

You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.

The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”

Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”

Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”

“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”

The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.

Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.

Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.

Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”

Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”

You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”

The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.

The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.

Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.

Then you both burst out laughing.

You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.

“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”

“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”

“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.

“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.

He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”

Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”

“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”

Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”

“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.

“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”

Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.

That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.

Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.

“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”

You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”

“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”

“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”

“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”

You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”

You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.

It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.

“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”

He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”

You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”

You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”

He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”

You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”

He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.

Then he stopped abruptly.

You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.

“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”

He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”

You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”

He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”

You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”

“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”

You choked.

The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.

Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”

You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”

He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”

“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”

He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”

You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.

“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.

He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”

You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”

His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.

“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”

His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”

He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.

You exhaled, relieved.

Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.

“Your mom,” he said.

You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”

“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”

You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”

He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”

You blinked. “She did?”

“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”

He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”

Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”

You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”

He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”

You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.

He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.

“You’re really serious about this,” you said.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.

He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”

You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”

He nodded quickly. “Deal.”

You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”

He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”

You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”

He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”

“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”

He held up his hands. “I would never.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”

“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”

You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”

“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”

He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”

You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”

He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”

You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”

He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.

A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.

“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”

Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.

The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.

On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”

You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.

Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.

The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.

The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.

Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”

Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.

Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.

Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.

Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.

Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.

“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”

You had both ignored her.

That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.

Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.

Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.

He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.

Steve visibly gulped.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.

Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”

“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”

Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.

You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.

“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”

Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”

Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.

Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.

You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.

You both turned to look at each other at the same time.

“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”

You blinked at him.

Your mother blinked at him.

Your father did not blink at all.

Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”

Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.

“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”

“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”

You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.

“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”

Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”

“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”

Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”

Your father stared at him.

You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.

“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”

You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.

Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.

“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.

Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.

That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.

You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.

You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.

Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.

By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.

He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.

Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.

“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.

You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”

He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”

Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”

Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.

A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.

Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.

You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.

You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.

Then you noticed the customer.

She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.

You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.

His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.

“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.

You stared at him. “What?”

He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.

“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.

Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.

Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.

You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.

You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.

Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.

By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.

You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”

You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.

You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.

Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.

You opened the door and immediately stopped.

Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.

He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”

He looked up.

He stopped talking.

For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.

You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.

He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”

You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.

“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”

He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.

“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”

Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.

You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.

You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”

You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.

The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.

You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”

Steve blinked at you. “What?”

“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”

He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”

“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”

You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”

He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”

He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”

You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”

He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.

He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.

You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”

You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”

He blinked. “That’s your move?”

“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.

“Hawkins,” he said.

“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.

He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”

You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.

He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”

You grinned. “Thank you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”

You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”

He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.

“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”

You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.

You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.

You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.

You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.

He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”

There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”

You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.

His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”

“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.

He stopped. “The noodles?”

“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”

He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”

You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.

Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.

Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”

They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.

In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.

“I think I broke the rules,” he said.

Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”

“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”

Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.

“Finally,” she said.

Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.

“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.

Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.

Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”

She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”

“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”

“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”

She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”

He blinked. “You think she likes me?”

Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”

Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”

Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.

“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”

Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”

He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.

“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”

Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”

“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”

She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

He started for the door.

Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”

Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.

He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.

You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.

He swallowed. Tried again.

Still nothing.

You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.

“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”

He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”

You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”

He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.

He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.

Except the opposite happened.

Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.

Much worse.

He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.

You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.

Instead, you started getting used to it.

Then you started liking it.

You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.

Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.

And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.

At group hangouts, it only got worse.

Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.

No one questioned it.

That was the wildest part.

One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.

And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.

He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.

He did not do that.

Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.

From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.

“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”

He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”

Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.

He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.

“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.

“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”

He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”

She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.

Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”

He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.

“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”

Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”

“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”

He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.

He knew what he needed to do.

He just. . . didn’t want to do it.

Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.

When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.

“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.

The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.

You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.

He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.

He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”

Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”

Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.

You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”

The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”

He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”

You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”

He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”

There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”

He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.

“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”

The words hung in the air between you.

For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.

“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”

You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”

He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”

Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.

You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.

“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”

He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”

“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”

There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.

“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.

“Everything good?” she asked.

“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”

Lucas frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”

Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.

Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.

He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The next few days were, in a word, terrible.

Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.

You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.

You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.

What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.

You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.

It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.

By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.

She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.

“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”

Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.

“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”

“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.

“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”

Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”

You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”

There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”

You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”

Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”

Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”

Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”

“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”

Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”

“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”

You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”

Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”

“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.

You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.

You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.

“Oh oh,” Robin said.

You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.

You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.

Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.

The door swung inward and there he was.

Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.

He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.

“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”

He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.

You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”

He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”

The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”

His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”

He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”

“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”

He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”

You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”

He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.

“You. . . what?” he said.

“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”

He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”

“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”

He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”

You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.

He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”

You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”

He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”

You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.

“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”

She’d booked the rooftop venue with a suspended dance floor two months ago. There was a signature cocktail in her honor. A hashtag already circulating. A photographer somewhere in the crowd waiting for candids. 

There was no ditching this one.

So, you’d both cleaned up nicely and showed up on the dot.

Clark in black-on-black, collar open enough to see the line of his throat. You in that dress, the one you bought with trembling resolve and a credit card you almost put stuffed back in your wallet. Short. Sleek. Nothing about it said farmer’s market or Sunday potluck. 

Now, heat bloomed across your chest, your dress clinging to your sweat-slicked spine. Your hem rode up high from how often you shifted, and the breeze did nothing but toy with your hair.

The cocktail in your hand was the only cool thing about you. Lime slice half-drowned. The bass from the lower floor traveled up through your heels and into your calves, steady and intoxicating.

Lois burst into laughter beside you, head tipped back toward the open sky. Cat murmured something wicked in response, and your own giggle slipped out. You leaned into Lois’s shoulder, tipping your drink back for another sip just to keep your hands busy.

Clark stood just behind you, half turned toward Jimmy, head ducked as he listened to whatever dating escapades his pal was rambling about. He swirled amber in his glass with a tilt of his wrist. You knew that was for show, but he liked the illusion, the social rhythm of it.

Cat turned to you suddenly, manicured fingers plucking your drink from your hand before you could protest.

"Enough hovering!" she declared. "C’mon, girls. I wanna dance!"

Lois whooped immediately and spun toward the stairs.

You let yourself be pulled, pulse rising, laughter bubbling up again, but not before you brushed your fingers over Clark’s forearm as you left his side. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, raising your hand for a tiny wave.

He lifted his glass in a silent toast, go on, have fun, topping off with a soft, lovestruck grin, before turning back to Jimmy.

Your heart fluttered, and turned toward the music with a carefree laugh.

.

Things started out easy. 

Bass rolled under your feet. Strobe lights swept overhead. Sweat clung to your forehead, but it didn’t matter. You, Lois, and Cat stayed close, hands brushing, shoulders knocking, your cocktail buzz sitting perfectly in your veins. 

You were glowing, safe, and happy to be in this moment.

You didn’t realize someone joined the tight circle until a hand landed on your hip. 

It was firm, cold, fingers pressing into your dress like your body was something he’d purchased admission to.

Your smile fell instantly. The buzz you’d been riding the last hour evaporated. The music kept playing, but it felt further away now. A little less sparkle, a little more static.

Turning your head, you saw a man, older than you, maybe. Or just overconfident. Radiating some cheap cologne and entitlement. He leaned in close without invitation, cutting through your comfort like a knife

"Hey, beautiful."

You took a step back. He stepped with you, deliberately keeping close, like this was flirtation instead of an intrusion. Like he’d decided this was all harmless fun and you’d eventually laugh about it fondly with friends Monday morning at work.

Except it wasn’t funny. Not to you. Not now or ever.

Cat clocked it immediately, her expression dropping like a curtain. Lois followed suit, shifting her weight and pushing forward, placing herself between you and him to signal that he wasn’t welcome.

"Excuse you! She’s with someone," Lois snapped, her tone was the kind of warning you only gave once.

"Back off!" Cat added with a glare.

He didn’t. Of course not, that would be too easy.

"She can answer for herself," he said with a smirk, clearly proud of himself for saying it like he was taking some kind of moral high ground. His eyes flicked to Lois, then Cat, then back to you. "So what do you say, pretty lady?"

You stiffened. Your fingers curled around Lois’s, and you tugged her just slightly back towards you and Cat. You were furious. Protective—not just of yourself, but of your friends.

"I’m not interested," you answered clearly, lips tight with disgust.

The man blinked like you’d smacked him.

"You don’t have to be rude, baby," he insisted, irritation quickly dominating his tone.

"I’m not being rude, I’m saying no."

He took another step forward, ignoring Lois when she reached out to block him again. He dragged his eyes down your body, lingering where your dress clung to your waist, then where your glistening chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His tongue wet his bottom lip, not even subtle about it.

"Just one dance, baby. I’ll make it worth it."

You felt something primal rise in your chest now, something sharp and furious at his repeated advances, the repeated pet-name only one man could use on you. You said the first thing that came to mind—

"You know what? My husband's around here somewhere."

Husband. 

No stuttering, stumbling, or hesitation. Like you’d rehearsed it for months in the privacy of your own thoughts. Beneath the anger and the adrenaline was the image of Clark earlier — head tipped toward Jimmy, listening politely, but glancing at you every few seconds

"He’s not going to like you doing this," you added. You didn’t look at Lois or Cat, didn’t want to see their surprise. "You should go before he sees you harassing us."

The man scoffed, mouth tugging crooked when he snatched your left wrist. The man’s hand was a vise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your wrist, a sharp, possessive grip that made you gasp. The sound was small, lost in music.

"Really?" he smirked, amused. He forced your left hand to curl, and you wondered if he saw your pulse, a frantic counter-rhythm to the club’s beats. "Funny, I don’t see a ring."

You were about to respond—sharp, cutting, done with the conversation—when a solid wall of heat brushed your back. 

A hand brushed gently on your waist, a touch that didn’t pull or grip. It just rested. A claim without bravado. A presence you’d know anywhere and you flushed instantly.  

Clark.

His other hand closed over the man’s wrist, not with violence, but with an immovable, calm finality. The pressure on your own wrist vanished, peeled away quickly.

"Is there a problem here?" Clark asked, his voice deceptively even.

He wasn’t angry, per say, but his tone was tighter than usual. That soothing, easy tone flattened to something quiet and clipped. It was the voice you’d only heard a handful of times, when he’d seen something he couldn’t ignore. When he’d been pushed just far enough.

The man, who had seemed so large a moment ago, seemed to shrink into himself. He tried to yank his arm back. It didn’t budge. Clark’s fingers were like a cuff.

Jimmy stepped in behind Lois and Cat, muttering frantic check in's, gaze flicking between you and the man without missing a beat. Cat nodded once. Lois folded her arms, heat in her eyes.

"Hm, she said she has a husband," he scoffed, a weak, blustering sound as he gestured  vaguely to you. "That supposed to be you?"

Clark didn’t turn away. His eyes were fixed on the man, a storm brewing in their usually kind, blue depths. You saw his jaw tighten.

"Yeah," he replied. Calm. Certain. Lethal, like the crack of frost splitting a windshield. "That’d be me."

"Didn’t see a ring," the man instantly muttered, a last, pathetic stab.

"Didn’t hear my wife say anything, but no," Clark retorted just as fast, his stare just as powerful even behind his glasses. "Once should’ve been enough."

The message was clear: This discussion is over. You are leaving now.

The man faltered. He took in Clark’s height, the breadth of his shoulders that even his simple button-down couldn’t disguise, the quiet power in his stance. The calculation was swift, cowardly. With a final, grunted curse, he wrenched his arm free—because Clark let him—and melted back into the crowd, a shadow swallowed by brighter lights.

The music slowly thumped back into focus. Jimmy remained a steadying presence, his concern a stark contrast to the dance floor's neon lights. Lois exhaled sharply, her own protective fury deflating. 

"What an asshole!" she spat, adjusting her top. 

Cat, ever the poised hostess, smoothed a hand over her hair, her gaze already scanning the crowd for any other potential disruptions. She then touched your arm.

"Hey, hun, you okay? That guy was a real ass."

You blinked and nodded, your throat tight as you were still transfixed on where the man vanished. "Y-yeah. I’m alright. How are you guys?"

"We’re fine, we’re good, we’re—"

"Actually, we’re gonna grab another round. You guys...take a minute," Lois interjected, her eyes darting meaningfully between you and Clark. She hooked her arm through Jimmy’s and Cat’s with little resistance. "Come on, guys. Something tells me the birthday girl needs something stronger!"

They were gone, leaving you in a pocket of sudden privacy on the crowded floor. You reached for Clark’s hand without thinking, and he, without hesitation, threaded his fingers through yours.

When you glanced up, his gaze was already on you—lingering on your lips, tracing the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat, before settling down to your wrist where you had been grabbed. His eyes were still dark, jaw set tight.

"Hey, you," you started, catching his attention back to your face, "how did you know? That we needed you."

Clark’s thumb traced a slow line along your knuckles before he answered. 

"I was listening to Jimmy, but I always keep an ear out," he admitted. "When you stopped laughing, I knew something was wrong. Then I heard you say no."

He didn’t elaborate further. You didn’t ask him to.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" he murmured, leaning in when the music surged louder. He gently brought your forearm up, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the fading red marks. "Lois? Cat? Nobody hurt?"

"We’re okay, Clark," you managed, raising your voice just enough to carry over the bass. You swallowed, trying to quell the thrill that had everything to do with how close he was. "I’m okay. Thank you."

He hummed, a non-committal sound that said he didn’t entirely believe your casual tone, but was accepting it for now. Still, his hand tightened around you, guiding you subtly toward a slightly less crowded, quieter pocket of the dance floor. 

Once settled, you turned into him. Your palms flattened against his chest, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath your hands. His hand remained at your hip, but he kept a deliberate inch of space between your bodies. 

"Thanks for going along with the whole husband thing," you smiled shakily, looking up at him through your lashes. "I probably shouldn’t have said it. Sorry, I just—"

He shook his head immediately, thumb stroked a small arc on your hipbone.

"Don’t say sorry, never for that," he murmured, eyes softened slightly, though the tension hadn’t fully left them. "Just irritated you had to lie to get someone to listen."

Before you could respond, the music changed again. Pulsing electronic beats faded to something slower. Heavier. A low-thumping with a sinuous, grinding R&B rhythm vibrating through the floor, curling around your ankles and into your bones. 

Clark pulled you into him as the dance floor crowded again on on cue. Chest to chest, hips aligned like clockwork. You could feel him breathe against your temple. His other hand slid from your hip to the small of your back now, less cautious, less hesitation. You felt the weight of him press against your belly, already thick and twitching beneath his slacks, already there. 

You melted into the dizzying touch, one hand drifting up to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the warm skin just beneath the curls. The other ghosted lower, below the button of his slacks, below the waistband, teasing, testing.

"It wasn’t a lie," you finally responded, the remnants of alcohol and adrenaline making you bold. "It was a premonition."

His grip faltered for half a second feeling your fingers toy with his belt buckle, then tightened as a group of women passed behind you. He grinded you along his thigh once, rough and helpless, and you bit back a whimper. 

"A premonition?" he repeated huskily, brows furrowed. 

The crowd blurred around you. Lights and shadows smeared together. You finally pressed your palm flat over the hard line of his cock while your body made its own demands again. You reached for his large hand, guiding it down to cup the curve of your ass.

"Yeah," you confessed into the crook of his neck. "You were really fucking hot back there, calling me your wife, saying you’re my….my husband."

You tasted the word again, slowly this time. Like honey dripping off your finger.

Clark exhaled hard. He didn’t answer this time. Just held you tighter, allowing your nose to graze the column of his neck. You swore he shivered as he fisted the fabric at your bottom just a hair. Grinning, you shifted your hips, slow and deliberate. Grinding once, twice. The friction of your thighs against his drew a quiet, pained sound from the back of his throat.

"My protective husband," you drawled, lush and amused. "The one who would never let a man cross a line with me."

His breath hitched against your temple. You kissed the corner of his jaw this time, hot and slow.

"My kind husband," you gushed, rubbing your palm harder. You felt him sigh so deep you felt it in your chest. "The one who checks on Lois and Cat while still managing to look like he could ruin someone without even raising his voice."

"My strong husband," you purred, both of your hands curling around his biceps as you pressed your chest closer to his. "The one who didn’t even need to do anything. He just showed up, and suddenly the problem wasn’t a problem anymore."

Clark flexed his arms as his hips shifted forward this time. He chuckled, pained and breathless, as you squeaked. "Sweetheart, you have to stop soon."

You recovered, grinning against his skin. Didn’t let up.

"My intelligent husband," you whispered, sugar-slick and utterly devious as you tapped his glasses. "Knows better than to let me say these things on a dance floor if he’s not planning to do anything about it."

That was the final thread.

He moved before he could think, hand still firm on your ass, the other rising to cradle your jaw, tilting your face up, breath mingling with yours. His eyes burned under the strobe lights, far from playful.

"Don’t," he gritted out, his nose tracing the sensitive spot just below your ear as he leaned in. His lips moved against your skin, his heated warnings scraping over every nerve ending. "Don’t say things like that when I can’t take you home. We made a promise: No flaking tonight."

"Then don’t be so possessive, baby," you teased, nipping at his jaw. You felt him shudder. "You know how I get."

"Yeah, impossible." He retorted, though there was no real reprimand.

His hand on your ass adjusted, hiking your leg up a notch higher against his leg. The thin barrier of your dress and his pants did nothing to hide the hard, insistent ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach. The size of him, even confined, made your mouth water.

"You have no idea what it does to me. Hearing you say things like this. Seeing that man’s hand on you, hurting you."

You moaned, the sound swallowed by the bass. Your fingers tangled back in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, tugging, just a little, and his head bowed, his forehead resting against yours. 

The world, the party, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy—it all blurred into a distant, irrelevant haze. There was only the heat of Clark, the smell of his skin, the desperate rhythm your bodies were finding against each other beneath shadows and rhythm. 

"What does it do?" you pressed, breathless. You ground down again, seeking that perfect, maddening pressure as your eyes remained locked on his. "Remind me again, husband?"

He answered by finally capturing your mouth.

It wasn’t a gentle in the slightest. It was a claiming kiss. Firm and demanding yours to part, and you did immediately, a soft sigh escaping you as his tongue swept in.

He tasted like the whiskey he’d been sipping and spearmint. His thumb stroked your cheek as he kissed you deep and slow and filthy. It was a kiss that said mine, that chased away the ghost of the stranger’s leer. Your hands slid down from neck, over the hard plane of his chest, down to the waistband of his pants. Your fingers played with the belt buckle once more, a silent, desperate question.

The hand on your ass squeezed, a warning and a promise. 

"Keep this up," he rasped against your skin, "and I’ll forget where we are."

You bit your lip, fighting your wicked grin. Then, just loud enough for him to hear: "So take me somewhere. Somewhere you can forget. Somewhere you can really let go for me."

For a heartbeat, he just looked at you, his gaze searing into yours.

"You’re serious?" he asked, the gentleman in him fighting a losing battle with the man who’d just staked a very public, very primal claim.

In answer, you squeezed the thick length of him once more. He jerked against your palm this time, a sharp, involuntary thrust. 

"Yes, I need you, Clark," you whispered, raw and honest. "Now. Even for a little."

Clark stared at you like he was seconds from losing it completely, then glanced at the bar behind you.

Cat was now laughing too loud at something Lois said, one hand fluttering toward a waiter balancing an entire tray of champagne. Jimmy was nodding along, chatting animatedly with a fellow party guest. 

None of them were looking at you. None of them would miss you for a few minutes.

"Come on."

He took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and turned, guiding you through the crowd. You weaved past dancing bodies, spilled drinks, and strobing lights that painted his broad back in flashes of reds, blues, and golds. You couldn’t help but giggle as you slipped away like teenagers, the thrill of pure, illicit excitement coursing through your veins.

He led toward a shadowy hallway marked with a glowing ‘EXIT’ sign, past a smaller placard for restrooms.

The noise of the club suddenly became muffled, a dull thump-thump-thump through the concrete walls. The air grew cooler as you both walked deeper into the narrow, unused hallway. It was lit by a single, dim sconce, the walls painted a deep, matte black that absorbed all other sound. 

The heavy fire door at the end guaranteed even more seclusion.

The second you were clear of the last partygoer heading to the bathroom down the hall, Clark spun you, your back meeting the cool, unyielding stone of the dark wall. He was on you in an instant, his body caging you in, his mouth crashing back down onto yours. 

His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling with yours. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands flying to his hair, gripping, pulling him closer. This was nothing like the soft, exploring kisses you’d shared before leaving for the party. 

This was filthy. 

This was married. 

This was the kiss of a man who’d just been called a husband and decided to act like one.

Meanwhile, Clark’s hands were greedy and searching like they couldn’t pick just one place to stay.

One remained at the back of your head, protecting it from the wall. The other slid down your neck, over your shoulder to push the thin straps of your dress down, gently groping a breast before roaming to your hip, hiking up your dress.

The cool air hit your bare thighs, and you shivered.

"Shit," he breathed against your mouth, the curse so rare from him it sent another jolt straight to your core. "The way you looked at me when I stepped in. Like you wanted to jump me right there."

"I did, Clark," you moaned, arching your back as his lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point, ending with a gentle bite that made you cry out. "I do!"

You fumbled with his belt, a project you’ve been rounding back on the past half hour, fingers clumsy from escalating need. The buckle finally gave way with a sharp clink. The button of his pants popped open. You dragged the zipper down hastily, and pushed his pants and briefs down just enough to free him. 

He sprang out, thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum. You licked your lips as your mouth watered, collecting spit into your palm to slick the way. You stroked him, a lewd, wet sound echoing, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture over his slit.

A groan tore from Clark's throat, deep and guttural. He pressed his forehead into the wall beside your head, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still. 

"Geez," he hissed as you stroked him. Your movements were slow at first, then faster, your thumb swiping over the slick head, spreading the wetness. 

"You’re so fucking big," you whispered, shaky with awe. You’d felt him before, inside you, countless times, but it always struck you anew. The sheer, magnificent scale of him. Being the only woman to have this part of him. "I love your cock, baby. I love how hard you get for me. How much you want me."

"A-always want you," he rasped. His hands went to your hips, yanking your dress up around your waist. The cool air hit your bare thighs.

"Lift a lil’ bit for me," he urged, one shoe tapping against your heels.

Not breaking your grip on him, you lifted one leg, then the other, letting him peel the scrap of lace down your legs and past your shoes. He stuffed it into the pocket of his pants, a possessive, thoughtful gesture that made you squeeze your thighs together. He traced your slit once with an eager finger, exhaling deeply.

"Sweetheart, you’re already—you’re so wet. All because I told some guy to get lost?"

"Y-yes, of course! It was hot!" you panted, arching he parted your folds further, circling your swollen clit with rough, perfect pressure. "C-clark!"

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, your strokes faltering.

"No, call me the other thing. The other word," he pleaded, doused in want.

He pushed one finger inside you, then a second almost immediately, the stretch delicious, filling. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a wet, tight grip.

"You mean—husband?" you whimpered, your hips rocking against his hand as you gripped his shaft harder and faster. "My—husband."

He nodded, eyes half-lidded in hunger, his breath coming in harsh pants. He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your legs buckle.

You cried out, the sound echoing off the stone, and your grip on him tightened. He groaned, bucking into your hand while he added a third finger, the stretch exquisite, filling you perfectly, preparing you for what was to come. You could feel the muscles in your walls fluttering around the intrusion, aching for more. 

"That’s it, hon. Relax for me, beautiful. Feels good?"

The praise, combined with the rough, intimate penetration, had you spiraling. You dropped your head back against the wall, your breath coming out in ragged pants. 

"So damn good, baby… please—I need you."

He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth. He never broke eye contact as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around his own digits, tasting you. The visual was so erotic you thought you might come from that alone. 

"You need me how?" he asked, peppering light kisses along your burning cheeks, your jawline, waiting for your answer. 

"I-I need you t-to make love to me—fuck me—whatever you want to call it," you begged, beyond pride, beyond anything but the desperate, clawing need between your soaked thighs. "I just need you inside me!"

He lifted you then, his hands under your ass, boosting you up effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, clinging to the collar of his shirt. The rough fabric of his trousers scratched your inner thighs as he guided himself to your entrance, the broad, wet head nudging against your slick cunt, stealing your breath. 

You moaned as you kissed Clark while he pushed in. You took in the love, the possessiveness, the barely leashed power of the man who gently kiss your forehead every morning, and the one who was about to wreck you right into concrete.

It started off as a slow, steady pressure, a breathtaking stretch that burned so good. A guttural groan tore from his throat, and your own mouth fell open in a series of quiet cries as your nails dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders. You felt every inch as he filled you, stretching you open, claiming a space that felt made only for him. 

"O-oh," he breathed, his own composure shattering as your walls already started tightening around him. He didn’t move for a long moment, just held you there, trembling, letting you adjust, letting you feel the complete, overwhelming fullness of him.

"You feel... Gosh, you feel like heaven, sweetheart."

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, small huffs of air against his galloping pulse, encouraging him to move. He pulled back, almost all the way out, the drag exquisite and torturous, then surged forward again. 

The rhythm soon turned hard, desperate, a raw piston of his hips that drove you back against the stone with every thrust. Slap-slap-slap of skin on skin mingling with the muffled bass from the club. 

His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in, holding you open for him, adjusting the angle. Each thrust rocked you, jolting you against the unyielding, rough surface, the friction of his body against your engorged clit with every snap of his hips sending sparks flying behind your eyes.

"You feel incredible like this." he grunted. He shifted his grip, one arm banding across your lower back to hold you steady, the other hand dropping to where you were joined. His thumb found your clit, circling it with rough, perfect pressure. "So—tight—warm."

You were babbling, a stream of filthy, worshipful praise buried in the crook of his neck. 

"Yes, f-fuck y-yes… so deep… you fill me up so good, Clark… please—h-harder…"

"S-say it," he grunted, his pace never faltering. "Say it again."

"My husband," you cried out, voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust. "My Clark. My good, strong, incredible man. Fuck me."

One of the thin straps of your dress had slipped entirely down your shoulder. Clark ducked his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast, peeling the silky pasty off your nipple with his teeth, the little snap of adhesive loud in your ears. He spit out the cover, then his hot, wet mouth closed over a peak, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive bud. 

The dual sensations of deep, relentless pounding and the sharp, sweet assault on your breast pushed you toward the edge with terrifying speed. Your impending orgasm coiled tight in your belly.

"B-baby, I’m–Ah!---gonna… I’m so close…gonna cum—"

The music through the walls swelled again, a pounding beat that matched the pounding of his hips, the pounding of your blood. You were a mess of sounds: his ragged grunts, your high, desperate mewls, the slick, wet schlick of his cock driving into your soaked cunt, over and over.

"I got—you. You’re everything," he whispered hoarsely against the valley of your breasts. "A-always—have been."

It was the tenderness in the midst of the filthy, frantic fucking that undid you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your climax ripped through you. Your entire body convulsed, a raw, ragged cry tearing from your throat as the pleasure blinded you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your walls clamped down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses, and you felt him swell even larger inside you, felt the first hot, urgent pulse at the root of his cock.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he praised, slowly his thrusts as you rode out your orgasm, feeling a new wave of slick coat his shaft. 

"Mmm, c’mon, baby," you challenged, raw and desperate for his release. "Fuck me like I’m your everything then. Like I’m your wife already. Like I'm already a Kent."

He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Y-you will," he promised. "You’ll have—my name. You’ll wear my ring." He rocked into you again, a rough, possessive surge in energy.

"Right here." He kissed your left ring finger where it lay against his neck. "You’ll wear it to work. In the shower." Another sharp, deep thrust that made you cry out. "In bed when I’m making love to you. You’ll never take it off."

"No, never," you breathed, the promise a vow. 

You could feel another orgasm building, a fast, deep, internal tightening sparked by his words, by the feeling of him still moving inside you, by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it all.

"God, baby…don’t stop…please don’t stop—"

"I’m–not," he panted, his pace gradually increasing again, finding a new, deeper rhythm. "I’m never gonna stop."

He thrusted into you with a new, devastating force, losing all rhythm, becoming pure, driving need. His eyes held yours for a moment, a blue flame in the dim light. You could see the moment his control shattered.

"I’m gonna—hon, I’m —" he choked out.

"Do it," you gasped through your pleasure-fogged brain, your body clamping tight around him again. "Fill me up. Give it to me, baby!"

With a final, deep, grinding thrust that seated him impossibly deep, he came with a guttural moan, stifled against your shoulder and by the pounding club music. 

You felt it, the hot, sudden flood inside you, an abundant rush that seemed to go on and on. A thick, spill began to seep out around the tight join of your bodies, a slow trickle down your inner thigh onto the floor.

The feeling of being so utterly filled, claimed, was profoundly satisfying, and triggered another climax out of you.

Both of you trembled in the aftermath, clinging to each other, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in ragged, syncopated pants, sweet nothings, and kisses. 

His softening cock slipped from you with a wet, soft plop, followed by a trickle of his release down your thighs. You shuddered at the sensation, the explicit evidence of what you’d just done in the dark corner of a high-end club.

.

Slowly, carefully, Clark lowered you until your heels touched the floor again. Your legs buckled instantly, and he caught you, his arms a steady band around your waist. 

For a long moment, neither of you really spoke. There was only the sound of your breathing, yours uneven and his not much better, and the distant thump of the next song being remixed. 

He pressed soft, scattered kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your swollen lips. His hands, so rough and firm moments before, were gentle as he tugged your dress back into place, smoothing the tabric over your hips. He reached in his back pocket, offering your thong. 

You stared at it for a moment, and instead of taking it, you stuffed it back in his back pocket, a smug, wicked grin gracing your lips.

Clink blinked once before turning away to laugh. 

"You’re impossible!" he exclaimed, though the fondness directed at you gave him away completely.

He lifted both hands to your face, thumbs swiping carefully under your eyes where your mascara had smudged. 

"Hm, mascara’s a little… dramatic," he murmured, his voice hoarse but tender. "Very punk rock. A little incriminating."

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, and leaned your forehead to his chest, listening to the strong, gallop of his heart slow to something recognizable again. His hand came to the nape of your neck, massaging lightly.

"I meant it, you know," you murmured.

His hands stilled. "Hm? Meant what?"

"The husband part. All of it," you whispered, the vulnerability sharp after the intense physicality. "Wanting to be your wife."

A soft, wondering sound escaped him. 

"Oh." He took your left hand, lifting it between you. He pressed a slow, gentle kiss to your ring finger again, his lips warm and lingering on the bare skin. 

"Well I meant it, too." he murmured against your skin. He glanced up at you then, not teasing or cocky. Just earnest in that infuriatingly sincere way that made your heart skip a beat. 

"We can talk more about it at home, but," he added quietly, thumb tracing the base of your finger, "you’ll have something right here soon. And nobody’s ever going to question it again."

"Sounds like a plan," you sighed before tugging him down for another kiss, open and steady, a kiss of aftermath and promise. 

You pulled back first, reality quickly seeping in as the corner of your eye caught the neon red EXIT far down the abandoned hall.

"Shit!"

You scrambled, reaching for his phone in his other back pocket, ignoring his confused protests. You blinked at his phone screen lighting up your face with dawning horror.

"Oh no."

"What? What’s wrong?" he asked immediately, alert again in a completely different way.

You turned the screen toward him sharply. He squinted against the brightness, straightening his glasses has mouthed his notifications: seven missed calls. Twelve texts. A group chat notification exploding with dramatic punctuation from Lois. One from Jimmy that simply read: dude, u guys alive?

Clark winced, sucking a sharp breath between his teeth. "Oh, uhh…hm. Yikes."

You glanced at the timestamps. Your jaw dropped. "Clark!"

"We’re still here, aren’t we?" he reminded weakly, words pitched high. "We kept our promise. Not total jerks!"

"We did not promise to disappear for almost an hour!"

"Eh, more like forty-seven minutes," he corrected.

"You are not helping!" 

He lifted his hands in surrender, except he was smiling now, that infuriating, dimpled, boyish smile that meant he absolutely was not sorry.

"Okay," he began, tipping his head slightly, as he raised an index finger, "but for the record… I wasn’t the one who asked to be taken somewhere first."

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. "You are unbelievable."

He shrugged, crossing his arms. "Just stating facts."

You swatted his shoulder. "Stop that!"

He caught your wrist easily, laughing louder this time, and tugged you closer so the scolding couldn’t gain any real traction.

"You said you needed me," he murmured, quieter now, not entirely teasing. "Who am I to deny my beautiful girl?"

You tried not to melt. "Well, you didn’t have to agree so enthusiastically."

"Oh, I think I did," he replied, completely unapologetic.

You both stared at each other for a second, then down at his phone, truly feeling like teenagers caught sneaking out.

"We’re never gonna live this down, are we?"

"No, never," you bemoaned, smiling back despite yourself. 

You were a still a mess—makeup smeared, dress wrinkled, evidence of your lovemaking warm between your thighs—and you had never felt more perfectly, completely his.

Clark slipped his phone out of your grasp and into his pocket and reaching to take your hand in his again.

"C’mon, Mrs-Eventually-Kent," he sighed deeply, nudging his shoulder against yours, squeezing your hand once. "Let’s go face the music."

And together, still a little breathless and entirely too pleased with yourselves, you walked back toward the party you had absolutely, undeniably flaked on.

Again.

.

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

“Uh… Yeah,” he nods, voice cracking under the expectant glare you give him. He clears his throat and folds his arms over his chest, biceps straining against his cream-colored sweater. “That’s the gist of it, I guess. Yeah.”

“Great,” you chirp with a shrug and a grin too sweet to be genuine. Your head whips to the side to flash the artificial smile at the solemn faces standing around you. “Our only plan to stop Vecna and save the planet is a wing and a fucking prayer—”

“Language,” Jim scolds from the other side of the room, peering over Joyce to shoot you a steely-eyed look.

“Well, I don’t see you offering up any ideas!” Steve exclaims with wide eyes, then adds quickly before you can interrupt: “Ones that don’t include getting us all killed!”

“New flash, Harrington, but some of us are gonna die!” Your retort is meant with groans of protest. Your face screws in offense. “Why are you booing me? I’m right. You guys are the ones going on and on about how this is the first of our lives, right?”

“Doesn’t mean we’re all gonna die,” Mike argues from beside you.

“I agree,” you tell him. “Either we do it my way and lose a few good soldiers in the process, or we do it Harrington’s way— the dumb, stupid, idiot way—”

“Real mature,” Steve squints.

“—And then we all die,” you conclude with a death glare that makes the boy’s chiseled jaw clench tight. You see something fiery flicker across his hazel-colored gaze, and it makes you smile all over again. “So… Up to you guys, I guess.”

—————

The gang comes up with a plan of their own while you’re away — one they keep from you and Steve, hours before the final battle is set to commence. Operation: Just Kiss Already (title pending). They have Murray escort the two of you to the storage room under the guise of dragging out artillery to pack into the Bradley’s Big Buy van.

“And I’m here instead of Hopper because…?” you trail off, lagging in the long hallway behind the older men.

“Well, because I think you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for, kid, that’s why,” Murray croons with a sarcastic grin that he flashes you over the shoulder of his fur-lined coat.

Your features crumple with disgust. “Don’t make me puke…”

He rolls his eyes behind his thick glasses and wrenches open the storage room door, waving an arm to beckon you and Steve inside. You step past the threshold behind the taller boy, and the stale air that reeks overwhelmingly of old newspaper hits you immediately.

Your heads turn in sync when you find nothing inside — certainly nothing that would be of use at the end of the world, unless milk crates of old records and a mop bucket filled with dirty still water will kill Vecna, anyway.

“There’s nothing in here,” Steve announces.

“Good observation, Captain Obvious,” you deadpan.

He flips you off with a lanky middle finger and a boyish frown.

“You idiots aren’t coming out of here until you either kill each other, or you solve this little lover’s quarrel you won’t stop annoying everyone with. So I’d hurry and get to makin’ up if I were you,” Murray lilts with a sarcastic smile, which widens at the death glare you give him. “There. Barf.”

The door slams behind him, then locks with a heavy ca-chunk.

You seethe, and point every inch of your wrath at the dumbfounded boy beside you. “Good job, Harrington.”

He cowers instinctively under your glare, scruffy face twisting with confusion that glimmers mostly in his deep brown doe eyes. “What the hell did I do?”

“This is all your fault!”

“How?!”

“If you weren’t such an idiot, we wouldn’t be locked in here—”

“No. We’re in here, because you’re on my ass all the time—”

“Because you’re an idiot!”

“You know what? Maybe this is a good thing,” Steve hums with narrowed eyes, crossing his arms over his. “Maybe it’ll teach you to be a little nicer to me.”

“In your dreams,” you scoff.

“Ooh,” Steve winces playfully, sneakers dragging on the carpet when he takes a step closer. You catch a whiff of the sweet cologne clinging to his sweater, and it almost makes you dizzy. “That is not how you’re supposed to talk to people, honey.”

“Call me honey again, and Vecna will be the last thing you have to worry about—”

Steve hisses through his pretty, white teeth. “The longer it takes you to apologize, the longer we’re stuck in here—”

“You know what?” you chirp with that same sarcastic grin from before as your hands gesture wildly. “I hope we go with your plan, Harrington. I hope the end of the world takes all of us out, so I don’t have to put up with your stupidity anymore—”

“Stop,” Steve spits through gritted teeth, with a foreign venom coating his words that you haven’t heard from him before.

There’s a strange sort of hardness to his honeyed gaze, too, that makes your breath catch in your throat. He isn’t fake angry with you now — not the kind of anger that blankets an obvious sexual tension — he’s real angry. And he’s never been real angry with you.

“Alright. Just stop,” he scolds, rogue strands of chocolate-colored hair swinging over his forehead. “The end of the world isn’t gonna take anyone out, so just— stop being so goddamn morbid all the time.”

“How about you stop being so naive?” you retort, with a foreign sort of softness that gives Steve great pause. “Not all of us are gonna make it out, okay? This isn’t like the movies where we beat the bad guy, and by some miracle, we all make it out to see some stupid happily ever after—”

“Why does it sound like you’ve already made up your mind?” Steve asks.

“Because, unlike you, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to stop Vecna,” you answer through gritted teeth. “And if it kills me, then so be it.”

“You’re not gonna anywhere,” he tells you with a knowing look in his squinted eyes.

You tilt your head to your shoulder and echo, “Why does it sound like you’ve already made up your mind?”

“Easy…” he shrugs and takes another step forward, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze. He meets your scowl with a lopsided smile. “‘Cause you’re stuck with me, honey.”

Your frown deepens. “Don’t call me honey.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want. Honey.”

Your mouth parts to argue. Steve’s kissing the words from them before you can — caging your cheeks between his calloused palms and ducking down to press his lips to yours.

It’s sinful, searing. Full of tongue and teeth and spit, not nearly as sentimental as one might expect.

You’d think kissing the person you’ve been secretly in love with for years, right before you fight a dark wizard trying to end the world, might make you a little more tender. Instead, you press your lips together like you plan on leaving bruises, asking the silent question: god, you idiot, what took you so long?

You let Steve kiss the breath from your lungs while you tug at his hair like you want to pull it from the root. His palms are wide and warm on your ribcage as he urges you backwards. You stumble aimlessly on your feet until your ass meets the desk against the wall. You perch yourself on the edge of it, and Steve situates himself instinctively between your thighs.

You sigh hard through your nose when his tongue swipes into your mouth, like velvet brushing velvet. Steve grumbles when you pull harder at his hair. Your swollen mouths click when he pulls away, panting and wearing your spit all over his rosy lips.

“Are you sure?” he wonders through labored breaths. “About this?”

“Well, we aren’t getting out of here until we make up, right?” you tell him, kissed lips curling into a devilish grin. “So let’s make up.”

—————

You hope to god that Murray isn’t standing guard outside the door just now. Because, if he is, the poor asshole’s getting the show of his life.

The windowless storage room of the WSQK station swells with sex, growing quickly humid and filling with a chorus of panted breaths, dull clapping, and wood scraping against concrete.

Steve hides his groans in your neck as your thighs curl tighter around his waist, now bare with your jeans left in a forgotten pile on the floor. He whimpers under his breath every time your dripping pussy clenches around his stiff, sensitive cock — so you do it a few more times more intentionally, just to hear him whine.

“Move,” you command when his shallow thrusts slow to a stop.

“I can’t,” he huffs, gripping you tighter by the waist, like holding you will stave off his orgasm a little longer.

“Yes, you can,” you tell him. “Now move—”

“I’ll cum,” he confesses, voice breaking. “I don’t— I want you to— I want this to last—”

“Well, we don’t have time for that, now do we?” you deadpan in lieu of telling him that you’re much closer than he thinks, ‘cause the coarse thatch of dark hair above his cock is brushing your swollen clit with each of his thrusts. “I don’t care if you cum early, alright? We have to get back out there soon, so man up and make me cum, Harrington— Oh, fuck…”

His hips tilt back and forward again before the words can properly leave your mouth. He punches harder into you, pushing you further into the concrete wall behind you and staving off his own orgasm through gritted teeth.

He parts from your neck for the first time in several minutes, lidded eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to memorize you. He’d paint you if he could, with your eyes squeezed shut and your nose bridge scrunched, and your mouth parted in pleasure. He grins when your fingers tighten at his shoulders, balling the thick fabric of his sweater into your fists.

“There you go…” he hums lowly, as if he weren’t whimpering for you just moments ago. “You don’t have to be so mean to me, honey. You know I’ll take care of you—”

“Shut up,” you huff, fighting back the moan welling in your throat.

“That’s okay, honey,” Steve hums, breaths stuttering between his shallow thrusts, which makes his hair sway over his glassy eyes. “I know you don’t mean it—”

“Shut up!”

You vaguely hear him laughing over your own pleasure, much louder in comparison as it swells within you. Steve cups his large hands under the bend of your knees when they start to slip from around his waist, hiking them further up and pressing him deeper inside of you in the process. A high-pitched whimper leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

Steve laughs through his own moans. “Yeah. There it is…” he croons. “C’mon. Give it to me, honey. You can do it. Cum f—”

His eyes widen when your palm claps suddenly over his mouth. You keep your eyes shut tight, your bottom lip caged between your teeth, and your hand over Steve’s mouth when you cum — back arching off the concrete wall behind you, thighs trembling around his waist.

Steve forgets his own pleasure in that moment and just watches you melt into a pool of honey below him, leaking around his cock just the same. He fucks you through every inch of your high. You feel his smile curling against your palm as your burning skin starts to buzz from the ebbing aftershocks. He waits until your trembling stops to—

“Ew!” you exclaim, jerking your hand away from his scruffy chin. Your face screws at the feeling of saliva cooling on your palm. “Did you just lick my hand, you weirdo?”

He just laughs.

“Oh, my god— You’re disgusting!”

Clark.

The silly grin broke across your face before you could stop it. You slid the card back into the arrangement and tried to refocus on your monitor, but the words blurred. A coworker nudged your shoulder. “Is this, like, the third time this month? Flowers at the office? You sure he’s real and not, like, some romance novel you manifested?”

You laughed softly, ducking your head. “He’s real. Trust me.”

And he was. Clark Kent. Sweet, impossibly polite Clark, who had held the door open for you the first day you’d met, who walked you home after dinner even though his apartment was in the opposite direction, who never forgot to ask about your day and actually listened to the answer.

He was the kind of guy who remembered that you liked sugar in your coffee but hated cream, who called his mom once a week without fail, who looked you in the eyes like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

It felt absurdly… easy with him. No guessing games, no disappearing acts, none of the constant anxiety you’d carried from relationships past. Just Clark, steady and warm as the Kansas summer he came from.

That night, he showed up at your apartment door holding a bag that smelled like takeout pad thai. “Dinner,” he said with a sheepish grin, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Flowers at my office and pad thai at my door? You know you’re setting the bar way too high, right?”

Clark tilted his head, his smile spreading slow and easy. “Then I’ll just have to keep meeting it.”

It wasn’t the grand words that melted you. It was the way he said them, simple and honest, as though they were the most obvious thing in the world. You let him in, taking the bag from his hands as he shrugged off his coat. “One day, my coworkers are going to make a betting pool about you,” you teased, placing the food on the counter. “Half of them are convinced you’re secretly a model.”

Clark actually laughed at that, low and warm. “A model? That’s new. Usually people just assume I’ve got hay stuck to my boots.”

“Don’t tempt me, Kent. I’d pay to see you in a cowboy hat.”

He shot you a mock-stern look over his glasses, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway.

You were used to sweet gestures from Clark now—flowers, food, the way he carried your groceries as though they weighed nothing. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he never seemed to be playing a part, never doing it for show. His kindness wasn’t performative. It was him.

And that, more than the lilies and roses sitting on your desk, terrified you in the best possible way. Because for the first time in a long time, you believed you’d found someone who really was too good to be true.

---

The rain had started sometime around eight, soft at first and then pounding against the windows in steady sheets. You were curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint glow of the TV screen painting the living room in flickering light. The scent of popcorn filled the air, warm and buttery, though you hadn’t touched it yet because Clark had insisted on being the one to make it.

You watched him in the kitchen as he moved about with an almost comical level of focus, peering down at the stovetop pan like it held the secrets of the universe. The sound of kernels popping filled the silence, punctuated every so often by his quiet hum—something you had noticed he did when he was comfortable. A little tune, off-key but charming, that made the apartment feel more like home than it ever had before. “Clark,” you called, smiling when he glanced over his shoulder at you with that earnest look that always knocked the air right out of your lungs. “You know we could’ve just microwaved a bag, right?”

He blinked, adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. “But this way’s better.”

“Better, or just an excuse to hover over a pan like a mad scientist?”

His grin broke through, bright and boyish. “Maybe both.”

By the time he brought the bowl over, full to the brim, you’d already queued up the movie. He sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, the couch dipping under his weight. You pulled the blanket over both of your laps, and his hand slipped under it almost instantly, warm and calloused against your own. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze without even looking, eyes fixed on the opening credits. “You always do that,” you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Do what?”

“Hold my hand like you’ve been waiting all day just to do it.”

Clark was quiet for a moment, then angled his head to glance at you. His blue eyes caught the light of the TV, clear and startling even in shadow. “Maybe I have been.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest tightened in the best way. “Dangerously close to cheesy, Kent.”

“Mm. But you like cheesy.”

You couldn’t argue with that, so you only smiled, turning back to the movie as you dug a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. Clark let you, though you noticed he hadn’t touched any yet.

Half an hour in, you caught yourself watching him more than the screen. He was invested in the film, brows furrowed slightly, mouth parted just enough to show he was completely drawn in. You’d seen that expression before—whether you were talking about your day, whether he was leafing through a book at your apartment, whether he was holding a conversation with a stranger on the subway. He paid attention. Real attention. The kind that was so rare it felt almost like a miracle. When he caught you staring, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “What?” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the movie’s dialogue.

“Nothing.” You shook your head, settling back against him. “Just… you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

He chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was second nature. “I don’t know about perfect.”

“Well, I do,” you murmured, and you meant it. Every silly, sappy word. You stayed like that for the rest of the night, tangled under the blanket, Clark’s arm warm around you. The rain kept on against the windows, the popcorn slowly dwindled, and you thought—not for the first time—that if this was all there ever was, it would be enough.

---

Saturday mornings with Clark had become something of a tradition, though you couldn’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was the first time he’d shown up outside your building with two coffees in hand and said, “come on, there’s a farmer’s market a few blocks over,” like it was the most obvious idea in the world. Since then, it had become your ritual: wake up late, wander through the market together, buy things you didn’t really need, and eat pastries that were too sweet for breakfast but somehow perfect anyway.

That morning was no different, except that the sun was shining in the kind of way that made the city look alive—golden light glancing off windows, air already warm but softened by a breeze that carried with it the smell of bread, flowers, and fruit.

Clark walked beside you with the easy confidence of someone who seemed made for sidewalks and crowded streets, though he still had that Kansas farm-boy way of greeting everyone. A smile here, a nod there, the occasional “good morning” to a vendor who looked half-asleep. You carried a tote bag slung over your shoulder, already heavy with apples and a jar of honey Clark had insisted you try because “the bees here are different, you can taste it.”

He reached over to lightly brush the back of your neck as you stopped at a stall bursting with sunflowers. “These look like you,” he said, just as casually as if he’d said these are yellow.

You raised a brow, half teasing, half flustered. “Tall and prone to wilting in the heat?”

Clark laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and shook his head. “Bright. You make people stop and smile.”

You didn’t have a good comeback for that, so you busied yourself pretending to examine the flowers. The vendor, an older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun, caught the exchange and grinned knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a sweet one,” she said to you, as though Clark wasn’t standing right there.

“He’s alright,” you replied, fighting your smile as you glanced up at him. Clark ducked his head, clearly embarrassed, and you felt a rush of affection for the way his ears turned pink when someone complimented him.

Eventually, you moved on, weaving through stalls filled with homemade jams and colorful scarves. Clark stopped to taste every sample offered to him—bits of cheese on toothpicks, slices of peach, small cups of cider—and made thoughtful little comments to each vendor. You teased him for it, whispering, “you know you don’t have to write a review for every single one, right?”

“I just think they should know their work’s appreciated,” he said earnestly, handing a few dollars over for a small loaf of bread you weren’t sure you needed. “It’s not easy, making something with your own hands and putting it out here for people to judge.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart twist in that way it always did when you realized, again, that this was who he was. Not an act. Not something he put on to impress you. Just Clark—kind in ways that were almost disarming. At one point, you both stopped at a stand selling handmade candles. The vendor had arranged them in neat little rows: lavender, vanilla, cinnamon, pine. Clark picked one up and held it under your nose, his hand brushing against your cheek as he said, “this one smells like Christmas.”

You inhaled, smiling. “You’re right. We should get it.”

“You sure? You already have three candles on your coffee table.”

“And now I’ll have four.”

He chuckled and set the jar in your tote bag without further argument. As you made your way back toward the end of the market, your bag now heavier with bread, fruit, honey, and candles, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through yours. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; he just did it in that simple, steady way of his, like holding your hand was as natural as breathing.

And you thought about how easy it was, walking with him. How different it felt from every other relationship you’d had—no guessing, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth, laughter, little touches, and the steady certainty that he wanted to be there, with you, exactly in that moment. You let yourself believe, just for a little longer, that maybe he really was too good to be true.

---

You checked your watch for the third time in ten minutes, the ticking second hand making you more aware of the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The host had already come by twice, asking gently if you were still waiting on someone. You’d smiled politely, insisting your date would be there any minute. But you couldn’t ignore the way the waiter glanced at your empty water glass, or the way a couple at the next table whispered, eyes darting in your direction.

Clark was late. Not a little late, either—forty-five minutes.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily in your chest. Up until now, Clark had been impeccable. The kind of boyfriend who texted if he thought he’d be five minutes behind, who apologized for sneezing too loudly during a movie. It wasn’t like him to leave you sitting alone at a table while the evening dimmed outside and strangers quietly wondered if you’d been stood up.

Finally, just when you were considering asking for the check and slipping out before you embarrassed yourself further, the front door swung open. Clark stumbled in with his hair windblown and his tie loosened like he’d sprinted the last few blocks. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he looked both breathless and guilty as his gaze found you immediately.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the table. His large frame seemed awkward as he tried to shrink into the small space, sliding into the seat across from you. “I—Perry kept me late. He wanted edits on an article and I couldn’t leave until I turned it in.”

You raised an eyebrow, masking the sting with practiced calm. “An hour late?”

Clark winced, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I know. I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”

You studied him across the table. He looked tired, yes, but not in the way you’d seen him before after a long day at the Planet. There was something else in his eyes—something sharp, like adrenaline fading, like he’d just been somewhere else entirely. Still, you told yourself not to overanalyze. You weren’t going to be that person, the one who jumped on the first misstep. “It’s fine,” you said finally, your voice softer than you felt. “Just… next time, a text would be nice.”

Relief washed across his face, his shoulders sagging as though you’d lifted a weight off of them. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

The waiter came by to take your order, and you tried to settle back into the rhythm of the evening. Clark smiled, made jokes, asked about your day. He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, that warm, steady touch that usually melted every trace of frustration from you.

But even as you laughed at one of his self-deprecating stories, you couldn’t shake the image of him rushing in with his hair askew, looking like he’d just stepped out of a storm. Perry White might have been demanding, sure—but you’d never seen editing an article leave someone looking like they’d run through a war zone.

You pushed the thought aside. One late night didn’t erase the flowers, the movie nights, the mornings at the farmer’s market. Everyone slipped up eventually. Everyone had flaws. Still, as you lifted your wine glass and forced another smile, a whisper curled in the back of your mind.

Maybe he isn’t as perfect as I thought.

---

By Tuesday afternoon, you had almost managed to let the sting of Friday’s date fade. Almost. The office was loud enough to distract you—phones ringing, printers whining, keyboards clattering—but every now and then, your mind circled back to that long hour you’d spent alone at the restaurant table, pretending you weren’t being pitied by strangers.

That was when one of the interns appeared at your desk, a little nervous and balancing a cardboard tray in both hands. “Uh—delivery for you,” he said, carefully setting it down beside your computer.

You blinked, surprised. Nestled in the tray was a perfectly iced cup from your favorite café across town. Not just your favorite café, but your favorite order—the one so specific and overly complicated you barely asked for it unless you were in a mood brave enough to risk the barista’s side-eye. And next to the drink, a small paper bag with the café’s logo stamped on the front. You opened it to find a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment, exactly the way you liked it.

A folded napkin slipped out, and tucked into it was a note, written in Clark’s careful handwriting: Sorry for Friday. Thought lunch might buy me forgiveness. —C

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth, even as you tried to shake your head at the audacity of him. He hadn’t just sent flowers this time. He’d remembered the drink you always rambled about, the sandwich you’d ordered once when you dragged him across town, swearing it was worth the hike. He hadn’t teased you for your oddly specific preferences, hadn’t forgotten. He’d remembered.

“Wow,” one of your coworkers muttered, leaning against your cubicle wall. “The flower guy’s leveling up.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the warm flutter in your chest. “It’s just lunch.”

“Mm-hm.” The coworker raised a brow. “He’s spoiling you. Admit it.”

You didn’t answer, instead sipping your drink and savoring how perfectly made it was. Later that evening, Clark showed up at your apartment, looking sheepish as he shifted from one foot to the other in your doorway. He carried a small, battered notebook in his hand, though he quickly tucked it into his coat pocket when he saw your curious glance. “Did the bribe work?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge to his tone—a carefulness, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven yet.

You crossed your arms, pretending to deliberate. “Well, the sandwich was a strong move. And the drink didn’t hurt.”

His smile softened, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You stepped aside to let him in. He shrugged out of his coat, but instead of settling onto the couch like he usually did, he came right up to you and cupped your cheek with one broad, warm hand. The earnestness in his expression made it hard to hold onto even a thread of irritation. “I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “Leaving you waiting like that—there’s no excuse.”

You wanted to ask again about Perry, about why exactly editing an article had left him looking like he’d run a marathon, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you let yourself lean into his touch, the steady strength of him grounding you. “You could’ve just texted me,” you murmured. “That’s all I needed.”

“I know,” he admitted, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “I’ll do better.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—soft but so utterly sure—that made you believe him. Clark wasn’t like the others. He didn’t forget birthdays, didn’t leave you guessing, didn’t brush things off with half-hearted excuses. When he said he’d do better, you thought maybe he actually would.

The two of you ended up eating takeout on your couch that night, watching a rerun of a show neither of you particularly liked, just because it was background noise to your laughter. Clark insisted on carrying your empty cartons to the trash, then washed the few dishes in your sink like he lived there. And as you watched him hum off-key while rinsing a mug, you wondered how anyone could ever doubt he was everything he seemed.

But later, when he kissed you goodnight at your door and left just before midnight, you found yourself lingering in the quiet, staring at the empty hallway. The sandwich, the drink, the apology—they’d smoothed over the rough patch. For now. And yet, a small, nagging thought twisted at the back of your mind: Why does he always leave before midnight?

---

By Wednesday afternoon, the office was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and too many spreadsheets. You sat hunched over your keyboard, trying to make sense of your notes, but your brain kept circling back to one thought: Clark always left before midnight. Always.

It wasn’t just the restaurant, or the way he’d duck out of your apartment after movie nights. Even on weekends, when neither of you had to be up early, he’d kiss you softly, make some excuse about getting rest, and disappear into the night like Cinderella running from a ball.

“Alright,” your friend and coworker Marcy said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with her second coffee of the day, “spill it. You’ve had that scrunched-up forehead look for an hour. And don’t even try to tell me it’s about your work. You get that look when it’s about a guy.”

You gave her a flat look, but she only smirked. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s nothing,” you tried.

“Mm-hm. Nothing. Which is why you’re staring at your monitor like it insulted your mother.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “It’s Clark, isn’t it?”

You sighed, setting your pen down. “It’s just… he’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Which is why this is starting to drive me crazy.”

Marcy perked up immediately. “Go on.”

“He always leaves before midnight,” you admitted in a low voice, glancing around as though confessing a crime. “No matter what we’re doing, no matter how late the night is already, he’ll kiss me, say goodnight, and go. Like clockwork.”

Marcy leaned back, considering. “And you’ve asked him about it?”

“Not directly.” You fiddled with your pen, spinning it between your fingers. “I don’t want to be clingy. I just… I don’t get it. It’s like he turns into a pumpkin if he stays past twelve.”

Marcy snorted. “Maybe he’s got some weird sleep schedule. Or maybe—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—he’s secretly Batman.”

You laughed, tension easing for a moment. “Clark? Please. He apologizes when he bumps into strangers on the subway. He’d last two seconds in Gotham.”

“Fair point.” She tilted her head, smirking again. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “Part of me thinks I should just let it go. The other part wants to… I don’t know. Test him.”

Marcy’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Oh, I have ideas.”

You groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”

“Because you’re a coward when it comes to confrontation, and I’m not.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “Okay. Scenario one, you straight-up ask him why he keeps bailing before midnight. Direct, efficient, no games.”

You raised a brow. “And scenario two?”

She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “You lure him into staying. Cute pajamas. Or better yet—slutty pajamas. Make it hard for him to walk away.”

Your face went hot instantly. “Marcy!”

“What? I’m just saying! If he still bolts after that, then something’s definitely up.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, I’m brilliant.” She patted your shoulder before standing, her coffee already half gone. “Think about it. Cute pajamas or straight-up honesty. Either way, you’ll get your answer.”

As she walked off, you sat staring at your blank screen, trying not to imagine Clark’s face if you ever actually tried Marcy’s suggestion. Still, the thought of him leaving you at your door again, just before midnight, with that soft smile and some vague excuse—

It made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to lose him. But you couldn’t help wondering: was there something he wasn’t telling you?

---

It was a Thursday night, nothing special. Clark had shown up at your door with his usual soft smile and a grocery bag in hand. Inside were the makings of pasta—fresh basil, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the corner bakery. He’d insisted on cooking, which really meant you sat on the counter with a glass of wine while he did most of the work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not quite discarded.

Dinner was easy, the kind of rhythm you’d slipped into months ago. You teased him for chopping garlic too slowly, he teased you for drinking more wine than you ate pasta. Afterwards, he helped you wash the dishes, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pot, bubbles clinging to his forearms. The domesticity of it all made your chest ache in the best possible way.

But the entire time, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—Marcy’s voice echoing, sing-song and mischievous: Cute pajamas. Or slutty pajamas.

By the time the two of you moved into the living room, the weight of it was almost unbearable. You sat with him on the couch, his arm slung around you, the low murmur of a late-night talk show filling the space. It was perfect, comfortable… but you knew what would happen soon. He’d check his watch, give you that apologetic look, and head out into the night before the clock hit midnight.

Not tonight, you told yourself. Tonight, you were going to see if he’d stay. You stretched, feigning a yawn, and stood. “I’m gonna go change. These jeans are killing me.”

Clark looked up at you with that gentle concern that was so him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart hammering a little too fast. “Just… more comfortable clothes.”

You slipped into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Your pulse roared in your ears as you opened your dresser drawer and pulled out the pajamas Marcy had planted in your head all week. Not quite slutty—but close enough. The soft silk clung in ways your usual oversized t-shirt didn’t, the hem riding a little higher on your thighs than you were used to. You checked yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm. This was either going to work spectacularly… or blow up in your face.

When you opened the door, Clark was standing in the hallway, one hand tugging at his tie like he’d been debating loosening it further. His other hand held the hem of his button-up, as if he’d been considering changing into something more relaxed. He froze when he saw you. “Oh,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. His eyes widened, and for once, he didn’t immediately mask his reaction.

You bit your lip, pretending nonchalance as you crossed the short distance between you. “Thought I’d get comfortable,” you said, fingers brushing against the knot of his tie.

Clark swallowed hard. “You look… uh—” His voice trailed off, his usual eloquence deserting him. His gaze flickered away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide where to rest his eyes.

The corner of your mouth curved as you caught the edge of his tie and gave it a playful tug, guiding him a step closer. “Cat got your tongue, Kent?”

His laugh was nervous, breathless. “Just wasn’t expecting—”

“Me?” you teased, leaning up slightly so your faces were closer.

Clark’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. You tugged lightly on his tie again, coaxing him toward the bed. “You can change later,” you murmured.

That did it. His ears turned bright red, and the tips of them peeked through his dark hair. His flustered expression was so achingly adorable you almost laughed. But he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

Instead, he let you guide him, his tie slipping through your fingers as he leaned down. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then with a hunger he usually kept tightly reined in. His hand came up to your waist, steady and warm, the other bracing against the doorframe as though he needed something solid to keep himself grounded.

You smiled against his mouth, relief and satisfaction curling through you. For once, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t glancing at the clock, wasn’t making excuses. He was here—with you.

And when you tugged him down to the bed, his flustered laugh turned into something deeper, something that made your pulse skip. Whatever midnight rule he’d been living by, it didn’t matter tonight. Because tonight, Clark stayed.

---

The first thing you registered was warmth. The second was weight—the solid, steady press of an arm curled around your waist, pulling you against a chest that rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Your sheets smelled faintly of detergent and basil, a reminder of last night’s pasta dinner. And underneath it all, the more distinct, grounding scent of Clark.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the thin morning light spilling through your curtains. It took you a moment to realize the full reality: your bare skin against his, tangled legs, the soft mess of clothes scattered across the floor.

You turned your head slightly. Clark was still asleep, or something close to it. His face was relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair mussed in a way you’d never seen before—wild and unpolished, no trace of the neat reporter who always seemed so put-together. His glasses, of course, weren’t on. They lay folded on your nightstand, lenses glinting faintly in the sun.

Without them, there was something startling about his face. You couldn’t put your finger on it—just that the edges of him looked… sharper. His eyes, though closed, seemed framed differently, as though the glasses softened more than just his appearance. For a strange, fleeting second, you almost didn’t recognize him. Then he shifted, tightening his arm around you, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. And he was Clark again—your Clark, warm and steady and achingly gentle even in sleep.

You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into the moment. For weeks you’d watched him slip away at the stroke of midnight, offering excuses that never quite added up. But last night had been different. Last night he stayed. Not just for dinner, not just for movies and laughter—he stayed all the way through. Stayed long enough that now you were wrapped in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.

“Mm,” he hummed softly, the vibration in his chest making you shiver. “You awake?”

You turned slightly, enough to catch the half-lidded way he looked at you. His voice was rough with sleep, lower than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, slow and drowsy. “Morning.”

You couldn’t help laughing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just morning?”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment, then pressed a lazy kiss to your skin. “Sorry. Not exactly awake yet. You… you’re distracting.”

Your cheeks flushed, though you tried to keep your tone light. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one, Kent.”

He chuckled, but his hand skimmed softly across your side, drawing absent patterns against your skin. The tenderness of it made your throat tighten. It was almost unfair, how he could make something so casual feel so intimate.

For a long while, you lay there like that—no rush, no ticking clock, no excuse waiting at the edge of his tongue. Just him, his heartbeat under your palm, his breath warm against your hair. At last, Clark shifted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His hand brushed the edge of his glasses, and in a practiced motion, he slid them back onto his face.

The change was subtle but immediate. It was as if the air between you shifted slightly. The Clark without glasses—the one who looked like a stranger and yet more himself than ever—was gone. In his place was the Clark you knew, mild and unassuming, the gentle reporter who said sorry when he sneezed too loud. “Better,” he said softly, like the glasses anchored him somehow.

You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t need those in bed, you know.”

He hesitated just a fraction too long before chuckling. “Force of habit.”

You hummed, letting it slide, though the little pause tucked itself away in the back of your mind. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you stayed.”

His arms tightened around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. “So am I.”

And maybe he meant it. Maybe he wanted to mean it. But as you felt him hold you, you couldn’t shake the faint, lingering thought: what was it, exactly, that had kept him away every other night until now?

You fell asleep again until the smell of coffee coaxed you out of bed more than the alarm on your phone ever could. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging his button-up shirt—the one that had landed on your floor the night before—over your shoulders like a robe. The sleeves were too long, brushing your wrists, and the fabric still held the faint warmth of his skin.

Clark was already there, moving quietly as though he belonged in your space. His tie was draped over a chair, his white undershirt soft and clinging, his glasses fogged slightly from leaning over the steaming coffee pot. He hummed under his breath, the same little tune you’d noticed he always carried when he was content. When he noticed you, his face lit up, boyish and unguarded. “Morning again,” he said, like he’d been waiting for you.

“Morning,” you echoed, fighting back a smile as you leaned against the counter. “You’re entirely too chipper for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”

His ears went pink immediately, and he turned back to the mugs. “I, uh—sleep better here.”

That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and genuine. “You’re such a terrible liar.”

“I’m serious,” he said, handing you a mug. His big hands dwarfed the ceramic, and you noticed the way his thumb lingered against the rim as he passed it to you. “You don’t believe me?”

You took a slow sip, watching him over the edge. “I believe you slept well. I just don’t think it had much to do with the bed.” Clark coughed into his own cup, so flustered you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

You sat together at your small kitchen table, the morning light spilling through the blinds in golden stripes across his face. He buttered a piece of toast like it was the most important task in the world, then slid it onto your plate before making another for himself. That was Clark in a nutshell: always making sure you were fed first.

As you ate, you realized how easy it felt. No clock watching, no excuses lined up in his throat. Just breakfast, quiet conversation, and the clink of silverware against mismatched plates. It was so normal you almost forgot last night had been the first time he’d ever stayed. “You’re going to work today, right?” you asked between bites.

He nodded, sipping his coffee. “Perry’s probably got three assignments waiting for me already.”

“Does he always ride you that hard?”

Clark shrugged, unbothered. “That’s just Perry. He pushes because he knows we can handle it. And I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”

You studied him for a moment, the curve of his mouth around the rim of his mug, the way his tie still sat neglected on the chair instead of knotted neatly at his throat. There was something softer about him this morning—unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stayed, or maybe it was just the quiet light of a weekday morning shared over burnt toast and coffee. Either way, you liked it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” you said suddenly.

Clark frowned, startled. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his foot under the table. “You make this look way too easy. Breakfast, coffee, staying the night… it’s like you’ve been doing this with me for years.”

His expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ve been waiting years to do this.”

Heat crept into your cheeks at the honesty in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. He meant it. And that—that was more dangerous than anything. You stood finally, setting your mug in the sink. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”

Clark followed suit, slipping his tie back over his neck and knotting it with practiced ease. You watched him, amused at how he went from flustered and boyish to polished reporter in the span of a few minutes. Glasses in place, tie tightened, hair smoothed back—your Clark, the one the world saw, stood in your kitchen. But when he looked at you, his gaze softened again, as though none of the armor mattered here. He stepped close, kissed your forehead, then your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”

Your chest squeezed, and you touched his tie lightly, smoothing it against his chest. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, Clark.”

“I know,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “But I want to.”

And as you walked out the door together, hand in hand, you thought maybe Marcy had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve, no midnight secret pulling him away. Maybe it had just been nerves, bad timing, work stress. Because for the first time, he’d stayed. And that had to mean something.

By the time you made it into the office, the elevator ride up had already convinced you of two things: one, coffee was the only thing keeping you upright, and two, walking in heels after last night was not your smartest decision. Every step carried just the faintest reminder of Clark’s strength, a dull ache hidden in your thighs that no amount of stretching on the commute had shaken off.

You slid into your cubicle as quietly as possible, hoping to disappear behind your monitor. But of course, Marcy had radar for these things. She popped up in your doorway like a jack-in-the-box, her coffee in hand, one brow raised. “Well, well, well,” she said, drawing the words out as though savoring them. “Look who’s late and walking funny.”

You froze mid-shuffle with your bag, glaring at her. “I’m not walking funny.”

She leaned on the frame of your cubicle, smirk widening. “Sweetheart, I could spot that limp from the elevator. Guess it worked.”

Heat rushed to your face immediately. “Marcy—”

“I told you,” she interrupted gleefully, wagging her coffee cup at you like it was proof. “Slutty pajamas. Works every time.”

You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “You are the worst.”

“The worst, but right.” She perched on the edge of your desk like she owned it. “So? Spill. Did our boy wonder finally stay past midnight?”

You dropped your hands and glared, though you couldn’t quite wipe the reluctant smile off your lips. “Maybe.”

“That’s a yes.” She grinned like the cat that got the cream. “And?”

“And what?”

Marcy tilted her head. “And how was it? Come on, you can’t dangle that limp around the office and not share at least one detail.”

You picked up the nearest stack of papers and swatted lightly at her knee. “Get out of my cubicle.”

She laughed, unbothered, sipping her coffee as though she had all the time in the world. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to give me details. But let me just say, I’m very proud. About time Mr. Perfect dropped the Cinderella act.”

Her words hit a little closer than she realized. You forced a light smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice the hesitation. “Yeah. About time.”

Marcy hopped off your desk, smoothing her skirt. “See you at lunch. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone about the limp. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but as she sauntered away, you exhaled slowly. Yes, Clark had stayed. Yes, it had been everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving. But the whisper lingered in your mind even as you logged into your computer: what had changed? What made last night different from every other night before it? And more importantly—would he stay again?

By the time work let out, the city was drenched in that golden hour glow that made everything softer—warm light spilling between buildings, the sidewalks humming with people headed home. You were halfway through debating if you had the energy to cook or if you’d end up with takeout again when your phone buzzed. Clark: Dinner? My treat. Don’t make other plans.

You couldn’t help but smile, typing back a quick bossy before slipping the phone into your bag.

When he knocked on your door later, he was balancing a pizza box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Figured we’d save the fancy restaurants for when I’m not keeping you waiting,” he said sheepishly, lifting the box like an offering.

The sight of him—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, that impossibly earnest smile—made your heart skip the way it always did. “You’re forgiven,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.

Dinner was simple, pizza, a salad he insisted on making because “we can’t live on bread and cheese alone,” and the bottle of wine you’d been saving for some hypothetical occasion. Clark poured carefully, like the stemware might shatter under his touch, and you teased him for being overcautious until he laughed and handed you your glass.

You ate cross-legged on the couch, the box open between you, your knees brushing every time you reached for a slice. Clark told you about the chaos at the Planet that day—how Perry barked at poor Jimmy until his ears turned pink, how Lois had nearly thrown her coffee at a malfunctioning printer. You laughed, picturing it, though you knew you’d never quite see the world the way he did.

At some point, the conversation shifted into softer things. He asked about your day, not just the broad strokes but the details—the coworker who’d stolen your stapler, the headline you’d been proud of writing, the way you’d stopped to buy a pretzel from the vendor outside your building. He listened to every word, nodding, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.

By the time the pizza box was nearly empty, you had your legs tucked against his, the warmth of him seeping into you. You swirled the last of your wine in your glass and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to this,” you murmured.

Clark glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening into that small, crooked smile you loved. “Me too.”

You set your glass aside and turned slightly, catching the end of his tie between your fingers. “Not running off tonight?”

The question hung in the air, casual on the surface but heavier underneath. Clark’s eyes flickered, something you couldn’t quite name passing through them, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, voice low, steady.

Relief washed through you. You tugged lightly on his tie, pulling him down for a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly, his hand finding its way to your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for it, like he’d been holding his breath until this exact moment.

Later, when the two of you ended up stretched out together on the couch, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, you realized the clock had already ticked past midnight. And he was still there. No excuses, no half-smile apologies. Just Clark, warm and solid and exactly where you wanted him.

For once, you let yourself believe that maybe the cracks you’d seen weren’t cracks at all—just shadows you’d mistaken for flaws. Maybe this was who he was, who he’d always be: steady, kind, and here. And as you drifted half-asleep against him, the hum of his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself forget every question you’d been carrying. Because for tonight, at least, Clark stayed.

---

It started as an offhand suggestion, tossed out near the end of the day when the office was finally quieting down. One of your coworkers—Janine, the type who wore three-inch heels like they were sneakers—popped her head over your cubicle wall and said, “Drinks after work? Come on, it’s been a week.”

A few of the others perked up, including Marcy, who swiveled her chair toward you with a grin. “You in?”

Normally, you would have hesitated, mentally juggling the idea of a late night out with your usual plans with Clark. But something in you wanted to prove, if only to yourself, that you didn’t have to orbit your life entirely around him. He was wonderful—perfect, even—but you still had your own friends, your own world. “Yeah,” you said finally, surprising even yourself. “Count me in.”

The group cheered, already gathering purses and coats. On the walk to the bar, neon signs flickering against the dusky sky, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Clark’s name for a moment. With guys before, this was always the part that made your stomach twist—the texts that came after you said I’m going out with friends, passive-aggressive replies, thinly veiled jealousy, endless check-ins like you were sneaking around instead of living your life.

You typed quickly: Going out for drinks with the girls from work. Don’t wait up tonight. Your finger hovered before hitting send, the tiniest tremor of nerves sparking. And then you sent it.

The reply came faster than you expected, the little typing dots barely lasting three seconds. Clark: That sounds great. Hope you have fun. Be safe.

That was it. No follow-up questions, no “who’s going?” No guilt, no tugging on a leash you weren’t wearing. Just have fun. You stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but the kind of simple you weren’t used to.

Marcy peeked over your shoulder as you slipped the phone back into your bag. “That from Clark?” You nodded, trying not to smile too hard. “What’d he say? ‘Don’t get too drunk’? ‘Remember you’ve got a boyfriend’?”

“No,” you said softly. “He said have fun.”

Marcy slowed her stride for a second, blinking at you. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A slow grin spread across her face. “Damn. Keep him. Seriously. If a man can handle his girlfriend having her own life without making it about his ego? That’s rare, babe. Hold onto that one.”

By the time you slid into a booth at the bar with the other girls, the dim lights catching on glasses of wine and cocktails, you couldn’t stop thinking about that little text. About how easy he made it to breathe. How different it felt not to brace yourself for a fight over something as harmless as a night out. Your friends laughed and gossiped, trading stories about bosses and boyfriends, but every so often you caught yourself smiling down at your phone, rereading his simple message. Hope you have fun. Four words. And yet, they felt like a promise, he trusted you. He respected you.

And for someone like you—someone who had spent too long with people who made affection feel like a trap—that was more intoxicating than anything in your glass.

The bar was louder than you realized. It wasn’t until you slipped off your stool and nearly tipped into Marcy’s shoulder that it hit you just how much you’d had to drink. Two glasses of wine had somehow become three… then a shared round of shots you’d been peer-pressured into. Now everything had that soft, slightly tilting glow to it, like the world was wrapped in cotton.

“Okay, lightweight,” Marcy teased, steadying you with a hand. “Time to get you a cab.”

You waved her off, fumbling for your bag. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“You’re weaving like a sailor,” she said flatly. “You want me to call Clark?”

Your head snapped up, indignation rising even through the haze. “No! I don’t need—” But your tongue tangled itself, and the protest dissolved into a laugh. “Okay, maybe. Just don’t tell him about the shots.”

Marcy rolled her eyes but pulled out her phone anyway. “You’re lucky he’s cute and clearly obsessed with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bar door swung open, and there he was—tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses catching the glow of the neon beer sign. Clark scanned the room, found you instantly, and the crease in his brow softened with relief. “Hey,” he murmured as he reached you, his voice low and warm like you might spook if he spoke too loudly. “Rough night?”

“Fun night,” you corrected, though your words slurred just enough to make Marcy snort.

Clark slipped an arm around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you upright. “Thanks,” he said to Marcy, his smile polite but grateful.

“She’s all yours,” Marcy said, giving you a wink before gathering her things. “Text me tomorrow, babe.”

You leaned heavily into Clark as he steered you outside. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered instinctively. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in something more solid than fabric. “You didn’t have to come get me,” you mumbled, the words half-buried against his chest.

“Of course I did,” he said simply. “I’d come anywhere for you.”

The sincerity in his voice, even filtered through the fog in your head, made your chest ache. You tilted your face up at him, squinting like you could see straight through him. “You’re too good to be true, you know that?”

His mouth quirked in that small, self-conscious smile you adored. “Or maybe you’re just too hard on the guys you dated before me.”

“You don’t leave when I go out,” you said suddenly, the thought bubbling up unfiltered. “They used to. They’d get mad. But you’re not mad.”

“I’d never be mad at you for having friends.” He guided you to his car, opening the door carefully before helping you in. His hand lingered at your elbow, steadying you until you were settled. “You deserve to have fun. You deserve everything.”

Your vision blurred for a moment—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer, overwhelming tenderness of him. By the time he pulled up outside your apartment, your head was lolling against the window. Clark circled to your side and scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, looping your arms around his neck. “Clark!” you hissed, though you couldn’t stop laughing. “What if someone sees?”

He smiled down at you, utterly unbothered. “Then they’ll just think I didn’t want you to trip on the stairs.”

He carried you all the way up, setting you gently on the edge of your bed before kneeling to slip off your shoes. The care in every movement undid you completely. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, too drowsy to form anything sharper.

“Maybe,” he agreed softly, tugging the blanket over you once you’d curled on your side. “But you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”

As he brushed your cheek lightly, you caught his wrist weakly, blinking up at him. “Stay?”

His expression softened, the faintest crack of something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And when you drifted off, his arm was around you, steady as ever—no excuses, no vanishing. Just Clark.

---

The first thing you felt when you opened your eyes was regret. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds was at least three shades too bright. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, dragging the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to block out the world.

Unfortunately, the world smelled like coffee. Fresh, rich, dark coffee. And—was that bacon?

You froze, brain sluggishly catching up. Clark. Sure enough, when you dared to peek out from under the blanket, there he was in your kitchen. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere in sight, his hair an adorably messy halo. He moved with quiet purpose, flipping pancakes on your stovetop while humming under his breath. The sight was so painfully domestic it made your heart ache even through the pounding in your skull.

Of course, he noticed you before you could duck back under the covers. His head turned, that impossibly soft smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said gently, as though his voice might shatter you if he wasn’t careful. “How’re you feeling?”

You buried your face back in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Like I fought a truck.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “No truck. Just tequila, apparently.”

Heat crept up your neck even as you hid. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice was teasing but not unkind. “Having fun with your friends? Laughing? Smiling so much your cheeks hurt?”

You peeked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “Like a mess.”

Clark shook his head, flipping a pancake with ease. “You weren’t a mess. You were—” he paused, searching for the word, “—adorable.”

You groaned louder this time, shoving the pillow over your face. “Don’t call drunk-me adorable. She’s chaos.”

He laughed outright now, that deep, earnest sound that always made your chest loosen. “Chaos, maybe. But still adorable.”

A few minutes later, he set a tray down on the edge of the bed: coffee, pancakes stacked high, bacon crisped just the way you liked. You blinked at it, then up at him, suspicion warring with gratitude. “You did all this while I looked like death?”

“Seemed like a fair trade,” he said with a shrug, sitting down beside you. “You had your fun last night, and I get to make sure you don’t regret it too much today.”

You sipped the coffee cautiously, sighing as the warmth slid through you. “You’re too nice. Most guys would’ve teased me mercilessly.”

“Oh, I plan to tease you,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But not until you’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”

You laughed, even though it made your head throb, and nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I like taking care of you.”

You froze for half a second at the honesty in his voice. No games, no performative chivalry—he just meant it. And somehow, that was more dangerous than any hangover. You sighed, sinking against him with your plate balanced in your lap. “You know, Clark, you’re making it very hard for me to remember you’re human. People aren’t supposed to be this perfect.”

For the briefest flicker of a second, something unreadable passed across his face. Then he smiled again, soft and sure. “I’m not perfect. But I promise, I’ll always try to be good to you.”

And as you sat there eating pancakes in his shirt, head pounding and cheeks hot, you thought maybe you’d never felt so cared for in your life.

---

The cramps had hit mid-afternoon, the kind that made you curl up under a blanket and declare war on your own body. By the time Clark arrived, you were a blanket burrito on the couch with zero intention of moving for the rest of the night.

He took one look at you, eyebrows knitting with concern, and immediately shifted into caretaker mode. Within minutes he’d dug your heating pad out of the closet, plugged it in, and settled it across your stomach with the same care he used for handling glassware. Then he adjusted your pillows, made you tea, and queued up your comfort show—the one you’d seen a hundred times but always came back to when you were feeling low.

Now, you were half-curled against him, your head on his shoulder, his arm looped around you. His tie was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and the warm, steady weight of him made everything ache a little less. “I hate this week,” you muttered into his chest.

“I know,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles against your back. “But I’ve got you. Heating pad, tea, bad sitcom reruns… we’ll survive.”

You managed a small smile, keeping your eyes on the flickering TV. A character tripped over a sofa in an over-the-top gag, and normally you’d laugh, but right now all you could think about was how badly you wanted—no, needed—something sweet. “God, I’d kill for a pint of cookie dough ice cream right now,” you murmured without thinking, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “Or those pretzel bites from the vendor down the street. Or both.”

It was meant to be idle complaining, not a request. You didn’t even glance away from the TV. But Clark, who had been quiet beside you, shifted slightly. His head tilted toward the window, like he’d heard something outside you couldn’t. Then, just as quickly, he was on his feet. You blinked, sitting up a little. “Clark?”

He smiled, smoothing his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll be right back.”

Confused, you frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Just… don’t move.” His grin widened—adorable, boyish, but with that same cryptic glint you’d started to notice sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “I’ll be back before the commercial break.”

And with that, he slipped out your door, leaving you on the couch in your blanket cocoon, heating pad humming softly.

You shook your head, baffled, turning back to the TV. He was probably running down to the corner store. Still, the way he’d said before the commercial break stuck with you. Because Clark might’ve been perfect, but no one was that fast.

You kept your eyes on the TV, half-expecting to hear the familiar creak of the hallway stairs or the low rumble of the elevator. Instead, there was silence—except for the laugh track blaring from your comfort show.

You adjusted the heating pad against your stomach, cocooned deeper in your blanket, and told yourself not to overthink it. Clark was just… thoughtful. Probably sprinted to the bodega on the corner because he couldn’t stand to see you suffer through a craving. That was all.

Still, when the first commercial break hit only five minutes later, you frowned. No way. Not even with the fastest cashier alive could anyone make it down, grab ice cream and pretzels, pay, and get back up the stairs in that time.

The front door clicked open just as you were starting to sit up. Clark stepped inside, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a sweating pint of ice cream in the other. His smile was sheepish but triumphant. “Got both,” he said, a little out of breath, holding up the bag like a prize.

You blinked at him. His dark hair—usually neat even after a full day at the Planet—was tousled, like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel. And his shirt… your eyes narrowed. His buttons were misaligned, the fabric tugging unevenly across his chest. “You…” You tilted your head, suspicion stirring even through the dull ache of cramps. “You were gone for five minutes.”

He froze for a fraction of a second before flashing that disarming smile, the one that usually made your heart somersault. “Guess I got lucky with the line.”

“And your shirt?” you pressed, pointing with a lazy wave of your hand. “It’s buttoned wrong.”

Clark glanced down, startled, then chuckled, fumbling to undo the buttons and redo them correctly. “I must’ve rushed. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“I notice everything,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t help smiling as he set the ice cream and bag down on the coffee table. Inside were still-warm pretzel bites, the exact ones you’d mentioned offhand. The smell of butter and salt filled the room, making your stomach grumble despite the discomfort.

Clark handed you the pint first, already armed with a spoon. “Cookie dough,” he said softly, as if the name alone might soothe you. “Your favorite.”

You looked at the ice cream, then up at him. He was sitting beside you again, calmer now, his hair still slightly wild but his hand steady as it rested over yours. “Clark,” you said carefully, “you didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.” His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. “If you’re hurting, and I can make it even a little better… why wouldn’t I?”

Your chest squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. You scooped a bite of ice cream, shoving down the dozen little questions buzzing in your head. He’d been gone five minutes. His hair looked like he’d flown through a storm. His shirt had been wrong. None of it made sense.

But then he reached over, breaking a pretzel bite in half and offering you the bigger piece without a second thought, and your doubts slipped under the weight of his sweetness. You took the bite from his hand, chewing slowly as your show returned from commercials. He wrapped his arm around you again, settling you against his chest like nothing was unusual at all.

And for now, you let yourself melt into him, the mystery pushed aside by the taste of butter and cookie dough on your tongue. Because if Clark wanted to be the man who brought you ice cream and pretzels in five minutes flat, who were you to complain?

---

You’d picked out your outfit hours ago, set your hair the way you liked it, even spritzed that perfume you saved for special occasions. Tonight was supposed to be date night—just you and Clark, dinner reservations at that little Italian place you’d been dying to try. But the clock kept ticking. First fifteen minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.

Your wineglass sat untouched on the counter. You checked your phone every couple of minutes, the empty notification bar mocking you. Not even a running late text. By the time your apartment clock chimed the hour, disappointment curled into your chest, heavy and sour. You tried to keep the doubts at bay—maybe he was stuck at work, maybe Perry was being impossible again. But a small voice whispered the same fear you’d carried for weeks: Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.

Just when you were ready to blow out the candle you’d lit on the table, there was a hurried knock at the door. You opened it to find Clark standing there, chest rising and falling like he’d jogged all the way over. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie askew, and a scrape marred the corner of his jaw. His glasses sat crooked on his face, and in his hand—cracked down the middle—was his phone. “Clark,” you breathed, all your irritation collapsing into worry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest. “I should’ve called—I wanted to call—but…” He held up the phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, completely dead. “It’s useless.”

Your eyes widened. “What happened?”

“There was an attack downtown,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some kind of—well, I don’t even know what they were. But Superman showed up, and the whole street went into chaos. Cars overturned, glass everywhere. I got caught in the middle of it trying to get out, and my phone—” He gestured helplessly. “Smashed. I barely made it through without worse.”

The frustration you’d been nursing all evening evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold rush of fear. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him inside, eyes scanning him up and down. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Just the scrape,” he said softly, touched by your urgency. “I swear, I’m fine.”

You reached up, fingertips brushing the bruise forming along his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes shifted—like he was both grateful and guilty under your touch.

“God, Clark,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scared me. I thought you’d just… forgotten. Or—” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I was worried.”

His big hand closed gently over yours, grounding. “I’d never forget you,” he said firmly. “Never.”

You swallowed, meeting his eyes. Blue, steady, so full of sincerity it almost hurt. “Promise me,” you said quietly. “If something like that happens again, if you’re ever caught in the middle of something dangerous—you’ll tell me. Just so I don’t sit here imagining the worst.”

“I promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.”

And you believed him.  Still, as you rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, another thought pressed at the edge of your mind: How did Clark always seem to walk away from disasters barely touched, when others weren’t so lucky?

The server returned with menus, giving Clark a once-over that said she, too, had noticed the rumpled hair and the broken phone on the table. But she didn’t comment—just refilled your water glasses and left you to settle back into the night.

You expected the awkward silence to linger, for the ruined start to sour everything. Instead, Clark leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I really am sorry,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “You shouldn’t have been sitting here, wondering if I was going to show up.”

The sincerity in his tone unraveled some of the tightness in your chest. You sighed softly. “Just… next time, Clark, please. Even if it’s two words—I’m alive. I need that.”

He winced, guilt flickering across his features, and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll figure out something—even if my phone’s in pieces. I promise.”

And then, almost like he’d flipped a switch, he set himself to making you smile again. He cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the guy who could ruin two phones in as many months. He teased you for picking the salad section first when he knew you’d end up ordering pasta. He even convinced the server to bring you a complimentary glass of wine, telling her—loud enough for you to hear—that you deserved it for putting up with a boyfriend who ran late.

Slowly, the tension melted. Dinner was… normal. Almost idyllic. He listened, asked questions, leaned in with that intent expression he wore when you spoke, like every word mattered. When you told him a story about Marcy’s latest antics at the office, he laughed so hard his glasses slid down his nose, and you reached across the table to push them back up, both of you smiling too wide.

By the time dessert arrived—two spoons and one slice of cheesecake you hadn’t planned on ordering—your earlier panic felt like it belonged to another night. He fed you a bite across the table, eyes warm with affection, and you thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the man you’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

Later, when he walked you home, the city was quieter, the chaos of earlier contained to distant sirens. His hand was steady in yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself you were there. At your door, he hesitated, the broken phone still in his pocket, his shirt still slightly creased from whatever he’d run through. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for not giving up on me tonight.”

Your throat tightened. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble under your palm. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, like the whole world outside the two of you could collapse and he’d still be rooted right there. And as you pulled him inside, the broken phone and the strange details of his night faded to the background, drowned out by the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d been fighting for.

---

It was the kind of sleep you only ever fell into when Clark was beside you—deep, warm, cocooned. His arm had been wrapped firmly around your waist when you drifted off, the weight of him at your back like an anchor against the rest of the world. You remembered mumbling something incoherent, felt him kiss your shoulder, and then nothing.

When you woke again, it was to cool sheets. Your hand stretched automatically across the bed, expecting the familiar slope of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. Instead, your fingers met rumpled fabric and empty space.

Blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through your curtains, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The apartment was quiet—eerily so. No humming, no clatter in the kitchen, no off-key singing from the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Just silence. “Clark?” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. Nothing.

You sat up fully, pulling the blanket around you as if it could soften the strange pang forming in your chest. His glasses weren’t on the nightstand. Neither was his tie or his watch. Even his shoes, which he’d left by the door hours earlier, were gone.

The ache sharpened into something that felt an awful lot like déjà vu. How many times had he slipped away before midnight, murmuring excuses about early mornings, work, needing to get back? And now, after a night that had felt whole—after cheesecake and laughter and whispered promises in the dark—you were alone again.

Your phone sat on the nightstand. You reached for it, thumb hovering over his contact. But what would you even write? Where are you? Why did you leave? Why do you keep doing this?

Instead, you set it back down and curled into the sheets, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent still lingered. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. You weren’t naïve—you knew couples didn’t spend every night tangled together. But the emptiness of that bed, the silence of your apartment, made it feel less like space and more like abandonment.

As sleep threatened to pull you under again, one thought echoed, heavier than the rest: What is it you’re not telling me, Clark?

---

The morning sunlight pulled you awake, sharp and insistent. You blinked blearily, half-expecting to find Clark in the kitchen again—hair mussed, glasses perched on his nose, humming while he made coffee like last time.

But the apartment was silent. The bed was still empty. You sat up slowly, the ache of disappointment settling in your chest. His absence felt sharper today, maybe because last night had been so good—because you’d thought, for once, he’d let himself stay. The knock on your door startled you. For a wild second, you thought maybe it was him. You pulled on your robe and padded across the floor, heart thumping as you opened the door. It was Clark.

He stood there with two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. His hair was neatly combed again, though you could see it had been wet recently, like he’d showered elsewhere. His shirt was fresh, his glasses polished, and his smile—soft, apologetic—hit you right in the chest. “Morning,” he said gently. “Thought you might need fuel before work.”

You stepped back automatically, letting him in even as you searched his face. “Clark… you left.”

His smile faltered. He set the coffees down on your table, careful, precise, like stalling for time. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I, uh… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d go grab coffee, maybe breakfast.” He held up the paper bag—bagels from that little shop two blocks away. “Your favorite.”

It was a good excuse. Believable, even. But you knew the truth of his rhythms by now—the way he slipped away in the middle of the night, the way his shirts came back rumpled, his hair windblown. Something in your gut whispered that he hadn’t just gone for bagels. You crossed your arms. “You could’ve left a note. Or texted. I woke up and—” You swallowed, voice thinner than you meant. “I didn’t know where you were.”

His face softened, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should’ve left something. I wasn’t thinking.”

The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto your frustration. He looked so… earnest, standing there with bagels and coffee, like all he wanted was to take care of you. Still, the question pressed against your chest: Where were you, Clark?

Instead, you sank onto the couch, pulling a bagel from the bag. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours, and passed you your coffee. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. “Big words for a guy who disappears in the middle of the night.”

He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Fair. I’ll try harder. Promise.” The heat of his lips lingered, but so did the empty space you’d woken to.

And as you bit into your bagel, chewing slowly, you couldn’t help wondering if you’d ever get the real answer about where Clark Kent went when he left you behind.

By lunchtime, you’d almost convinced yourself not to mention it. Almost. But then Marcy slid into the booth across from you at your favorite café, setting her latte down with a thud, and gave you that look—the one that said she knew you were holding something back. “You’ve got that face,” she said before you could even unwrap your sandwich.

“What face?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“The one that says, ‘my perfect boyfriend did something less-than-perfect, and now I don’t know if I should be worried or if I’m just being neurotic.’” She sipped her drink. “So. Out with it.”

You sighed, picking at the corner of your napkin. “He left. Again.”

Marcy leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp. “Left? As in, middle of the night left?”

“Yeah. I woke up and he was gone. No note, no text, nothing. Just—” You shook your head. “Empty bed.”

“Okay, that’s strike… what, three? Four?”

You bit your lip. “He came back in the morning. With coffee. And bagels.”

Marcy rolled her eyes so hard you swore she saw the inside of her skull. “Classic male deflection. Disappear mysteriously, then show up with food. Works every time.”

“It’s not like that,” you protested quickly, though your voice wavered. “He looked guilty. He said he couldn’t sleep and went out. And he remembered my exact order.”

“Sweetheart, remembering your bagel order doesn’t erase the fact that he Houdini’d out of your apartment while you were asleep.”

You pressed your hands around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms. “I don’t think he’s… cheating or anything. That’s not him. But…” You hesitated, the words tasting heavy on your tongue. “I feel like he’s hiding something.”

Marcy tilted her head, considering you. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Of course I do,” you said, frustration bubbling in your chest. “But every time I get close to asking, he looks at me like—like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and I can’t bring myself to pile more on him.”

Marcy reached across the table, resting her hand over yours. Her usual sarcasm softened for once. “Listen. Maybe he is hiding something big. Maybe it’s not even about you. But you deserve honesty. You can’t keep waking up to an empty bed, wondering if he’s coming back.” You nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. Marcy pulled her hand back, smirking again to cut the tension. “Also, for the record? If he’s sneaking out to do something boring like karaoke practice, I expect full disclosure when you find out.”

You laughed weakly, though the sound didn’t quite reach your chest. “Yeah. Deal.”

But as you sipped your coffee, the unease lingered. Because no matter how sweet Clark was—no matter how many bagels or bouquets or apologies he offered—the truth was still there, just out of reach.

And sooner or later, you were going to need to know it.

---

Saturday mornings with Clark had become something you looked forward to all week. You’d woken early without even needing your alarm, already planning which stalls you’d drag him to first—the bakery for croissants, the honey vendor who always slipped you a free sample, the flower stand where Clark always insisted on buying something “because you look like you belong in a field of sunflowers.”

The tote bag was already folded in your purse when you left your apartment, humming with quiet anticipation. You got there ten minutes early, half-expecting him to already be waiting. That was his thing—early, with two coffees, one exactly the way you liked it. But when the clock hit the top of the hour, there was no sign of him. You lingered near the entrance, checking your phone. No texts. You typed a quick one—Here! Where are you?—and waited. The bubbles never appeared.

Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. You pretended to browse a stand of homemade candles, pretending not to notice couples walking hand in hand past you, laughing and carrying bags of produce. You tried calling. Straight to voicemail. By the half-hour mark, your stomach wasn’t just empty—it was twisted.

You sat down on a bench at the edge of the market, clutching your tote bag like it might anchor you. The sun was warm, the air smelled like bread and basil, but all you could feel was the pit forming in your chest. He hadn’t just texted. He hadn’t said I’m late or I’ll be there soon. He was just… gone.

You tried not to think about the last time. The broken phone. The story about being caught up in the chaos while Superman fought whoever it was off. You tried not to wonder what excuse he would bring this time, what little gesture he’d use to smooth over the sharp edge of your worry. But more than anything, you tried not to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.

Because sitting there, alone in a crowd of people bustling through their weekend routines, you realized something painful, Clark made you feel safer than anyone ever had… until the moments when he didn’t show up at all. And those moments were starting to come more often.

You held out for almost an hour. Long enough that the croissant stand sold out. Long enough that the flowers wilted a little in the heat. Long enough that the ache of disappointment settled bone-deep. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You folded your empty tote back into your bag, stood from the bench, and walked home with your phone silent in your pocket.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your chest felt tight in a way that no heating pad or Clark Kent smile could soften. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t just that he’d missed the date. It was that he hadn’t told you. Not a text, not a call. Just… silence. The knock on your door didn’t come until late afternoon. When you opened it, there he was, hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, glasses smudged again. He had that look—guilty, apologetic, sheepish. In one hand he held a paper bag, the familiar bakery logo printed on the side. “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling out before you could even decide if you wanted to let him in. “I got caught up—there was this fire on 8th, and the street was shut down, and it all got so—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I should’ve called. I know.”

You crossed your arms, the sting of waiting in the sun still sharp. “Clark, we were supposed to meet at ten. You didn’t text. You didn’t pick up when I called. I just… I sat there.”

He winced, stepping closer, holding the bag out like a peace offering. “I know. I hate that I left you waiting like that. I grabbed croissants—they had some left at the bakery, somehow.”

You took the bag automatically, though it felt heavier than just pastries. “That’s not the point.”

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were earnest, wide behind his crooked glasses. “You matter more than anything, I swear. I just—” He faltered, his jaw tightening, something unspoken hanging there. “Sometimes things happen and I can’t… I can’t explain them right away.”

Your heart squeezed, anger and worry warring inside you. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Clark. I just need you to show up. Or at least let me know why you can’t.”

He nodded quickly, stepping closer until his hands hovered near your arms, not quite touching. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I will. Please don’t think this means I don’t want to be there. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”

And God help you, you believed him. Even as your doubt gnawed, even as the silence between texts stretched longer each time, the way he said it—raw, pleading—made you want to forgive him. You let him pull you into his arms, let him tuck his chin over your head like he could shield you from the very pain he’d caused. But later, as you sat together on the couch sharing croissants gone a little stale, you couldn’t stop the thought from circling back: What keeps pulling you away from me, Clark?

Clark stayed. Not just through dinner—which he insisted on cooking from whatever was in your fridge, humming off-key while he stirred pasta sauce—but through the soft, quiet hours afterwards, when the city’s glow seeped in through the curtains and the apartment settled into stillness.

He was attentive, almost overly so. He poured your wine before you asked, fetched your blanket before you reached for it, queued up your comfort show without needing a reminder. Every small gesture felt like a peace offering, like he was trying to stitch over the morning’s absence with warmth and familiarity.

You sat curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his, your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart filled your ear, grounding you. And yet, you couldn’t shake the memory of waiting at the market, of the empty bench, of your phone silent in your hand.

Clark shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“Just tired,” you lied.

He hummed, like he half-believed you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your arm, his touch gentle, patient. The kind of touch that usually melted every sharp edge inside you. Tonight, though, it made your throat tighten. You tilted your head up, studying him in the low light. His glasses caught a glint from the TV, hiding his eyes, but the rest of his face was open, soft, like he belonged nowhere else but here. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you,” you said quietly.

He blinked, surprised. “I never think that.”

“I just…” Your words tangled, heavy with the truth you weren’t ready to spill. I just need to know where you go. Why you leave. Why I can’t always count on you. Instead, you swallowed it back. “I don’t want us to end up resenting each other.”

His hand stilled for a beat before he cupped your face, turning you gently so you were looking right at him. “I could never resent you. Not for anything.” His voice was low, steady, full of something that felt too big for the space between you.

The sincerity in his eyes broke down whatever was left of your defenses. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed your cheek. “Stay tonight,” you whispered. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” he promised without hesitation. And this time, he didn’t. He stayed through the credits, through the late-night reruns, through the drift of your eyelids. You fell asleep with him holding you, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. When you woke in the middle of the night, just for a moment, you reached across the bed—and he was still there. Warm, solid, his arm heavy around your waist.

Relief flooded you, soft and fragile. For now, at least, he’d kept his word. But even as you closed your eyes again, drifting back into sleep, you knew one night couldn’t erase the questions piling up inside you. Soon, you’d have to ask.

---

Sunlight warmed the edges of the curtains, spilling across the floor in slow gold. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking where your body resisted because it was too comfortable, too cocooned. Clark was still there.

For a beat you didn’t move, just listened to his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, heavy but secure, anchoring you in place. He always held you like he thought you might slip away if he loosened his grip.

You turned your head slightly, watching him in the half-light. His glasses sat on the nightstand, forgotten, and without them his features looked sharper, somehow more striking. There was something in the lines of his face that always seemed just a little… different when he wasn’t wearing them. You shook the thought away, tucking it back where all your other quiet questions about him lived.

Clark stirred, eyelids fluttering, and a lazy smile curved across his mouth when he saw you awake. “Morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you echoed, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your own lips.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then sat up slightly, stretching one arm. “Don’t move. I’ll get breakfast.”

You propped yourself on your elbow, watching as he padded into the kitchen in his undershirt, the lines of his back broad and solid. It should’ve felt strange, this kind of domesticity. It was still new, still fragile. But instead it felt inevitable—like waking up to Clark in your kitchen was how mornings were supposed to be. By the time you wandered in, he had eggs sizzling in the pan and coffee brewing. He turned at the sound of your steps, his smile soft. “Perfect timing. Sit.”

You obeyed, sliding into a chair as he set a plate in front of you. Toast, eggs, and coffee fixed exactly the way you liked it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart wasn’t in it.

“Ridiculously good at breakfast,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from you with his own plate.

You ate in easy silence for a while, the clink of silverware filling the space. But as you sipped your coffee, your eyes kept straying to him—his neatness, the way his glasses were back on, the way he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.

And under it all, the memory of yesterday tugged at you. The empty market bench. The broken promises. The cracks he kept smoothing over with bagels, with croissants, with coffee and warmth.

You set your mug down, the words on the tip of your tongue. Clark, where do you go? Why do you leave? What aren’t you telling me?

But then he reached across the table, his large hand curling over yours, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “I like this,” he said quietly. “Just us. Starting the day together.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers. Instead, you let his warmth soften you again, let yourself smile back even as the questions burrowed deeper. Because for now, Clark was here. And you weren’t ready to risk losing that—not yet.

---

The night had started like any other. Takeout cartons stacked on the coffee table, an old movie playing in the background, Clark sprawled comfortably beside you with his long legs taking up half the couch. He’d stayed late all week—he’d made you breakfast, walked you to work twice, even surprised you at your office with your favorite drink. For a moment, you’d started to believe the cracks were sealing themselves.

But belief wasn’t the same as certainty. And certainty was what you needed. So when the movie ended and you excused yourself to change, you didn’t reach for your oversized T-shirt or soft flannel pants. You reached for the pajamas—the silk ones Marcy had teased you about, the ones that had made Clark’s ears turn scarlet the first time you’d worn them.

You checked your reflection once in the mirror, nerves buzzing in your stomach. It wasn’t about seduction—not really. It was about proof. If he stayed tonight, maybe you could stop worrying. Maybe you could stop imagining all the shadows in the spaces he left behind. You stepped back into the living room, heart hammering.

Clark was loosening his tie, standing near the couch. He turned when he heard you, and just like before, his reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his breath caught, and his hands stilled on the knot of fabric at his throat. “Oh.”

You leaned casually against the doorframe, forcing a smile. “Thought I’d get comfortable.”

He swallowed hard, his ears already pink. “You… you look—” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, tugging at his collar like the air had gone thin.

You crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the tie still loose at his chest. “Stay tonight,” you said softly, tilting your head up at him. “With me.”

For a moment, you thought it had worked. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering down to your mouth, every line of his body taut with want. You tugged lightly on his tie, urging him closer, and his breath stuttered.

Then his head snapped toward the window. You barely had time to register the sudden change in his posture before he stepped back, stumbling slightly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. His expression shifted—alarm, urgency—something you’d never seen cut so sharply across his face. “Clark?” you asked, your stomach dropping.

“I—I have to go,” he blurted, already reaching for his coat. His voice was rushed, uneven, almost panicked. “I’m sorry, I—”

“What? Why?” You took a step after him, confusion and hurt rising in your throat.

“I just—” He glanced at you, eyes wide, torn, like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll call you. I promise.”

And then he was gone—half-stumbling into his shoes, out the door before you could take another step. The echo of it rattled through the apartment, leaving you standing barefoot in silk, the air still humming with the ghost of his almost-touch.

You stared at the closed door, your pulse pounding in your ears. This time, there had been no excuse. No broken phone, no croissants, no story about Superman. Just raw urgency in his eyes, the kind that left you cold. And for the first time, you couldn’t convince yourself it didn’t mean something.

By the time you made it into the office the next morning, you’d barely slept. You’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, Clark’s hurried exit replaying again and again in your head—the way his eyes had darted toward the window, the almost-panicked way he’d stumbled over himself getting out the door. So when Marcy appeared at your cubicle, steaming latte in hand, you didn’t even bother with small talk. “He left again,” you said flatly, before she could open her mouth.

Her eyes went wide, and she perched herself on the edge of your desk like she was settling in for a story. “Again? When?”

“Last night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He was there. He was staying. And then… I don’t know, he just—heard something? Looked out the window? And bolted. Like I didn’t even exist.”

Marcy whistled low. “Oof. Not good.” She sipped her latte thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s brainstorm worst-case scenarios. Cheating. Secret family. Double life. Serial killer.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Marcy—”

“No, think about it!” She ticked off her fingers. “Cheater? Bad, but common. Secret family? Messy, but at least he’s not wasting all his emotional energy on you. Serial killer? Well…” She tilted her head dramatically. “What’s worse, a cheater or a serial killer?”

Despite yourself, you barked out a laugh, muffled behind your palms. “That is not funny.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she countered, smug. “I’d take a serial killer over a cheater any day. At least with a killer, you’re not competing with Susan from accounting.”

You dropped your hands, glaring at her through the exhaustion. “You’re insane.”

“I’m realistic,” she shot back, grinning. Then, softer, “but seriously, babe. If he’s running out like that? If he can’t even give you a reason? That’s not nothing.”

You sighed, slumping in your chair. “I know. But it doesn’t feel like cheating. When he looks at me—Marcy, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I can’t explain it. But then he vanishes, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it all.”

Her expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Then maybe he’s not a cheater. Maybe he’s not even a serial killer.”

“Thanks for that.”

“I’m just saying.” She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe he’s hiding something else. Something big. You’ve got to decide if you want to push him on it—or if you’re okay being in the dark.”

The words sat heavy in your chest. Because deep down, you already knew the answer: you weren’t okay in the dark. Not anymore. But the thought of shining a light on whatever Clark was hiding scared you more than you wanted to admit.

---

The knock came just after sunset. You weren’t surprised—it was almost a pattern now, Clark showing up late, carrying the weight of an apology in his posture. When you opened the door, there he was, hair neat but glasses slightly askew, a paper bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He smiled, soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him in. “I brought dinner,” he said gently. “And flowers. To say I’m sorry.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. He set the bag on the table, laid the flowers carefully in a vase like they were something fragile. Then he turned back to you, his expression earnest, pleading. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, voice low. “I know it hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

He flinched, just slightly, but recovered with that same soft steadiness. “Sometimes… things come up. Things I can’t explain right away. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here. With you.”

You pressed your hands into your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “Clark, I waited for you. At the farmer’s market. At dinner. In bed. Over and over again, I wait. And you leave.”

He took a step closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I come back. Every time, I come back.”

“But I don’t know if you will!” The words burst out, sharper than you intended. Your chest ached, eyes burning as you forced yourself to look at him. “I can’t keep doing this—wondering where you are, why you left, if you’re okay. I can’t keep waking up to an empty bed and convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.”

His face crumpled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Don’t say that.”

“Clark…” Your voice broke, tears slipping free. “You’re everything I want. You’re kind, and sweet, and you make me feel like I matter. But then you vanish, and it’s like I don’t know you at all. And I can’t—” You shook your head, sobbing quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”

He stared at you, stricken, words caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he had the right. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. “I wish I could tell you everything. You don’t know how much I want to. But—” He stopped himself, biting the words back. His chest rose and fell with a shudder.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then tell me. Please. Because if you can’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if his sweetness, his apologies, his flowers, could make this right. Clark stood there, chest rising and falling, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as though even they were weary of carrying this lie. His hand flexed at his side, and then, with a shaky breath, he spoke. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, stunned. “Clark, this isn’t—”

“Please.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Just… if you trust me, close your eyes.” The tremor in his tone stilled your protests. Your heart pounded, but slowly—hesitantly—you let your eyes fall shut. “Do you trust me?” he asked, closer now.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

For a moment, there was only the silence of your apartment—the hum of the fridge, the faint city noise beyond the window. Then Clark’s hands were at your waist, warm and steady, and he drew you gently against him. “Hold on to me,” he murmured.

Before you could ask why, the ground shifted. Your stomach swooped, your hair lifted in a rush of wind. Instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Air whipped around you, cool and rushing, and a gasp tore from your throat. “Clark!”

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice steady even through the roar of wind. “I’ve got you.”

You cracked your eyes open—and your breath caught. The city stretched out below you in a wash of lights and motion, sprawling farther than you’d ever seen it. Streets glimmered like veins of gold, buildings pierced the sky around you, and the river shone silver in the moonlight. You weren’t in your apartment anymore. You were flying.

And Clark—Clark was the one holding you. Your gaze snapped to him, the wind tousling his hair, his glasses gone, his eyes impossibly blue, sharp and unhidden in the night. The face you knew, but different—clearer, bolder, his. Realization crashed into you like a tidal wave. “You…” Your voice shook. “You’re—”

“Superman.” He said it quietly, the word almost reverent, as if he were confessing a sin instead of revealing himself. “It’s me.”

Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. All the absences, the broken phones, the midnight disappearances—suddenly they made sense. Not cheating. Not lies. Not betrayal. He hadn’t been leaving you for someone else. He’d been leaving you for everyone else.

“I should have told you sooner,” he continued, guilt threading every word. “But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean for you. For us. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

You shook your head, still clutching him tightly as the city rushed below. “Clark, I—God, I thought you were cheating, or hiding some secret family, or—I don’t even know.” Your voice cracked. “But this? You were out saving people while I was sitting at home wondering why you didn’t text me back.”

His expression broke, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I wanted to protect you. I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But it hurt you, and I hate that. I never wanted to hurt you.”

You stared at him, at the impossible truth in front of you, at the man who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you’d ever known and the most powerful being on Earth. And against all reason, you laughed, shaky and breathless. “Marcy’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out I was worried you were a serial killer.”

Clark blinked, startled, then let out a stunned, nervous laugh of his own. Relief softened his features, even as his arms tightened protectively around you. “I don’t care if you’re Superman,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears on your cheeks. “I just need you to be honest with me. I just need you.”

He looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “You have me. Always.” The descent was so smooth you barely felt it, the city tilting back into place as Clark slowed, wind softening against your skin until your feet touched down on your balcony. His arms didn’t leave you right away; instead, he held you steady, like he wasn’t sure if your legs would trust the ground again.

You weren’t sure they would either. Heart still hammering, you clutched at his shirt for a moment before finally forcing yourself to loosen your grip. The apartment behind you looked painfully ordinary—blanket draped over the couch, empty mug still on the table. And yet, everything had shifted.

Clark set you down fully, then stepped back just enough to give you space. Without his glasses, he looked both impossibly familiar and startlingly new. His eyes, unshielded, searched your face with something raw in them—hope tangled with fear.

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You’re Superman. My boyfriend is Superman.”

His mouth curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “That’s… yeah. That’s me.”

You dropped your hand, meeting his gaze again. “All those nights you left. The phone. The farmer’s market. You were—”

“Saving people,” he finished softly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d always come back. I just… couldn’t tell you where I was going.”

A lump rose in your throat. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting alone, thinking I wasn’t enough? That you didn’t want me?”

His face broke, guilt carved deep in every line. He closed the space between you, carefully, his hands hovering near your arms like he wanted to hold you but was waiting for permission. “I hated it. Every time I left you, I hated it. But I thought if I told you the truth… you’d look at me like the rest of the world does. Like a symbol. Not a man.”

You shook your head, tears threatening again. “Clark, I’ve never wanted Superman. I’ve always wanted you. The guy who brings me bagels, who sings off-key while he cooks, who worries if I’ve had enough coffee before work. That’s the man I’m in love with.”

His breath hitched, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. “I love you too,” he whispered into your hair. “God, I love you.”

You melted against him, arms circling his waist, your cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the tension that had lived in your chest eased. The cracks weren’t cracks at all—they were pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t been allowed to see. When you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, studying him with a small, breathless laugh. “You’re really Superman. And all this time, I thought you were sneaking off to… I don’t know, karaoke night or a secret family.”

His cheeks flushed, sheepish even now. “No secret family. And I’m terrible at karaoke.”

The laugh bubbled out of you, unstoppable. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, feeling him smile against your mouth. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his. “Next time, don’t let me sit in the dark, okay? If you have to go, just… tell me. Even if it’s just a look. I can live with Superman. I can’t live with silence.”

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care. “No more silence. I promise.”

You leaned into the kiss fully, your arms wrapping around his neck, and for a few precious seconds there was no Superman, no danger, no lies—just Clark, just you, just the steady warmth of him choosing to stay.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes