SunriseRose1023

The knock came while you were still staring at yourself in the mirror.

Not because you were unsure.

That would have been easier.

You were staring because you knew exactly what you were doing, and the knowledge had made you unbearable.

Jack’s white button-down was tucked into your jeans like it belonged there, the sleeves rolled to your forearms, the collar open just enough to be deliberate without looking like you had tried too hard. A glimpse of white lace peeked out beneath the open buttons, soft and pretty and absolutely not accidental. You had put on simple jewelry. Lip gloss. Enough effort to look effortless.

It was a complete outfit.

A devastating outfit, frankly.

The knock came again.

You crossed the apartment before you could lose your nerve. When you opened the door, Jack was standing on the other side in dark jeans, a gray shirt, and a jacket that made the whole forearms situation frankly irresponsible.

For half a second, neither of you said anything.

His eyes dropped. Not far. Just to the shirt, then the open collar, then the lace beneath it. Then lower, to where the shirt was tucked into your jeans. Then back to your face.

You watched the exact second recognition hit.

Jack went very still.

You smiled. “Hi.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

You glanced down as if this were new information. “I am.”

His eyes narrowed faintly.

You leaned against the doorframe, entirely too pleased with yourself. “You told me to wear it.”

Something moved across his face. Heat. Amusement. Regret, possibly, for ever giving you instructions you could follow maliciously.

Jack stepped closer.

Your breath caught before he touched you.

His hand found your waist, firm over the cotton of his own shirt, and his mouth came down on yours.

The kiss was not polite. It was not hello. It was the kind of kiss that made your fingers catch in the front of his jacket, and your back hit the doorframe before you realized you had moved.

Jack’s other hand came to your jaw, tilting your face up, and when his thumb brushed the open edge of the collar, the lace underneath shifted against your skin.

His grip tightened once.

You smiled against his mouth.

He had noticed.

You pulled him closer.

Jack let you. For one second. Then two. Then you took one step back into the apartment, bringing him with you.

Jack followed.

Your mouth curved against his.

Then his hand tightened at your waist, stopping you before you could pull him any farther.

He broke the kiss slowly.

Too slowly.

Like he was making a point.

Your fingers stayed curled in his jacket. “Come inside.”

His eyes moved over your face. Then the shirt. Then your mouth again.

“No,” Jack said.

Your lips parted. “No?”

His mouth curved faintly, but his voice stayed rough. “No.”

You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, did the shirt not work?”

Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “The shirt worked.”

Your stomach flipped. “Then I’m confused.”

“I can see that,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being difficult.”

“I have a date planned,” Jack said.

The words stopped you. He said it simply, like it mattered. Like he had made a plan and shown up at your door intending to keep it, even with you standing there in his shirt looking at him like you would very much prefer to ruin the schedule. Your grip loosened on his jacket.

“A date,” you said.

Jack nodded once. “Yes.”

“You planned something?” you asked.

“I did,” Jack said.

Your chest did something soft and dangerous.

“Oh,” you said.

His thumb moved once against your waist. “Good oh or bad oh?”

You looked down at his hand over the shirt, at the place where his fingers pressed into fabric that belonged to him and somehow felt more like yours by the second. Then you looked back up at him.

“Surprised oh,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened, barely. “Good surprised?”

You swallowed.

The heat was still there, humming low under your skin, but something else had joined it now. Something worse. Something that felt like him showing up on time, dressed for you, with a plan he had not told you about because he wanted to watch you discover it.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Good surprised.”

Jack held your gaze for one more second. Then he stepped back, giving you room.

“Get shoes,” he said. “I’m taking you out.”

Your stomach flipped again.

You looked down at yourself, suddenly remembering you were barefoot, shirt open at your throat, entirely dressed to devastate a man in your living room and not at all prepared for public society. You grabbed your bag from the chair and slipped into your shoes, trying very hard not to smile like an idiot.

It did not work.

Jack stayed in the doorway, watching you with one shoulder against the frame, like he had every intention of enjoying exactly how caught off guard you were.

You looked over your shoulder. “You could have warned me.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Jack said.

Your chest warmed despite yourself.

You picked up your keys and crossed back to him. “That is doing a lot of work for you right now.”

“Good,” Jack said.

You pulled the door shut behind you. “You’re impossible.”

Jack waited while you locked it. Then he held out his hand.

Your teasing faded for half a beat.

You looked at his hand. Then at him.

Jack did not say anything. He just waited. Steady and certain.

Yours, if you were brave enough to take him that way.

You slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours.

“Come on, Trouble,” Jack said.

Your stomach flipped.

You followed him down the hall, still wearing his shirt, still warm from his kiss, and suddenly very aware that Jack Abbot had looked at you like he wanted to drag you back inside and had chosen to take you on a date instead.

Which was, somehow, much worse.

Jack opened the passenger door for you.

You paused beside the truck and looked at him.

Jack looked back. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing again,” you said.

His brows lifted faintly. “Opening the door?”

“No,” you said, climbing in. “Being Date Jack.”

His mouth curved, barely. “Date Jack had a good first review.”

You tried not to smile. You failed.

Jack waited until you were settled before he closed the door. The cab felt smaller once he got behind the wheel. Not because there was not enough room. Because Jack was in it. Because his shirt was on your body. Because his hand landed on the gearshift and your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, immediately remembered where that hand had been the last time you spoke.

You looked out the windshield. “So.”

Jack started the truck. “So.”

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“A place,” Jack said.

You turned your head slowly. “A place.”

He glanced over as he backed out of the parking spot. “Yes.”

“That is not an answer,” you said.

“It is technically an answer,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I know.”

You stared at him for another second, then looked out the window before your face could do something embarrassing. The late-afternoon light stretched gold across the street, softening the edges of the buildings and warming the glass storefronts. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, quiet and steady and entirely too pleased with himself.

You lasted maybe three minutes.

“Is it food?” you asked.

“Eventually,” Jack said.

You looked at him. “Eventually?”

“That was a hint,” Jack said.

“That was not a hint,” you said. “That was barely a word.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You sat back with a huff. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

His eyes flicked to you. Just once. Enough. Then his gaze returned to the road.

“That one I didn’t know,” Jack said.

Your head turned toward him. “Oh, you absolutely do.”

Jack’s mouth curved again. “Do I?”

“You own mirrors,” you said.

“I do,” Jack said.

“And forearms,” you added.

His hand tightened once on the steering wheel.

You smiled.

His voice stayed even. “You done?”

You looked at his hand on the wheel, then back to his face. “Not even a little.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. Then he pulled into a parking spot along a narrow street lined with small shops. He put the truck in park and looked at you.

For one second, all the teasing faded under the weight of his attention.

Then Jack said, “We’re here.”

You followed his gaze.

The storefront was narrow and warm-looking, tucked between a coffee shop and a place with plants spilling out near the door. A hand-painted sign hung above the windows, the lettering slightly uneven in a way that made it charming instead of careless. Inside, shelves lined the walls. Stacks of books sat in the window. A lamp glowed near the register, soft and golden.

“You brought me to a bookstore?” you asked.

Jack shifted in his seat, one hand still resting on the wheel. “You like books.”

Your throat tightened.

“I passed this place last week,” he said.

You looked at him.

He was looking through the windshield at the storefront, not at you, which somehow made it worse.

Then Jack added, quieter, “Thought you’d like it.”

Oh.

That was worse.

That was much worse than him saying something smooth.

Because Jack did not sound like he was trying to impress you. He sounded like he had simply seen something good and thought of you.

You looked back at the bookstore. The warm windows. The crowded shelves. The hand-painted sign. Then you looked down at your lap, at the white cuff of his shirt falling near your wrist.

“You thought of me?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze moved back to you. His answer was simple. “Yeah.”

Your chest did that stupid, dangerous thing again.

You swallowed. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?” Jack asked.

You looked up at him, trying for teasing and not quite getting there. “Being Date Jack.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed soft. “Good.”

You stared at him.

Jack reached over and brushed his thumb once along the inside of your wrist, right where his cuff had slipped over your hand. Then he pulled back and opened his door.

“Come on,” Jack said. “Before you decide to make that emotional.”

You laughed because it was easier than admitting you already had. Jack came around to your side and opened your door. You stepped down from the truck, his shirt shifting against your skin, the lace beneath it suddenly feeling less like a weapon and more like a secret.

Jack looked at you for half a second. Then he held out his hand.

You took it.

He only squeezed your hand once and led you toward the bookstore.

The bell above the door gave a soft chime when Jack opened it for you.

The smell hit first.

Paper. Coffee from somewhere nearby. Something clean and soft, like fresh laundry from a candle burning near the register.

You stopped just inside the doorway.

Jack glanced down at you. “Good?”

You looked around at the crowded shelves, the little handwritten staff picks, the narrow aisles that disappeared toward the back of the store.

Your voice came out softer than you expected. “Very good.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly.

He did not say anything. He did not have to. You could feel him watching you take it in, feel the quiet satisfaction in him, as if this had been the whole point.

You turned toward him, trying not to look too affected. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself.”

Jack reached for one of the baskets stacked near the door. “I picked well.”

Your eyes dropped to the basket. “That feels presumptuous.”

Jack looked at the basket, then back at you. “You’re already looking at three shelves at once.”

“I am browsing,” you said.

“You’re hunting,” Jack said.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Because he was not wrong.

Jack’s mouth curved a little more.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re very smug for someone who brought me into a bookstore and then expected me to behave normally.”

“I don’t expect that,” Jack said.

Your stomach flipped.

He held the basket at his side like he had already accepted his fate. That should not have been attractive. It was.

You turned toward the first aisle before your face could betray you. “Fine. But I’m only looking.”

Jack followed beside you. “Of course.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “That sounded sarcastic.”

“It was supportive,” Jack said.

Your eyes narrowed. “You are a liar.”

“I’m holding the basket,” Jack said.

You looked at the basket again. “That is not helping your case.”

Jack only hummed once, low and amused.

The store was narrow in the best way, every shelf crowded, every table layered with paperbacks and little cards written in looping black ink. A display of staff picks sat near the front. New releases lined one wall. Somewhere toward the back, two people spoke in hushed voices, like even conversation had to be careful around that many books.

Jack walked with you without rushing. That was dangerous too. He did not hover. He did not act bored. He just stayed beside you, one hand on the basket, watching while you ran your fingers over spines and pulled out books like you were waiting for one of them to confess something.

You opened one to the first page.

Jack looked down. “What are you checking?”

“The first line,” you said.

He nodded like this was a reasonable scientific method. “And?”

You read the sentence. Then you shut the book.

“No,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Brutal.”

“You have to be ruthless in a bookstore,” you said.

Jack glanced around at the shelves. “I’m learning.”

You slid the book back into place and reached for another one.

Jack watched you for another second. “What makes it a yes?”

You glanced at him. “Vibes.”

His brow lifted. “Vibes.”

“Characters,” you said, opening the next book. “First line. Back cover. Whether the prose is trying too hard. Whether I immediately want to ignore my responsibilities.”

Jack nodded. “That last one seems important.”

“It is the entire metric,” you said.

He looked down at you, eyes warm with amusement. “Good to know.”

You tried very hard not to feel touched by that. It did not work. You moved deeper into the store.

Jack stopped near a small display table. “This one?”

You turned back. “What about it?”

He picked up a paperback and read from the handwritten card beneath it. “Slow burn. Forced proximity. Emotionally repressed man with a competency problem.”

Your mouth parted.

Jack looked at you. “No?”

You took the book from him slowly. “That is alarmingly targeted.”

His mouth curved. “Staff pick.”

“You picked it up,” you said.

“I can read,” Jack said.

You stared at him. He stared back.

The book sat between you like a crime.

“You think I like emotionally repressed men with competency problems?” you asked.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I have a theory.”

Your face warmed.

You looked back down at the book because that felt safer. “That theory feels self-serving.”

“Maybe,” Jack said.

You opened the book to the first page and read the first line. Jack waited. You read the second line. Then the third.

Jack looked at the book. “That a yes?”

You tried to sound casual. “Maybe.”

He held out the basket.

You looked at it. Then at him.

His mouth curved. “Put it in the basket.”

You put it in the basket.

Jack did not gloat. That was worse.

You kept moving.

The aisles narrowed toward the back, and the shelves shifted from general fiction into romance, then deeper into the kind of romance section that made your fingertips slow over the spines. The covers grew glossier. The titles grew more dramatic. The illustrated couples looked like they were either about to argue, kiss, or ruin each other’s lives.

Possibly all three.

Jack noticed the change in your expression.

His voice dropped. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Jack stopped beside you. “That was not nothing.”

You skimmed the shelf with exaggerated interest. “This is an important section.”

“I gathered,” Jack said.

You glanced at him. “You sound very calm for a man surrounded by smut.”

His eyes moved over the shelves. “Should I be afraid?”

“Respectful,” you said.

Jack looked back at you. “I can be respectful.”

You gave him a slow look. “Can you?”

His mouth curved faintly. “When motivated.”

Your stomach dipped.

You turned back to the books immediately. That was when you saw it. You stopped so abruptly that Jack nearly walked into you.

His hand found your waist on instinct. “What?”

You reached for a book on the middle shelf. “Oh my God.”

Jack glanced down at the cover. “Do I want to know?”

“You do,” you said.

He looked at your face for half a second. “That expression says I don’t.”

You tapped the cover with one finger. “This book changed my life.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It is not dramatic,” you said, already fighting a smile. “It is historically accurate.”

Jack looked from you to the book. “Historically.”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

His hand was still at your waist. You noticed that at the same time he did. Neither of you moved.

You lowered your voice. “You know that thing I do with my mouth?”

Jack went still. Completely still. His hand tightened once at your waist. So slightly you almost missed it.

Almost.

His voice dropped. “Yes.”

You smiled at the book. “Chapter twenty-seven.”

Jack stared at you.

You looked up innocently. “Very formative literature.”

His jaw shifted.

Then, slowly, he grinned. Not a polite smile. Not Date Jack. Something worse.

“Put it in the basket,” Jack said.

Your stomach dipped. “I already read it.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You blinked. “Then why am I putting it in the basket?”

His eyes held yours. Low. Steady. Dangerous.

“It’s for me,” Jack said.

Your mouth parted.

Jack reached for the book. You did not let go. His fingers closed over the edge of the cover, brushing yours. The contact was small. Ridiculous. Barely anything. Your pulse did not care.

“You do not read smut,” you said.

Jack’s thumb shifted against the book, close enough to touch your hand again. “I can start.”

Your breath caught.

The aisle had gone very quiet around you. Or maybe you had stopped hearing anything beyond him. Jack was closer than he had been a second ago. You were closer too. You did not remember stepping forward.

Maybe you had.

Maybe he had.

Maybe both of you had moved at once, drawn into the same narrow space between shelves by something neither of you was trying very hard to fight.

Your back brushed lightly against the shelf behind you. Jack looked down at you, the book still caught between your hands.

His voice came lower. “Chapter twenty-seven?”

You swallowed. “It was a very good chapter.”

“I’ll pay attention,” Jack said.

Your stomach flipped so hard you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

“No,” Jack said. “I’m studying.”

The word hit like a touch. Your fingers loosened on the book. Jack did not move away. You lifted your chin without meaning to.

His gaze tracked the movement.

For one suspended second, the bookstore disappeared. No shelves. No warm lamps. No staff picks or narrow aisles. Just Jack standing too close, his hand warm at your waist, his shirt on your body, his eyes on your mouth like he was trying very hard to remember you were in public.

Jack leaned in a fraction.

Your breath stopped.

A voice came from the end of the aisle. “Finding everything okay?”

You nearly dropped the book.

Jack turned his head toward the sales associate with the calm of a man who had absolutely not been half a second away from kissing you in the romance aisle.

“Yes,” Jack said. “Thank you.”

The sales associate smiled. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“We will,” Jack said.

You stared at the spine of the book like it had personally betrayed you.

The sales associate disappeared around the corner.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack looked back at you. His mouth curved.

You pointed at him with the book. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack said.

You glared. “You were about to.”

“I was not,” Jack said, like the accusation had personally insulted him.

“You absolutely were,” you said.

Jack took the book from your hand and placed it in the basket. “You’re projecting.”

You frowned. “I am embarrassed.”

“You should be,” Jack said.

Your mouth fell open.

His eyes gleamed. “Almost getting caught in the romance aisle?”

“You were also there,” you hissed.

“I was shopping,” Jack said.

Your brow furrowed. “You were not shopping.”

Jack looked down into the basket. “There’s a book in here.”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed, quiet and helpless, pressing your fingers briefly to your mouth.

Jack watched you.

The amusement in his face softened into something else before he hid it. Not all the way. Enough that you caught it.

You dropped your hand. “What?”

Jack’s hand slid from your waist, slow enough that you felt the absence when it was gone. “I like watching you here.”

Your chest went warm. “Oh.”

His mouth curved. “Good oh?”

You looked down at the basket, at the books already inside, at the ridiculous paperback sitting on top like evidence. Then you looked back up at him.

“Dangerous oh,” you said.

Jack’s eyes softened.

He reached for another book on the shelf beside you and turned it over like he had not just said something that made your ribs feel too small.

“What about this one?” he asked.

You glanced at the cover, grateful for the shift and annoyed that he could do it so easily. “That one has betrayal in the third act.”

Jack looked at you. “You’ve read it?”

“No,” you said.

His brow lifted.

You nodded toward the cover. “I can tell.”

“That seems unfair,” Jack said.

“I am very fair to books,” you said. “Books are not always fair to me.”

Jack put it back. “Noted.”

You kept browsing, and Jack kept following, holding the basket as if it were perfectly normal for him to do. Like he took women to bookstores all the time. Like he had not picked this place because he had passed it once and thought of you.

Except you knew he did not take women to bookstores all the time. You knew this was not normal for him. That was the problem.

Every few minutes, he would point something out. A cover he thought you would like. A staff pick with a dramatic enough description to make you laugh. A book with a title so absurd you had to read it aloud under your breath.

He listened. Not politely. Not passively.

Actually listened.

You could feel him storing things away. How you checked first lines. Which covers made you suspicious. What tropes made you roll your eyes even though you still picked up the book. What kind of summary made you soften before you could stop yourself.

By the time you made it to the register, the basket had more books in it than you had intended.

A lot more.

You reached for your bag.

Jack glanced at you. “No.”

You froze. “No?”

“I invited you,” Jack said.

“To a bookstore,” you said. “Not to financially support my habits.”

Jack set the basket on the counter. “I know what I signed up for.”

Your chest warmed. You looked at the books.

“Jack,” you said.

His voice softened without losing the edge. “Let me buy you books.”

That was unfair.

That was so unfair you had no immediate defense against it.

The sales associate began ringing them up, and you stood there beside Jack, trying not to look as affected as you felt.

It did not work.

Jack noticed.

But for once, he did not call you on it. He just paid, took the paper bag from the counter before you could reach for it, and thanked the sales associate with the same calm politeness he had used after nearly ruining your life in the romance section.

You followed him toward the door.

“I can carry books,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

“And yet?” you asked.

Jack opened the door for you. “And yet.”

You stepped out onto the sidewalk, the evening air cooler now than it had been when you went inside. The late-afternoon light had softened into something warmer, gold settling along the shop windows and the edges of parked cars.

Jack stepped out behind you with the bag in one hand.

You looked at it, then at him.

“You bought yourself smut,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Source material.”

You laughed despite yourself. Jack’s gaze moved over your face, and the laugh caught somewhere softer in your chest. He shifted the bag to his other hand, then held his free hand out to you.

You took it.

His fingers closed around yours.

“Hungry?” Jack asked.

You looked up at him. “Always.”

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do I get to know where we’re going now?”

“No,” Jack said.

You groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Jack’s hand squeezed yours once as he guided you back toward the truck. “A little.”

You glanced down at the bag swinging from his hand. “You know, if this is how Date Jack operates, he is setting a very dangerous precedent.”

Jack looked at you as he unlocked the truck. “Good.”

Your stomach flipped.

He opened your door. You climbed in, trying not to smile.

It did not work.

Before Jack closed your door, he opened the back one and set the bookstore bag carefully on the floorboard.

You watched him straighten. “You’re tucking them in?”

Jack shut the back door. “I’m not letting diner grease get on your books.”

Your chest warmed.

You tried to make your smile teasing instead of ridiculous. “Very protective of the source material.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Among other things.”

Then he closed your door before you could respond.

The diner was only a few blocks away.

Jack still did not tell you where you were going until he pulled into the small lot beside a squat brick building with wide front windows, red vinyl booths, and a sign in the window promising milkshakes made the old-fashioned way.

You looked from the sign to Jack. “A diner?”

Jack put the truck in park. “You sound skeptical.”

“I sound curious,” you said.

“You sound hungry,” Jack said.

You looked back at the window just as a server walked past carrying a tray loaded with burgers, milkshakes, and a pile of fries so golden and crisp they looked personally engineered to ruin you.

Your mouth parted.

Jack noticed.

His mouth curved faintly. “There it is.”

You turned toward him slowly. “Did you bring me here because of the fries?”

Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. “Partly.”

Your chest did something inconvenient. “Partly?”

He glanced at you. “They also have milkshakes.”

You stared at him.

Jack opened his door like he had not just casually rearranged something inside your ribs. “Come on.”

You climbed out of the truck, still looking at the diner windows, at the warm light spilling out onto the pavement, at the people tucked into booths with baskets of food between them.

It was not fancy. It was not candlelit. It was not a restaurant with a dress code or cloth napkins or a reservation that made you sit up straighter. It was burgers. Fries. Milkshakes.

His shirt on your body.

And somehow that felt more dangerous than anything else he could have planned.

Jack came around the front of the truck and held out his hand.

You looked at him. “You know this is working on me, right?”

Jack’s brows lifted faintly. “The diner?”

“The whole thing,” you said.

His expression shifted. Not much. Enough. Then Jack’s fingers closed around yours.

“Good,” he said.

You swallowed and let him lead you inside.

A bell chimed over the door, sharp and bright, and the smell hit you all at once. Grilled onions. Hot oil. Toasted buns. Sugar. Coffee that had probably been sitting too long but still smelled like comfort.

A hostess smiled from behind the counter. “Two?”

Jack glanced at you. “Two.”

The hostess grabbed two menus. “Booth okay?”

Jack nodded. “That’s fine.”

You followed her through the narrow aisle, past the counter stools and the glass dessert case, past a couple sharing onion rings and two teenagers arguing over the jukebox in the corner. The hostess set the menus down in a booth near the window. Jack waited until you slid in before he sat across from you.

You watched him settle in, one forearm resting near the edge of the table, his eyes already moving over the menu like this was a mission. You looked around again, at the red vinyl seats, the laminated specials tucked behind the napkin holder, the chrome edge of the table catching the overhead light. Then you looked back at him.

“You researched this place, didn’t you?” you asked.

Jack glanced at you over the top of his menu. “A little.”

“A little,” you repeated.

His mouth curved faintly. “Enough.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Enough for what?”

Jack looked back down at the menu. “Robby told me about it.”

Your brows lifted. “Robby?”

“He and Liv came here,” Jack said.

Your mouth curved. “Did they?”

Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours. “Apparently.”

You leaned back against the booth. “Interesting.”

“Behave,” Jack said.

“I am behaving,” you said.

“You’re investigating,” Jack said.

You smiled. “Same thing.”

His mouth twitched. Then Jack glanced down at the menu again, like he was trying to make the next part casual. It did not work.

“Robby said Liv mentioned you loved the fries here,” Jack said.

Oh.

Your teasing faded before you could stop it. You looked down at the menu, then toward the window, then back at Jack.

“You remembered that?” you asked.

Jack held your gaze. “I remembered.”

Your chest did something soft and stupid.

“It’s thoughtful,” you said.

The words felt small for what you meant.

You tried again. “It’s really thoughtful.”

Jack looked down at his menu like it had become very interesting. “It’s just fries.”

“No,” you said.

His eyes lifted back to yours.

Your voice softened. “It’s not.”

For a second, the diner moved around you without touching the booth. Plates clattered near the kitchen. Someone laughed at the counter. The jukebox changed songs. Jack looked at you across the table, and the noise seemed to settle around him instead of between you.

“I wanted to take you somewhere you’d like,” Jack said.

Simple. Quiet. Devastating.

Your throat tightened. “You did.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You stared at him for one second too long. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to become dangerous. Long enough for you to realize you had spent so much time wondering if Jack wanted you that you had not prepared for the much worse possibility.

That Jack noticed you.

All of you.

The teasing. The wanting. The books. The fries. The way you got quiet when something meant more than you knew what to do with.

A server appeared beside the table with two glasses of water and a bright smile. “Hi, folks. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

Jack looked at you. You looked at the chalkboard near the counter.

Then you looked back at the server. “Chocolate milkshake, please.”

Jack’s mouth curved.

The server nodded. “Whipped cream?”

You answered immediately. “Yes, please.”

Jack looked down at the drink specials. “Coffee.”

You turned your head toward him. “No.”

Jack’s eyes lifted. “No?”

You pointed toward the chalkboard. “They have an espresso milkshake.”

He glanced at the chalkboard. Then back at you.

You lifted your brows. “It’s the perfect loophole.”

The server smiled down at her pad. Jack stared at you for another second.

Then his mouth curved, slow and reluctant. “Espresso milkshake.”

The server nodded. “Whipped cream?”

Jack looked at you.

You gave him a look.

Jack sighed. “Yes.”

The server’s smile widened. “One chocolate shake with whipped cream and one espresso shake with whipped cream. I’ll give you another minute on food.”

She left before Jack could change his mind.

You leaned back against the booth, deeply pleased. “That was good for you.”

Jack set his menu down. “Was it?”

“Yes,” you said. “Growth.”

“Ordering coffee with ice cream in it is growth?” Jack asked.

“For you?” you asked. “Yes.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” you said.

The answer came out too honest. Jack’s face softened just a little. You felt it immediately. The urge to make a joke. To dodge. To turn the warmth into something easier. But Jack’s foot brushed yours under the table, quiet and grounding, and the joke softened before it reached your mouth.

Your fingers moved over the edge of the menu. “This is a really good date.”

Jack went still. Not frozen. Just listening.

You looked down at the laminated menu because looking at him felt like too much. “The bookstore. This place. The fries. The milkshakes.”

Jack’s voice was quieter when he answered. “You haven’t had the fries yet.”

You smiled, still looking down. “I can tell.”

His mouth curved. “Can you?”

“Yes,” you said. “I have a gift.”

Jack leaned back slightly. “For fries.”

“For many things,” you said.

His gaze moved over your face, then briefly to the open collar of his shirt before returning to your eyes. “I know.”

Your pulse jumped.

The server arrived with the milkshakes before you could recover.

Two tall glasses landed between you, whipped cream piled high, cherries on top. Extra metal cups came with them, cold and sweating against the table. You looked at Jack’s shake. Then at Jack. He looked unimpressed in a way that did not fool you at all.

You picked up your spoon. “You look very serious for a man about to experience joy.”

Jack picked up his spoon. “I’ve had a milkshake before.”

“Not with me,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours. The words landed differently than you meant them to. Or maybe exactly the way you meant them to. Jack’s expression softened.

“No,” he said. “Not with you.”

Your chest warmed. You took a spoonful of whipped cream before the moment could undo you.

Jack watched you.

You pointed your spoon at him. “Don’t make it weird.”

His brows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something,” you said.

“I think a lot of things,” Jack said.

You smiled around the spoon. “Dangerous.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back up.

“Yes,” he said.

Your stomach flipped.

The server returned with her pad ready. “Ready to order?”

You set your spoon down quickly. “Yes.”

Jack looked far too pleased with himself.

You ordered a burger with crispy fries and ranch on the side.

Jack ordered his burger, then added, “Extra napkins.”

You looked at him. “For you or me?”

“For us,” Jack said.

The server wrote it down. “Good call.”

You turned toward her. “Why did that sound ominous?”

The server smiled. “The burgers are messy.”

You looked back at Jack. “You brought me somewhere with high-risk burgers while I’m wearing your white shirt?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I ordered napkins.”

“That is not a full risk management plan,” you said.

“It’s a diner,” Jack said. “Not a trauma bay.”

The server laughed under her breath and gathered the menus. “Food’ll be right out.”

You watched her leave, then looked back at him. “You’re very calm for a man whose shirt is in danger.”

Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to the open collar. Then back to your face.

“I can wash it,” he said.

Your stomach flipped.

The softness of that was unreasonable.

You took a sip of your milkshake, simply for something to do. It was thick enough that the straw resisted. Perfect. You closed your eyes for half a second.

Jack’s voice came from across the table, softer now. “Good?”

You opened your eyes.

He was watching you with the same quiet satisfaction he had worn in the bookstore. Not smug. Not exactly. Something gentler. Like he had wanted this. Not just the date. Your reaction to it.

“Yes,” you said. “Very good.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered.

Your chest tightened again.

“You’re getting very invested in my dairy opinions,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “I asked about fries. I’m expanding the research.”

You laughed, and Jack watched it happen like he liked being the reason.

That was becoming a problem. He was becoming a problem.

By the time the food arrived, you were already too warm from the milkshake, the booth, the conversation, the way his foot stayed near yours under the table without making a show of it.

Then the server set down the plates.

The fries were exactly what you had hoped.

Golden. Thin. Crispy.

You looked at them. Then at Jack. He watched your face with careful attention.

You picked up one fry, dipped it into the ranch, and took a bite.

The crunch was perfect.

Your eyes closed.

Jack’s quiet laugh came from across the table. “That good?”

You opened your eyes. “I need a moment.”

His mouth curved. “Take your time.”

You pointed the fry at him. “This is serious.”

“I can see that,” Jack said.

You took another bite and shook your head. “Robby has never been more useful.”

Jack laughed then. An actual laugh. Low and warm and pleased enough that it did something unfair to your chest. You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Jack reached for his burger, still watching you like maybe the whole date had been worth it for that alone.

You hated how much you liked that.

You loved it more.

For a while, the two of you ate and talked about nothing important. The books you bought. The smut book he insisted was research. The hospital gossip he could share without violating several laws and basic human decency. The fact that you were apparently incapable of eating fries without looking emotionally moved by them.

Jack noticed that too.

His eyes stayed on your face after you took another bite.

You froze. “What?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was not nothing.”

“It was close,” Jack said.

You picked up another fry because you needed something to do with your hands. “You know, this is becoming a problem.”

Jack took a drink of his espresso milkshake. “What is?”

“You,” you said.

His gaze lifted.

You meant it as a joke. Mostly. But his expression changed in that quiet, attentive way that always made it impossible to pretend you had not said something real.

Jack set the glass down. “Yeah?”

Your fingers tightened around the fry. You could have laughed. You could have said never mind. You could have blamed the milkshake. Instead, you looked at him across the booth, in the warm noise of the diner, with his shirt on your body and the taste of chocolate and salt on your tongue, and told the truth as much as you knew how.

“Yeah,” you said softly.

Jack held your gaze. No joke. No smirk. No easy deflection.

Just Jack. Steady. Certain. Yours, if you let him be.

Your chest tightened.

Then he reached across the table, palm up.

You looked at his hand. Then at him.

Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and sure, and for one impossible second, the whole diner seemed to go quiet around you. Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You looked down at your hands together. “I’m thinking.”

His voice softened. “About?”

You swallowed.

You could have made that small too. You almost did. But his hand was warm around yours, and he had spent the whole night making things feel less like a game and more like a place to land. So you looked back up at him.

“You,” you said.

Jack went still. Only for a second. Then his fingers tightened around yours.

“Good,” he said.

Your heart did something useless and warm.

You smiled faintly. “That’s all you have?”

His mouth curved. “For now.”

Your stomach flipped.

You looked down at the table, at the half-finished milkshakes, the scattered fries, the napkins he had ordered because he had researched the date like it mattered.

Because apparently it did.

When you looked back at him, Jack was still watching you.

This time, you let him.

By the time the check came, your milkshake was gone, the fries were mostly gone, and Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself for a man who had weaponized a bookstore and diner fries in the same evening.

You reached for your bag.

Jack gave you one look.

You stopped. “Right. You invited me.”

“I did,” Jack said.

You leaned back against the booth. “This is becoming a pattern.”

His mouth curved faintly as he set his card on the check. “Good.”

Outside, the night had settled properly, cooler now, the windows of the diner glowing behind you. Jack opened the truck door for you, then paused before you climbed in. His hand found your waist, light but certain over the cotton of his shirt.

You looked up at him. “What?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face.

“Just looking,” he said.

You smiled. “That sounds suspicious.”

His mouth curved.

Then he leaned down and kissed you once.

Soft. Brief. Enough to make your fingers curl against the edge of the open door.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed once over your waist.

“My nothing,” Jack said.

Then he helped you into the truck like he had not just made your knees unreliable in a diner parking lot.

The drive back to your apartment was quieter.

Not uncomfortable. Not empty. Just full.

The kind of quiet that sat between you like both of you knew something had shifted and neither of you wanted to scare it off by naming it too soon.

Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, his other hand resting on the center console. Palm up. Waiting.

You looked at it for maybe half a second before you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours immediately. Warm. Certain. Like he had expected you to take it. Like he had wanted you to.

The bookstore bag sat safely in the backseat. The diner lights disappeared behind you. The taste of chocolate and salt still lingered on your tongue, and his shirt shifted softly against your skin every time you breathed. It was ridiculous.

All of it.

The books. The fries. The milkshakes. The way Jack had listened to a tiny detail and turned it into a date. The way he had looked at you all night like he was not surprised by how much he wanted you, but maybe a little surprised by how much he liked wanting you like this.

Not urgent. Not hidden. Not half-dressed in the back of his truck or half-brave over the phone.

Like this.

In public. In evening light.

On purpose.

Jack pulled into a spot outside your building and put the truck in park. He let go of your hand only long enough to get out. Then he came around to your side, opened your door, and reached past you for the bookstore bag in the backseat before you could climb down.

You watched him hook the paper handles over his fingers.

“You’re carrying my books too?” you asked.

Jack looked at you. “Yes.”

You smiled. “You’re going to spoil me.”

His eyes held yours. “That’s the idea.”

Oh.

Your teasing smile faltered.

Jack noticed. But he only held out his free hand.

You took it and stepped down from the truck.

The night had settled properly now, cool against your bare throat, soft around the streetlights. Jack walked you to your building with your hand in his and your books in his other, like this was normal. Like he had done it a hundred times. Like he wanted to do it again.

That was the part that got you.

Not just the kiss at your door. Not just the way he looked at the lace under his shirt. Not just the book in the bag that he had called source material with a straight face.

This. His hand. Your books. The quiet certainty of him walking beside you.

You reached your apartment door too soon.

Jack watched you unlock the door. You knew he was watching you. You unlocked the door but did not open it.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

The hallway was quiet around you. Too quiet.

You turned back toward him. “Thank you.”

Jack’s brows lifted faintly. “For the date?”

“For the date,” you said. “And the books. And the fries. And the very committed milkshake participation.”

His mouth curved. “Committed?”

“You got whipped cream,” you pointed out.

“I was pressured,” Jack said.

You smiled. “You were encouraged.”

“I was handled,” Jack said.

Your smile widened. “You loved it.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I didn’t hate it.”

The warmth in his voice made your smile fade into something softer. You looked down at the paper bag for a second, then back up at him.

“It was perfect,” you said.

Jack went very still.

His voice was quieter when he answered. “Good.”

Your chest tightened.

Jack looked at you for a long second.

Then he said, “I want to ask you something.”

Your pulse changed. You tried for a smile. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not,” Jack said.

You searched his face. He did not look unsure. That almost made it worse. He looked steady. Serious. Aware of exactly what he was asking before he asked it.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I want this to be real.”

Your breath caught. The hallway seemed to narrow around the two of you.

“It feels real,” you said softly.

Jack’s expression shifted. Barely. But enough.

“Good,” he said.

Your pulse jumped.

Then Jack took a breath and said, “Be my girlfriend.”

Your mouth parted.

For once, nothing came out.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That was not the reaction I expected.”

You blinked at him. “I’m processing.”

“Take your time,” Jack said.

“You just told me to be your girlfriend,” you said.

“I asked,” Jack said.

“You ordered,” you said.

His eyes warmed. “I can ask again.”

Your throat tightened. The teasing softened before you could stop it.

“Ask again,” you said.

Jack’s hand found yours.

This time, his voice was quieter. Gentler.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

Your chest went warm. “Yes, Jack. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

For half a second, he did not move.

He just looked at you.

Like he needed to let the words land. Like maybe he had asked the question with all that steadiness and still had not let himself fully believe he would get to keep the answer.

Then his hand tightened around yours.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your smile trembled.

“You keep saying that,” you whispered.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “I mean it.”

Then he kissed you.

Not hard at first. Not like the doorway earlier. This kiss was slower. Deeper. The kind that made your shoulder press back against your apartment door and the bookstore bag slip lower in his grip.

Jack’s hand came to your waist, warm over the cotton of his shirt.

His shirt.

Your body.

His girlfriend.

The thought hit you so suddenly that you made a small sound against his mouth.

Jack heard it.

His hand tightened once.

You kissed him harder.

The paper bag crinkled in his hand.

Jack pulled back just enough to set it carefully on the floor beside the door without looking away from you.

That should not have been hot.

It was.

It was devastating.

Then his hand was back on your waist, and your fingers were in his jacket, pulling him closer because apparently having a boyfriend had not made you any less greedy.

Jack went with you. This time, more than before. His body pressed yours back against the door, solid and warm and careful in a way that only made it worse.

His mouth moved over yours again, and the kiss changed. Not rushed. Not careless. But hotter. Hungrier. Like the word girlfriend had not settled the want between you. It had named it. Given it somewhere to go.

Your fingers slid from his jacket to the back of his neck.

Jack made a low sound in his throat.

Your stomach flipped.

You tilted your face up, chasing his mouth, and his hand slid from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer. The lace beneath his shirt shifted against your skin.

Jack’s thumb brushed the open edge of the collar.

You felt the exact second he remembered.

His mouth slowed. Then came back harder.

Your breath broke against him.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His forehead touched yours for half a second.

His voice was rough. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, your fingers still at the back of his neck. “Come inside.”

Jack went still.

You felt it this time.

Not rejection. Not hesitation.

Restraint.

The kind that made his body press closer even as his mind tried to stay useful.

His eyes opened. They were dark. Focused.

Yours.

“Trouble,” Jack said.

You reached behind you, found the doorknob, and pushed the door open.

The apartment was dark behind you, quiet and waiting.

Jack’s eyes moved past your shoulder. Then back to you.

You held his gaze. “Come inside.”

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack bent and picked up the bookstore bag from the hallway floor. The motion was so controlled, so practical, so painfully Jack that it almost made you laugh.

Almost.

He stepped forward. You stepped back. He crossed the threshold with your books in one hand and his other hand still at your waist.

Your pulse jumped.

Jack kicked the door shut behind him.

The sound was soft.

Final.

Your back hit the wall near the entryway.

Jack set the bookstore bag down beside you.

Carefully.

Like he was still capable of being responsible while looking at you like that.

You were not. Not even close.

“You are very careful with my books,” you said.

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, then down to the open collar of his shirt, then back up. “I’m careful with things I want to keep.”

Your breath caught.

The hallway light slipped under the door, catching along the edge of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, the place where his hand spread warm and certain over your waist.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His thumb moved once over the cotton of his shirt.

“Girlfriend,” he said.

Your stomach flipped.

Then his mouth was on yours again.

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.

Bucky blinks at you, stunned. “That’s…” He shakes his head, lips twitching. “That’s criminal. I think I need a moment.”

You laugh. “Relax, Barnes. It’s not like they were terrible. It just wasn’t… memorable. Or about me, really.”

He’s still looking at you — only now, there’s something behind his eyes. Heat. Focus.

“You’re tellin’ me not one guy’s made you come?”

“Not from sex, no.”

He stops walking. You take another sip of your milkshake, trying not to smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say lightly.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he mutters, jaw tight, voice low.

“Oh, you’re looking.”

He licks his lips, eyes dragging down your face, your throat, the shape of your mouth around the straw. “You shouldn’t tell me shit like that, doll.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

“Because now I can’t stop thinking about what I’d do different.”

There’s a beat of silence — thick, electric. You swallow, hard.

“…You think you could do it right?” you ask, teasing, testing.

He steps closer, leans in. You feel the heat of him, the weight of that look — the one that makes your knees go soft.

“I know I could.”

———

You’d said it was a bad idea.

That crossing that line would ruin everything.

But now you’re ruined in a completely different way — your body spread beneath him, flushed and trembling, every nerve frayed raw from the way he touches you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s waited years.

He kisses you like he owns your mouth. Fucks you like he wants to prove every man before him was a waste of time.

“Look at me,” he growls against your throat. “I wanna see it.”

Your eyes flutter open just as your body clenches around him again. You moan his name, your voice cracked, your legs shaking.

He watches, entranced — every twitch, every gasp, the way you fall apart under him, for him.

“God, Bucky—” you gasp, and he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“You feel that?” he pants, dragging his cock deep again, slow and deliberate.

You nod helplessly, mouth open on a cry as he fucks into you again — rougher now, steady, each thrust angled perfectly to grind against that devastating spot inside you. His name tumbles out of you over and over, no space left in your brain for anything else.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stoppin’, baby,” he growls, gripping your hips tighter. “Not ‘til you give it to me again.”

He lifts your legs over his shoulders without warning, folding you in half, and the new angle knocks the air from your lungs. You sob, reaching for him, your hands trembling as they claw at his back.

“That’s it,” he hisses, watching you unravel. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel it?”

Your whole body’s on fire, skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles clenching around him so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t come first — but he holds on, jaw clenched, arms straining as he pounds into you like he means it.

You break with a cry — raw and shaking beneath him, thighs quivering, your release crashing through you like lightning. And Bucky loses it.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—god, you’re perfect,” he gasps, driving into you harder, chasing his high as your body pulses around him. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He buries himself to the hilt one last time and groans, deep and wrecked, as he spills inside you, his entire body going tense, then trembling against yours. His mouth is on your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach, pressing kisses between desperate breaths.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.