neptune

You stumbled through the open gate barefoot, your pink heels dangling from two fingers. Your chest burned from running. Tears blurred your vision, hot and humiliating.

Your knees were scraped raw from slamming against the pavement after Nate shoved you down outside the bar. One side of your face still throbbed where he’d slapped you hard enough to split the inside of your lip maybe fifteen minutes earlier.

You hadn’t thought about where you were going. You’d just run.

And somehow your body dragged you here.

To the one place you’d been specifically told not to come.

Deran had mentioned the party offhandedly two days ago while fixing the walk-in freezer at the bar, half buried in tools and swearing at the wiring. Your shifts there had been sparse lately while finals swallowed your life whole, but somehow the routine of seeing him had become one of the few stable things you had left.

You weren’t even sure why your feet brought you to him.

Maybe because Nate hated him.

Maybe because Deran was one of the only people who ever looked at Nate like he saw exactly what lived underneath his skin.

Or maybe because somewhere along the way Deran Cody had turned into the closest thing you had to family. The older brother neither of you would ever admit out loud you needed. You knew things about him nobody else did. Dark things. Ugly things. And he knew yours too.

Which was exactly why he’d warned you more than once that Smurf’s house was not somewhere he wanted you.

You pushed through the side yard, adrenaline making you dizzy.

Nobody stopped you. Nobody really noticed you at first. You probably looked like every other fucked up girl stumbling through Oceanside at two in the morning. Mascara smeared under your eyes, dress strap hanging broken from one shoulder, blood drying on your knees.

The kind of girl people learned not to look at too hard.

Bodies crowded around the pool. Drunk girls danced in bikinis beside giant speakers while shirtless guys launched beer cans into the water. The whole place smelled like chlorine, weed, sweat, tequila, salt air.

Then Deran saw you.

His face changed instantly.

Not confusion. Not surprise.

Fear.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already crossing the yard toward you. Fast. “What happened?”

Your throat tightened before the words could even come out. “I know you said not to come here, but-”

Deran grabbed your arm carefully, fingers surprisingly gentle as he turned your face toward the pool lights.

The second he saw the bruise blooming across your cheek, something in his expression went cold. “That fucking asshole hit you?”

You looked away automatically.

That was answer enough.

“Craig,” Deran barked sharply.

A guy with long hair sitting on top of a cooler looked over immediately. Beside him, another man with dark hair and calmer eyes straightened from his chair too.

“What happened?” the dark-haired one asked.

Deran didn’t take his eyes off you. “Her boyfriend hit her.”

Craig stood so fast the cooler tipped sideways behind him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“It wasn’t-”

“Don’t,” Deran snapped instantly. The sharpness of it made you flinch. His jaw clenched hard enough you could see the muscle ticking beneath the skin. “Don’t do that shit.”

You’d seen Deran angry before. At customers. At his family. At himself.

This was different. This looked dangerous.

“Where is he?” the dark-haired man asked calmly, already getting to his feet.

Baz, you remembered suddenly. That was his name.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I ran.”

Deran looked like he wanted to tear somebody apart with his bare hands.

Then another voice cut through the tension behind him.

“Well,” she said smoothly. “Who’s this?”

You turned slowly, still clutching the broken strap of your dress against your chest.

Smurf Cody stood near the patio doors with a cigarette balanced elegantly between perfectly manicured fingers.

Beautiful in a way that didn’t feel warm. Sharp blonde hair untouched by the humidity. Gold jewelry glittering beneath the lights. She looked at you the way people looked at horses before buying them. Assessing. Calculating.

Like she could find every weak spot you had in under thirty seconds.

Deran exhaled through his nose. “Smurf.”

She ignored him completely.

Her eyes stayed fixed on you.

“You’re pretty,” she said casually. “Too pretty to be crying over a man.”

Heat crawled into your face immediately.

“This is Bambi,” Deran said tightly. “My best friend.”

“Friend,” Smurf repeated, amused.

And suddenly you understood an alarming amount about Deran’s issues.

Smurf stepped closer, gaze drifting over the ripped strap hanging off your shoulder, the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your knees.

“A boy do this to you?”

You nodded once.

Her expression barely changed.

“Hm.”

Something about the sound chilled you more than if she’d yelled.

Deran snatched his keys off a folding table. “We’re gonna go find him.”

Baz stood slower, calmer. “Deran.”

“I’m not gonna fucking kill him,” Deran snapped.

Craig gave a sharp laugh. “I might.”

Smurf waved her cigarette lazily through the air. “Just don’t bring cops back to my house.”

Then her eyes flicked back toward you.

“You can stay here tonight, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“Yes, you could,” Smurf interrupted smoothly. “You look half dead.”

Deran turned toward you again, still vibrating with restrained anger.

“You good here?”

You nodded slowly, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true.

His jaw flexed as he looked around the party.

“Stay inside.”

Then the three of them disappeared through the side gate.

And just like that, they were gone.

You stood awkwardly near the pool while the party swallowed the moment whole. Nobody cared. Nobody even really looked twice. Music still blasted. Somebody cannonballed into the pool. A girl stumbled past you laughing with glitter smeared across her chest.

The world kept moving like nothing happened.

Smurf tilted her head toward the house. “Come inside.”

The kitchen felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos outside.

The bass still pulsed faintly through the walls, but softer now. Distant. Smurf moved around the massive kitchen like she owned every atom inside it. Which, honestly, she probably did.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“A little,” you admitted nervously.

She opened the fridge, pulling containers out without ever really stopping watching you.

The house was beautiful in an intimidating sort of way. Expensive without looking staged. Polished wood floors. Massive windows overlooking the black ocean. Family photos lining the walls.

Every room felt lived in.

Claimed.

Smurf moved through it like royalty.

Which, in a deeply fucked up way, she was.

“You and Deran sleeping together?” she asked casually.

You nearly inhaled your own spit. “Oh my God, no. No.”

Not that the idea itself was horrifying. Deran was objectively attractive and you had functioning eyes. But it was also probably one of the least likely scenarios imaginable considering Deran had spent the better half of your friendship pointing out hot men to you with alarming enthusiasm.

“Hm.” Smurf pulled leftover pasta from the fridge. “That’s disappointing. He needs prettier girlfriends.”

You laughed nervously.

“I’m serious.”

The smile fell from your face.

You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was joking.

Smurf handed you a plate before leaning against the counter, cigarette balanced between two fingers as she studied you openly.

“You’re too soft for my boys anyway.”

The statement landed strangely hard. It irritated you more than it should have. She didn’t know you. Not really. The first thing she’d ever seen from you was this version. Crying. Bruised. Shaking.

Weak.

“I’m just his friend,” you said quietly.

“Mm.” She lit another cigarette. “Girls always think they’re just friends with Cody men.”

She pointed at you lightly with the cigarette.

“Especially the pretty ones.”

You looked down at the plate in your hands.

“Does the boy do this often?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. He was angry tonight.”

Smurf’s expression stayed unreadable.

Cold almost.

“You should learn now,” she said quietly. “Men don’t hit women they love.” She took a slow drag from the cigarette. “They hit women they own.”

The bluntness stunned you into silence.

Before you could answer, movement outside the kitchen windows caught your attention.

Someone sat near the fountain in the backyard, half hidden in the shadows.

You hadn’t noticed him before.

Large frame. Broad shoulders curled slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. Dark curls falling over his forehead. Freckles dusted across skin that disappeared beneath the sleeves of a faded gray t-shirt. Around him the party carried on at full volume, people screaming over music, splashing into the pool, stumbling through clouds of smoke.

But he sat completely still.

Just watching.

His eyes moved slowly across the yard, detached from all of it like he existed outside the noise.

Then his gaze landed on you.

And stayed there.

Something twisted low in your stomach.

Not fear exactly.

Awareness.

Like some instinct deep in your body already knew who he was before anybody said it.

Smurf noticed immediately.

“Oh,” she murmured softly, almost amused. “There’s Pope.”

Pope.

The name alone tightened something in your spine.

Deran had warned you about him enough times.

If you ever meet Pope, avoid him.

Why?

Because he’s fucking weird.

You glanced back toward the window.

Pope was still staring directly at you.

Not smiling. Not moving. Just staring with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight.

“He just got out,” Smurf said casually, like she was discussing the weather. “Prison makes socializing difficult.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

“He’s harmless,” she added after a second.

The way she said it somehow made you feel the exact opposite.

“You should say hi.”

“No, I’m okay-”

“Pope!” Smurf called loudly through the open sliding door.

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt. You shot her a horrified look while she smiled lazily around her cigarette. For a second you genuinely wondered if she was fucking with you. Testing you maybe. You still couldn’t tell when Smurf was being genuine and when she was setting somebody up for entertainment.

Outside, Pope lifted his head immediately.

“Come meet Deran’s friend,” Smurf called.

Your palms started sweating.

A minute later the sliding door opened.

Up close, he was even bigger than you expected.

Not polished like Baz. Not clean-cut like Deran.

Pope looked rough in a way that felt accidental instead of curated. Sharp eyes. Scarred hands. Thick shoulders that made the kitchen suddenly feel smaller. There was something restless underneath his skin even while he stood perfectly still.

And he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out.

“This is Bambi,” Smurf said smoothly.

Pope kept staring.

You shifted awkwardly under the weight of it, suddenly hyperaware of your ripped dress and smeared mascara.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Hi,” he echoed.

His voice caught you off guard.

Soft. Almost gentle.

Smurf looked between the two of you with obvious amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Try not to scare her, baby.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with him.

Silence settled heavily into the kitchen.

You looked literally anywhere except directly at him.

“I like your dress,” Pope said suddenly.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly.

“It’s ripped.”

Your eyes dropped to the broken strap hanging off your shoulder.

“I guess, yeah.”

Pope leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest, but his eyes never left you.

You tried focusing on the food instead.

“You’re bleeding,” he said after another moment.

You looked down at your scraped knee. Blood had dried in messy streaks down your shin. “Oh.”

Without another word Pope opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack.

When he handed it to you, your fingers brushed accidentally.

He pulled his hand back immediately.

Too fast. Like the contact surprised him.

And maybe you imagined it, but for half a second his entire expression changed when you looked at him directly. Something almost startled flickered across his face before he looked away.

You didn’t know it, but Pope spent most of his life disconnected from people. Numb to them. Detached. But there was something about you standing in his mother’s kitchen bruised and trembling with those wide, wet doe eyes fixed on him that hooked somewhere deep beneath his ribs before he could stop it.

Maybe it was how vulnerable you looked while still trying to pretend you were fine.

Maybe it was the softness in your voice.

Maybe it was the fact that you looked at him without immediately looking afraid.

He didn’t know.

He just knew he liked it.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He nodded once.

Now he was the one avoiding your eyes.

God.

Deran was right.

He was weird.

Not creepy exactly.

Just… off.

Like his brain worked differently from everybody else’s.

You glanced toward the backyard where music still pounded through the walls.

“You don’t like parties?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Pope’s eyes shifted toward the window again. “Don’t like all these people in my space.”

You made a small oh with your mouth before he continued.

“They always break stuff.”

That felt oddly reasonable coming from him.

“You ran here?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You shrugged awkwardly. “I knew Deran was close.”

Pope considered that for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

“You trust him.”

“I do.”

Another silence stretched between you.

“He said Nate hurts you sometimes.”

Your head snapped up. “Deran told you that?”

The question slipped out sharper than you intended.

Why would Deran tell them about you? About your relationship? About the ugly parts of it?

Had he told all of them?

Or just Pope?

Pope frowned slightly, like he could tell your mood shifted but wasn’t fully sure why.

“He said he doesn’t like him.”

That sounded far more believable.

You relaxed a little, pressing the ice pack carefully against your cheek.

Pope watched the movement intently.

Not flirtatiously.

Not even curiously.

Just intensely.

Like he noticed every little thing your body did.

It made you hyperaware of yourself. Of the way you sat. The way your fingers trembled slightly. The way your dress slipped against your skin.

You cleared your throat quietly.

“So…” you started. “What exactly do you think your brothers are doing right now?”

Pope didn’t answer immediately. You could practically see him debating how honest to be.

“Probably beating the shit out of him.”

Your stomach twisted hard.

“You think?”

Pope looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Yes.”

And somehow the certainty in his voice scared you more than the answer itself.

Nate hit the pavement hard enough to split the skin across his cheekbone.

The crack echoed through the empty marina parking lot like a gunshot.

Before he could even suck in a breath, Craig grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright again like he weighed nothing.

“You like to hit women?” Craig snarled.

His fist slammed into Nate’s ribs hard enough to fold him sideways with a broken wheeze.

Nate choked violently, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The marina stretched empty around them. Black water crashed against the docks below while Baz’s truck headlights cut harsh white beams across the pavement. Boats rocked slowly in the distance, chains clinking against metal poles in the wind.

Deran paced nearby like something feral trapped in human skin.

He couldn’t stop moving.

Every few seconds his eyes snapped back to Nate, rage crawling visibly beneath his skin like he was seconds away from tearing him apart with his bare hands.

“You touch her again,” Deran snapped, voice low and shaking, “I’ll fucking drown you myself.”

Nate spit blood onto the concrete.

“She’s a lying-”

Craig kicked him hard in the stomach before he could finish.

Nate crumpled with a strangled noise.

“Wrong answer,” Craig muttered.

Baz stayed leaned against the truck, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers while he watched the scene unravel with the exhaustion of someone who already knew this was spiraling too far.

“Enough,” he said finally.

“Enough?” Deran barked. He turned so fast the movement itself looked violent. “He beat the shit out of her.”

Nate groaned weakly on the pavement, curling onto his side.

Deran looked down at him with something far worse than anger.

Hatred. Pure, ugly hatred.

The kind that sharpened every edge of his face until he barely looked human anymore.

“We should tie a fucking cinderblock to him and dump him in the ocean.”

Craig immediately pointed at him. “That’s what I said.”

Baz rubbed a hand down his face slowly. “And then what? We explain a dead body to Smurf?”

Deran ignored him completely. “He put his hands on her.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. Almost disbelieving. Like his brain still couldn’t process the image of you standing in Smurf’s backyard bruised and crying.

Nate coughed wetly, trying to push himself up onto one elbow.

Huge mistake. Deran crossed the distance so fast Baz barely had time to move.

He grabbed Nate by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the side of the truck hard enough to rock it violently on its suspension.

“You think you get to touch her like that?” Deran hissed.

Nate cried out as the back of his head cracked against metal.

Craig’s expression shifted instantly.

The amusement disappeared. “Hey,” he said carefully now. “Deran.”

But Deran either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.

“You think because she stays with your sorry ass that means you can keep doing it?” he snapped. “You think she belongs to you?”

Nate’s face had gone pale beneath the blood smeared across it. “I didn’t mean-”

Deran slammed him against the truck again.

“Bullshit.”

Baz straightened immediately, cigarette dropping to the pavement.

He pushed off the passenger door and started toward them fast.

“Deran.”

Warning this time. But Deran didn’t back off.

He sidestepped Baz entirely, grabbed Nate by the throat with one hand and yanked him upright again. His other hand caught the open passenger door.

“You feel like a big-”

Deran slammed the truck door into the side of Nate’s head. The sound cracked through the marina.

“-tough-”

Another slam. Nate screamed this time.

“-man?”

The final hit sent Nate collapsing onto the pavement in a limp heap, blood streaking down the side of the truck.

Silence hit for half a second except for the waves crashing below the docks. Even Craig froze.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Nate lay sprawled on the concrete unmoving for a second too long.

Baz moved immediately, shoving past Deran to crouch beside him.

“You trying to fucking kill him?” Baz snapped.

Deran stood there breathing hard, chest rising and falling violently. But he kept staring at Nate like he still wasn’t done.

Like every instinct in his body was screaming at him to finish it. Craig glanced toward Baz briefly. That look alone said enough. Even Craig was getting nervous now.

Nate finally groaned weakly, curling into himself as blood dripped from his nose onto the pavement.

“She always made me fucking crazy,” he slurred through swollen lips.

The second the words left his mouth, Deran snapped again. He lunged so violently Craig barely caught him in time, grabbing him around the waist before he could get to Nate.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Craig barked, struggling to hold him back now.

Deran fought against his grip anyway. Actually fought him.

“She was crying!” Deran shouted. “Did you see her fucking face?”

“Yes,” Craig snapped back. “I saw it.”

Deran shoved hard against him, chest heaving violently.

“I should kill him.” And the terrifying part was nobody thought he was bluffing anymore.

Baz stepped between them now, calmer than both of them but visibly tense for the first time all night. “We scare him,” Baz said firmly. “That’s it.”

Deran laughed once. “You think this shit scares him?”

Nate stayed curled on the pavement bleeding and shaking, but Deran still looked unsatisfied. Like nothing short of irreversible damage was going to quiet the rage clawing through him.

Three days later the bruise on your cheek had finally started turning yellow around the edges. It still hurt when you touched it.

You stood behind the bar beside Deran, wiping down glasses while music hummed low through the speakers overhead. The lunch rush had died an hour ago, leaving the place quieter than usual. Sunlight spilled through the open windows facing the street, warm salt air drifting inside with the sound of traffic and distant waves.

Craig sat at the far end of the bar half drunk already, arguing with Baz about whether or not a guy outside had stolen his parking spot.

“You can’t just threaten people with a wrench every time you get annoyed,” Baz said flatly.

Craig looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

Deran snorted softly beside you while restocking bottles.

For the first time in days things almost felt normal. Almost. Nate was in a coma.

Nobody said it out loud, but everybody knew Deran had gone way too far at the marina.

You tried not to think about it.

Tried not to think about how part of you felt relieved.

The bell above the front door chimed. Then the entire room changed. You felt it before you even looked up.

Deran froze beside you instantly. A man stood in the doorway.

Older than Nate by maybe twenty years. Thick build. Weathered face. The kind of man who looked mean even standing still. His eyes swept across the bar once before landing directly on you.

Your stomach dropped so hard it made you dizzy.

Because Nate had his father’s eyes.

“Oh,” Craig muttered quietly. “Fuck.”

The man walked inside slowly. Every instinct in your body screamed. You backed up automatically.

Deran moved immediately, stepping in front of you slightly. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

Nate’s father ignored him completely. His eyes stayed fixed on you. “So,” he said slowly. “This is where the little bitch that ruined my son’s life works.” Your breath caught.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Deran’s expression darkened instantly. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

The older man finally looked at him.

“You’re Deran Cody.” Not a question. “You put my son in the hospital.”

Deran didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it either.

The man laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about it. “You know what Nate told me?” he asked, eyes flicking back toward you. “Said she cries real pretty.”

Your face went cold. You took another step backward unconsciously. And then you felt someone beside you. Solid. Quiet.

Pope.

You hadn’t even seen him come out from the back office. Your fingers wrapped around his arm before you could stop yourself “Andrew,” you said quietly. Nervously.

The name felt strange in your mouth after hearing everybody call him Pope for days.

But his real name fit him more somehow.

Pope looked down at your hand gripping his forearm. Normally he hated being touched. Most people knew better than to try. Craig once joked Pope reacted to physical affection like a feral dog. But he didn’t pull away from you. Didn’t tense. Instead he shifted slightly closer. Enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest.

And instantly, unbelievably, the panic inside you eased. You couldn’t explain it, Pope made you feel calm. Safe. Like if you stayed close enough to him nothing terrible could reach you. The feeling settled through your chest warm and strange and deeply confusing.

Nate’s father noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. “That your new boyfriend?” he asked cruelly. “You spread your legs for the whole family now?”

Deran lunged forward instantly.

Baz caught him hard across the chest before he could reach him.

“Deran.”

“No,” Deran snapped violently.

But Pope moved first. He stepped fully in front of you now, blocking you from view entirely. The shift was subtle. Terrifyingly subtle. His face stayed calm, but something in his eyes changed.

“You should leave,” Pope said quietly.

Nate’s father laughed. “And what?” he sneered. “You gonna stop me?”

Pope tilted his head slightly. “Yes.”

Silence dropped heavily across the bar.

Nate’s father took another step toward you anyway.

You grabbed the back of Pope’s shirt tighter instinctively. The movement made Pope go completely still.

Then Nate’s father pointed directly at you.

“You think you’re safe now?” he snapped. “Girls like you always go back. You’ll crawl right back to him if he wakes up.”

Something cracked across Deran’s face.

“You need to get him out of here,” Baz said carefully.

But nobody moved. Nate’s father laughed again, uglier this time. “You Codys think you’re untouchable?” He looked around the bar. “Whole family’s fucking rotten.”

Then his eyes landed on you again. “And you.” Your body stiffened instantly. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.” Pope stepped forward once.

Nate’s father finally seemed to realize something dangerous stood in front of him. Because for the first time since walking in, he hesitated. Then he scoffed and backed toward the door. “This ain’t over.”

The bell chimed again when he left. Silence swallowed the room immediately after.

You were still clutching Pope’s arm. Still half hidden behind him. Nobody pointed it out.

Deran stared at the door long after the man disappeared outside. That same frightening stillness settling over him again.

Baz saw it immediately. “No,” he said firmly.

Deran didn’t look at him.

Craig leaned back slowly against the counter. “He threatened her.”

“No,” Baz repeated harder.

But Deran was already somewhere else mentally. You could see it happen. That cold detached look settling into his face.

Pope glanced back toward you then. His eyes softened slightly when he saw how shaken you still were. “You should go upstairs,” he said quietly.

Deran owned the apartment above the bar. You’d slept there the last two nights because the idea of going home alone suddenly made your skin crawl. You nodded slowly. Your fingers slipped from Pope’s arm reluctantly. The loss of contact felt immediate. Strange, Pope noticed it too.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he stepped back.

“I’ll lock up,” Deran said flatly.

Baz looked between both brothers and swore under his breath.

Later, long after you finally drifted asleep curled against the arm of Deran’s couch upstairs, the brothers left through the alley behind the bar. The city had gone quiet by then.

Streetlights reflected off damp pavement. The ocean air felt colder at night, heavier somehow, carrying the distant sound of waves crashing somewhere beyond the buildings.

Deran locked the back door without a word.

Pope stood beside the truck waiting calmly, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. His face looked unreadable in the dark.

Deran slid behind the wheel while Pope watched the apartment windows upstairs for one last second. The living room light was off.

Satisfied, he climbed into the passenger seat. The truck rolled silently out of the alley.

They found Nate’s father exactly where they expected. At the same liquor-stained dive bar off the harbor road where guys like him spent every night slowly rotting themselves from the inside out.

Deran parked across the street beneath a dead streetlamp.

The windows of the bar glowed dim yellow against the dark while old motorcycles lined the curb outside. Inside, Nate’s father sat hunched over the counter already half drunk, laughing too loudly at something the bartender said. Pope watched him quietly through the windshield. “You think he hits women too?” he asked.

Deran’s jaw tightened. Neither of them asked how the other knew that he did. Some things were obvious.

An hour passed. Then another. Neither brother spoke much.

Every once in a while Deran drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel before stopping himself again. Too much energy sitting beneath his skin. Too much anger still trying to claw its way out.

But Pope stayed perfectly still.

Around two in the morning Nate’s father finally stumbled out of the bar alone.

The brothers followed. His truck drifted lazily between lanes as he drove through the sleeping streets of Oceanside toward the edge of town. Small houses gave way to emptier roads. Fewer streetlights. Fewer witnesses.

Finally he pulled into a narrow gravel driveway beside a run-down one story house near the marshes. No nearby neighbors. No barking dogs. Perfect.

The porch light flicked on as he staggered toward the front door fumbling with his keys.

Pope watched carefully from the passenger seat.

Deran killed the engine two houses down. The darkness swallowed the truck instantly.

Ten minutes later the kitchen light inside the house flicked on briefly before disappearing again. Then nothing.

Pope checked his watch. “Give him twenty.”

Deran nodded once. The wait almost killed him. He sat leaning forward slightly, jaw clenched hard enough to ache while rage simmered quietly beneath his skin. Every time he closed his eyes he still saw you standing in the bar clutching Pope’s arm with fear written all over your face.

Girls like you always go back.

The memory alone made his hands tighten.

Twenty-three minutes later Pope opened the passenger door. The brothers moved silently through the yard.

Pope picked the back lock in under thirty seconds.

The house smelled stale inside. Beer. Cigarettes. Old grease. A television played quietly somewhere in the living room.

Nate’s father had passed out half reclined on the couch with an empty bottle hanging loose from one hand. Pope closed the back door carefully behind them.

The man woke slightly at the sound. “Huh?”

Deran moved first. He crossed the room in three steps and drove his forearm across the man’s throat hard enough to pin him against the couch before he could fully react.

Confusion flashed across the older man’s face. Then recognition. Then fear.

“What the fu-”

Pope grabbed the bottle before it hit the floor. Quiet. Always quiet.

Nate’s father struggled violently beneath Deran’s grip now, but alcohol slowed him down. Age slowed him down more.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.” Deran said quietly.

The man wheezed against his arm. Pope stepped closer calmly, expression empty. Pope looked at him the same way somebody looked at a broken appliance they needed to get rid of. “You scared her,” Pope added softly.

Nate’s father started fighting harder then. Panic setting in.

Deran slammed him backward against the couch again hard enough to daze him.

“Left her scared in my fucking bar,” Deran hissed.

The older man reached desperately for the side table. Phone. Weapon. Anything.

Pope caught his wrist instantly. Then twisted. A wet crack echoed through the room.

The scream barely had time to leave his mouth before Pope clamped a hand over it.

“You should’ve stayed away from her,” he said.

Afterward, they cleaned everything carefully. Pope wiped surfaces while Deran staged the kitchen. A shattered beer bottle near the counter. Water spilled across the tile.

The body positioned wrong enough to look accidental but believable.

A drunk man falls hard enough onto the corner of a counter and sometimes he doesn’t get back up. Sad. Common. Forgettable.

By the time they left, the house looked untouched.

The brothers washed their hands at a gas station fifteen minutes later. Deran scrubbed blood from beneath his fingernails in silence while Pope leaned against the sink watching the empty parking lot through the window.“You think she’s asleep?” Pope asked quietly.

Deran nodded once. Pope looked back down at the water running pink briefly before turning the faucet off. Then they drove to the hospital.

The city was beginning to pale blue with early morning by the time they parked in the visitor garage.

Nate’s room sat on the fourth floor.

Critical condition. Machines breathing for him. Deran stared through the small window in the door for a long moment before entering. Nate looked smaller like this.

Bruised face swollen beyond recognition.

A machine beeped steadily beside him in the darkened room.

Pope closed the door quietly behind them. Nate’s eyes fluttered weakly at the sound. For one horrifying second he almost looked aware. Then his gaze landed on Deran. Fear flooded his face instantly.

Good, Deran thought.

He should be scared.

“You should’ve left her alone,” Deran said softly.

Nate tried to speak. Nothing came out around the breathing tube.

Pope walked calmly to the door, peeking once through the narrow window toward the empty hallway before looking back at his brother. Deran stepped toward the bed.

And by the time the sun finally rose over Oceanside, Nate’s room had become just another tragedy inside a hospital full of them.

It had been a few weeks. A few strange, chaotic, strangely comfortable weeks where the Cody family somehow became woven into your life before you fully realized what was happening.

You’d officially met everyone now.

J had shown up at the bar one afternoon quiet and observant, watching everybody with the same careful expression Pope wore sometimes. Nicky was sweet in an exhausting sort of way and latched onto you immediately after discovering you owned actual skincare products. Lena adored you after exactly ten minutes because you sat on the floor with her and helped untangle one of her necklaces without getting annoyed.

And Smurf… Smurf had become dangerously fond of you. Not in a normal way either. It felt more like she’d picked you out. Like she was studying you the same way she studied her sons. Watching your reactions. Learning your weak spots. Encouraging certain behaviors while quietly steering you away from others.

You noticed it more lately.

“You apologize too much,” Smurf had told you three nights ago while helping you clean up after dinner.

You blinked. “What?”

“You say sorry before you even speak sometimes.” She handed you a wine glass. “Men smell weakness, sweetheart.”

You laughed awkwardly. “I think that’s a little dramatic.”

“No,” Smurf said calmly. “It isn’t.”

Then she’d taught you how to hold eye contact during confrontation like it was a lesson worth learning.

And weirdly enough Pope started hovering more whenever Smurf was around. At first you thought you imagined it. But then you noticed how he lingered nearby anytime Smurf cornered you into conversations. How his eyes tracked the two of you constantly. How he interrupted more. Redirected you away from her. Like he knew something you didn’t.

Which honestly happened a lot with the Codys.

You were beginning to realize there were entire conversations happening beneath the surface around you. Things you weren’t understanding.

Like the fact that none of them ever talked directly about what they actually did.

You heard rumors, obviously. Everybody in Oceanside heard rumors about the Codys. Crime. Robberies. Violence.

But then Deran would make you coffee exactly how you liked it without asking, or Baz would walk you to your car after work, or Craig would spend twenty minutes teaching Lena how to cannonball properly into the pool while Pope sat nearby staring at you like you hung the fucking moon.

They didn’t feel dangerous around you. Not really. Just damaged.

And Pope… Pope was becoming something else entirely. Possessive wasn’t even the right word anymore. It was quieter than that. More constant. Like gravity. He always knew where you were in a room. Always noticed immediately when another man looked too long at you. Always positioned himself close enough to touch you somehow without making it obvious.

His hand brushing the small of your back. His knee pressed against yours under tables. His fingers curling around your wrist absentmindedly while you talked.

And the eye contact.

Jesus Christ.

Pope looked at you like he physically could not stop.

Sometimes it genuinely made you nervous how intensely he listened whenever you spoke. Like every word mattered. Like every facial expression was something worth memorizing. But you liked it more than you should’ve. Way more.

Which was probably why you found yourself currently squeezed tightly beneath Deran’s arm at one of Smurf’s massive pool parties wearing a bikini that barely qualified as fabric. A bikini Smurf picked out herself.

You should’ve known that alone was dangerous.

“Oh my god,” you muttered earlier that afternoon holding the tiny black swimsuit up between two fingers. “This is insane.”

Smurf looked unimpressed from her closet doorway. “No, sweetheart. It’s expensive.”

“It’s basically underwear.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed nervously. “Nate would’ve had an aneurysm.”

Smurf’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Good.”

And somehow you ended up wearing it anyway.

Now music pounded through the backyard while bodies crowded around the pool beneath strings of warm patio lights. Somebody was doing shots off a surfboard table. Craig had already thrown two people into the water fully clothed.

Deran sat beside you on one of the lounge chairs, arm hooked around your shoulders mostly because he was still paranoid about men approaching you at parties now.

You leaned comfortably against him sipping from a drink while laughing at something Nicky screamed near the pool.

Then you felt it. That familiar feeling. Being watched. Your eyes lifted automatically across the crowded backyard. Pope sat near the outdoor kitchen talking to Baz.

Well. Baz was talking. Pope was staring directly at you. Even from across the yard you could feel the intensity of it.

His eyes moved slowly over you once before locking back onto your face. Heat crept into your chest immediately.

Deran noticed your distraction and followed your gaze. “Oh my fucking god,” he muttered.

“What?”

“He’s doing it again.”

You looked innocent. “Doing what?”

“Looking at you like a psychopath.”

You snorted into your drink. “He’s not that weird.”

Deran turned toward you slowly. “Yes,” he said flatly. “He is.”

“I think you exaggerate.”

“Yeah?” Deran barked out a laugh. “Because you don’t work with him.”

You frowned immediately. “What work?”

The second the question left your mouth, Deran’s expression shifted.

“Nothing,” he said.

“That sounds weird.”

“It’s not.”

“You literally just made it more suspicious.”

Deran rubbed his forehead already irritated.

“You ask too many questions.”

“And yet you avoid all of them.”

“Smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly.

Again. That weird feeling.

Like everybody around you knew something you didn’t. Before you could push further, Craig suddenly cannonballed into the pool hard enough to soak half the patio.

You yelped as cold water splashed across your legs. “CRAIG.”

He surfaced laughing wildly. “That was for saying i’m six foot something with shampoo-commercial hair and I only have exactly three surviving brain cells fighting for fourth place earlier.”

“Was I wrong? You do have shampoo-commercial hair.”

Craig pointed dramatically. “See?”

While everybody argued around the pool, your eyes drifted back toward Pope automatically. Still watching you. Except now his expression looked darker somehow.

You followed his line of sight downward and immediately realized why. Deran’s hand rested against your bare thigh.

Oh. You bit back a smile.

“Your brother looks homicidal,” you murmured.

Deran glanced over again. Then groaned loudly. “For fuck’s sake.”

“What?”

“He’s jealous.”

You nearly choked on your drink laughing “Pope? No.”

Deran stared at you like you were stupid “Bambi. He follows you around like a stray dog.”

“That is so mean. Don’t be mean to him.”

“It’s accurate.” He rolled his eyes.

Your smile widened despite yourself. Because maybe Deran wasn’t entirely wrong. Pope looked at you differently now. Not subtle either. Everybody noticed. Especially Smurf.

You caught her watching the interaction from near the grill with an amused little smile pulling at her mouth.

“You should go sit with him,” Deran muttered.

“What?”

“Before he burns holes through my skull.”

You laughed harder. “You’re being dramatic.”

Deran looked back toward Pope. Then immediately removed his arm from around your shoulders. “Nope. Absolutely not. Go.”

“Deran-”

“I’m serious. He’s freaking me out.”

You looked back across the yard again. Pope hadn’t looked away once. God. It should not have affected you this much. But it did.

Because unlike every other guy who looked at you, Pope never seemed distracted. Never checked his phone mid conversation. Never split his attention elsewhere.

When he looked at you, he looked only at you. Like the entire room disappeared.

You stood slowly from the lounge chair.

Almost immediately Pope straightened slightly where he sat.

Deran watched the reaction happen and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

You crossed the backyard toward him through the crowd.

Pope tracked every step.

By the time you reached the outdoor kitchen, Baz was already smirking into his beer.

“Well,” Baz drawled. “There’s the reason he hasn’t heard a word I said in ten minutes.”

Pope ignored him completely. His eyes flicked slowly over your bikini again before settling on your face. “You cold?” he asked immediately.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re shivering.”

“Oh.” You laughed softly. “The pool water.”

Pope grabbed the towel beside him without hesitation and held it out. Your chest tightened a little. Always paying attention. Always noticing.

“Thanks, Andrew.”

The second you said his real name, something changed in his expression. Softened. It happened every single time. Pope loved when you called him Andrew. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved most things concerning you.

Baz noticed too because of course he did “Oh my god,” Baz muttered. “You’re whipped.”

Pope didn’t even deny it.

You smiled trying to hide your embarrassment while taking the towel from him. Pope’s hand settled automatically against your thigh once you sat beside him.

Possessive. Casual. Like it belonged there.

And weirdly enough you let it stay there without thinking twice.

Across the yard, Deran watched the interaction happen before looking deeply exhausted. Smurf appeared beside him sipping wine. “Told you,” she said smugly.

Deran sighed. “This is gonna end in a body. Hopefully not hers.”

Smurf smiled wider. “Probably will be.”

The party got louder the later it got.

Music pounded through the backyard hard enough to shake the deck beneath your feet while bodies crowded shoulder to shoulder around the pool. The entire property glowed gold against the dark ocean behind it, strings of lights hanging from the balcony while drunk strangers danced barefoot across wet concrete.

Craig had somehow started an argument about sharks. “No, listen to me,” he insisted loudly, pointing with a beer bottle while half sprawled across a lounge chair. “If sharks can smell blood from like five miles away then obviously they can smell cocaine.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Deran said flatly.

“It’s literally dissolved in your bloodstream.”

“That’s not how drugs work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

J sat nearby trying unsuccessfully not to laugh while Nicky filmed the entire thing on her phone solely for future blackmail purposes.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” she informed Craig cheerfully.

Craig pointed at her dramatically. “History’s gonna vindicate me.”

Beside you, Pope stayed stretched back against the outdoor couch with one arm hooked lazily along the cushions behind you. Well. Not really behind you anymore.

At some point during the conversation you’d shifted closer without thinking until your shoulder rested fully against his chest, your legs tucked partly beneath his along the couch. And Pope loved it. You could tell.

Not because he said anything. Because every time you touched him he got quieter. More focused. Like his entire body locked onto the feeling immediately.

His hand rested against your thigh now, large fingers spread lazily over sun-warmed skin while everybody argued around you. Every so often his thumb brushed absentminded little circles there.

Every single time it happened, his eyes flicked down toward your face. Checking. Watching your reaction carefully like he still hadn’t fully processed the fact that you let him touch you this much.

You leaned your head back slightly to look up at him. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

Pope’s eyes dropped to yours instantly. The height difference forced you to tilt your chin up slightly from where you rested against him. “I’m listening.”

“To Craig talking about drug-sniffing sharks?”

“Yes.”

You laughed softly.

Pope’s eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long afterward.

Across from you, Baz noticed immediately and smirked into his drink. The man was obsessed with you. Not even subtly anymore.

Smurf sat nearby with a glass of wine watching the entire interaction unfold with careful amusement. Like she was observing a particularly entertaining science experiment in real time.

You were halfway through making fun of Craig’s shark theory when a girl suddenly approached the couch hesitantly.

You recognized her vaguely from high school. Not close friends. Just familiar enough to know her name if somebody said it out loud. She looked relieved when she spotted you.

“Oh my god,” she said softly. “There you are.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to find you.”

Beside you, Pope’s hand engulfed your thigh more firmly instantly. Protective. Alert. His eyes lifted toward the girl carefully now.

Confusion twisted through you. “Why?”

The girl glanced awkwardly around the group before looking back at you. “You didn’t hear?”

Something in her tone made your stomach tighten immediately. You laughed nervously shaking your head. “Hear what?”

“Nate’s dad died.”

Everything around you seemed to go strangely muffled. Like somebody dropped water over your ears. “What?” you whispered.

The girl nodded quickly. “Yeah. Cops are saying he got drunk and slipped in his kitchen or something. Everybody’s freaking out because he was like… such a good guy..”

A good guy. Yeah fucking right.

You felt Pope’s entire body go still behind you.

The girl kept talking nervously. “And Nate…” Your chest tightened instantly. “He died Wednesday morning at the hospital.”

The words hit like ice water. Your body instinctively pressed backward into Pope’s chest before you even realized you were moving. And immediately Pope’s arm wrapped fully around your waist. His fingers slid beneath the tie of your bikini bottoms absentmindedly, anchoring you against him.

The touch made heat crawl up your spine despite the panic suddenly flooding your chest. Around you, every Cody had gone silent.

Especially Smurf. All of them watching your face carefully now. Measuring your reaction. Because you knew what happened at the marina. You looked between them slowly, heartbeat suddenly roaring in your ears “How?” you asked quietly.

The girl shrugged uneasily. “They said his ventilator malfunctioned or something. Like some weird glitch.” You suddenly became hyperaware of Pope’s hand tightening slightly against your waist. The girl laughed awkwardly into the silence. “Crazy, right? Anyway, his mom’s doing a service for both of them next week.”

Nobody answered her. Because now the atmosphere felt wrong. Heavy. You swallowed hard.

Your brain started racing violently. Nate dead. His father dead. The ventilator made no sense. The kitchen accident made too much sense.

And suddenly every rumor you’d ever heard about the Codys stopped sounding like rumors at all.

You looked toward Deran slowly. His expression stayed unreadable. Too unreadable. Like none of this was actually news to him.

Baz somehow looked calmer than everybody else which honestly made him scarier. Craig wouldn’t meet your eyes anymore. Even J looked tense now.

But Pope was only watching you. Like your reaction mattered more than the deaths themselves.

The girl shifted awkwardly under the silence. “I just thought you should know.”

“Yeah,” you said faintly. “Thanks.”

She disappeared back into the crowd quickly after that. But the weirdness stayed.

The party still raged around you. Music blasted through the backyard. Somebody screamed after getting shoved into the pool fully clothed again. Bottles clinked. People laughed too loudly. But around the couch, tension settled heavy and suffocating.

You sat stiffly against Pope’s chest now, barely realizing how tightly you’d pressed yourself into him. His hand stayed firm against your waist, thumb moving slowly against your side like he was trying to soothe you. Or maybe soothe himself. You honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

“Nate died?” you said finally, voice sounding distant even to yourself.

The words felt unreal. Deran exchanged a quick glance with Baz. Craig stared down into his beer bottle. J watched everyone carefully from the edge of the chair, quiet like always.

Smurf leaned back calmly, wine balanced elegantly between her fingers while sharp interest glittered behind her eyes.

The whole thing suddenly felt deeply wrong.

You looked around slowly. “Why is everybody acting weird?”

“No one’s acting weird,” Deran answered way too fast.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, you are.”

Pope’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly when your voice rose.

You looked up at him instinctively. His eyes were already on your face. Always.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. And somehow that almost made it worse.

Because he sounded genuinely concerned while everybody else looked tense as hell.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.” The girl’s words replayed violently in your head.

You suddenly stood up. “I need to leave.”

Pope immediately straightened beside you. “Hey-“

“I just…” You rubbed your forehead shakily. “I need a second.” Your fingers grabbed the nearest sweatshirt off the couch blindly before pulling it over your bikini top. You barely noticed the sleeves swallowed your hands completely.

Pope did. His eyes locked instantly onto the oversized hoodie hanging off your body. His hoodie. Something sharp and possessive flashed across his face so quickly only Smurf caught it.

Interesting.

You pushed through the side gate quickly. The metal slammed behind you. The second you disappeared down the street, Craig exhaled loudly.

“Good job not acting suspicious as fuck, guys,” Baz said sarcastically.

“Shut up,” Deran muttered.

Smurf swirled the wine slowly in her glass. “She knows something.”

J frowned slightly. “About what?”

Smurf’s eyes stayed fixed thoughtfully on the closed gate. “That girl didn’t react like someone upset her ex-boyfriend died.” Her expression sharpened slightly. “She reacted like she’s scared.”

Baz leaned forward now. “You think Nate told her something?”

“I think,” Smurf said carefully, “our sweet little Bambi is smarter than you boys thought.”

Pope stood immediately. “She’s not gonna say anything.”

Smurf’s gaze flicked toward him knowingly. “You sound very sure. You willing to bet your freedom on it?”

“I am.” The certainty in his voice shut everybody up briefly.

Because Pope trusted you completely. And honestly? That made him the most dangerous person in the family right now.

Smurf looked between her sons slowly before nodding once toward the street “Follow her.”

Deran groaned immediately. “Come on. She ran out of here looking terrified. She just found out her ex died.”

“And?” Smurf snapped lightly. “You think that girl’s stupid? She’s putting things together.”

Baz stood first. “Let’s go.”

But Pope was already moving toward the driveway before anybody else.

Because he knew the look on your face when you got overwhelmed. And more importantly, He wasn’t about to let anybody else get to you first.

Your hands shook so badly on the steering wheel you nearly blew through a stop sign.

The tires screeched slightly when you corrected too hard. Everything felt wrong.

Your thoughts kept colliding into each other faster than you could process them. Nate yelling. Nate crying the first time he begged you not to “ruin his family.”

Nate’s father smiling at barbecues while flipping burgers like some suburban dad straight out of a Home Depot commercial. Pretending he wasn’t a lousy drunk behind closed doors.

The hidden files on the computer. Your best friend sobbing in that video. God. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might throw up. The apartment complex came into view too fast.

You parked crooked and barely remembered shutting the car off before climbing out. The apartment you once shared with Nate was dark when you stepped inside. And it still smelled like him. Stale beer. Laundry detergent. Old cigarettes soaked into fabric and walls. You hated it instantly.

It hit you all over again why you hadn’t come back since the night he hit you. Why staying with Deran had somehow felt safer than being alone here. Your chest tightened hard.

The silence inside the apartment felt wrong now. Haunted.

You moved quickly toward the entertainment center near the living room wall, panic making your movements jerky. Books hit the floor one after another while you ripped them off the shelves searching.

“Come on,” you whispered shakily under your breath. “Come on, please…”

Your fingers slipped against the wood paneling behind the shelf before finally catching the loose edge. Relief hit so hard it almost made your knees weak. You pulled the hidden disk case free from inside the wall.

“Oh my god,” you laughed breathlessly to yourself. Not happy. Just relieved.

Your grip tightened around the case as you turned and nearly screamed. A solid wall of muscle stood directly in front of you. You stumbled backward violently before realizing it was Pope. A startled sound escaped your throat. His hand shot out immediately, grabbing your forearm gently before you could trip over the books scattered across the floor.

Your eyes snapped upward.

All four brothers stood inside the apartment doorway. The sight of them there made your pulse spike instantly.

“What the fuck?”

Pope stepped closer first. “Hey,” he murmured softly, saying your name like he was trying not to scare you. Too late. You took another step backward anyway.

“How did you even know I was here? Nobody answered immediately.

And for the first time since meeting them, the Cody brothers looked exactly like the stories people whispered about. Craig leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, expression unusually serious. Baz’s eyes moved carefully around the apartment, taking everything in automatically. Deran looked tense enough to snap.

But Pope only looked at you. Or more specifically At the disk case clutched tightly in your hands.

Your heartbeat sped up immediately. “You followed me here?” you asked carefully.

Baz spoke first. “What’s that?”

Your fingers tightened around the disk instinctively. “Nothing.”

You shoved it behind your back too quickly.

The second Deran stepped forward with that cold unreadable look on his face, you regretted it. “Bambi,” he said carefully. “Why’d you come here?”

You looked between all of them uneasily. The atmosphere had shifted. Not violent exactly. But serious. Focused. Like they were trying to solve a problem.

Pope took another slow step closer. “You scared us.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. “So your solution was following me to my apartment?”

“Yeah,” Craig muttered. “Because you looked like you were about to have a fucking breakdown.”

Your eyes lifted back toward Pope automatically.

His gaze dropped briefly toward the disk behind your back. Then back to your face.“What’s on it?” he asked softly. And somehow him asking gently broke you more than if he’d demanded it.

Your throat tightened. “It belonged to Nate’s dad.” You swallowed hard. “It’s why he said I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Every single one of them went still. The memory of that night at the bar flashed visibly across their faces. Deran’s expression darkened immediately.

You stared down at the disk case in your hands. “A few months ago Nate’s dad let me borrow his computer,” you said quietly. “I found videos on it.”

Baz’s face flattened instantly. “What kind of videos?”

You looked sick even trying to say it. “Girls.” Nobody spoke. “High school girls.”

Craig swore quietly under his breath.

“One of them was my best friend.” Your voice cracked instantly. “She was crying and he was hurting her.” Pope’s face changed. You sniffed shakily and kept talking too fast now, words tumbling over themselves. “She went missing our senior year. They found her body all the way out in Point Loma.”

Silence slammed into the apartment. Pope looked genuinely frightening now. Not toward you. Toward the thought of somebody making you cry like this.

Craig sat down hard on the couch suddenly, elbows braced on his knees while he dragged both hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered.

You rushed your words out quicker now through tears. “I wanted to go to the police but Nate kept begging me not to ruin his dad’s life and then we started fighting more and more and…” Your throat closed painfully. “The night he hit me was because I told him I was done protecting them.” Your breathing shook. “It had been seven years since she died and-” You stopped hard, trying to steady yourself. “Her parents invited Nate and me to breakfast every year after they found her body.” Your voice cracked again. “And I had to sit across from them pretending the person I was sharing my life with didn’t know his father murdered their daughter.”

Deran looked disgusted. Actually disgusted.

Pope stepped toward you immediately. His hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing against the side of your face almost hesitantly. “What…” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “What do you mean he knew?”

You swallowed hard. “Nate helped him.”

Even the air in the apartment felt different afterward. “That asshole helped his father?” Deran asked flatly. Not remorseful. Just colder somehow.

You nodded shakily. “He knew the whole time.” Tears slid down your cheeks faster now. “He wasn’t shocked when I told him what I found. He was angry I wouldn’t look the other way anymore.”

Baz rubbed a hand slowly over his mouth processing everything. Then finally he held his hand out toward the disk carefully. “Can I see it?”

You hesitated. And for one awful second, fear curled low in your stomach. Not because you thought they’d hurt you. Because suddenly you realized you didn’t actually know what these men were capable of. Now here they stood in a dead man’s apartment after silently following you across town.

You looked toward Pope carefully. He noticed the hesitation instantly. And it visibly hurt him. Something shifted in his expression almost imperceptibly. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted toward him. “We’re not gonna hurt you.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.

You nodded slowly before handing Baz the disk case.

Baz opened it carefully while Craig leaned over trying to see too. Deran cursed quietly under his breath almost immediately. Inside sat a plain burned CD labeled in black marker.

S. DAVIS — 3/18/2009.

“Her name was Sarah,” you whispered.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig muttered again.

You looked away immediately, humiliation mixing violently with grief in your chest. “I know I should’ve gone to the cops sooner.”

You completely misunderstood the look passing between them. You thought they were judging you. Wondering why you stayed quiet so long. You didn’t notice the other realization settling in instead.

That Nate and his father being dead suddenly looked a whole lot less suspicious if this ever surfaced.

“No,” Pope said immediately. Your eyes lifted toward him again. His expression softened instantly the second he saw your face. “You tried.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Because nobody else had ever said that to you. Not Nate. Not yourself. Pope stepped closer carefully now. Close enough that you could smell him mixed with the smoke and beer still clinging faintly to the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your body. His sweatshirt. You suddenly became aware you were still wearing it.

Pope noticed you realizing. His eyes dropped briefly toward the sleeves swallowing your hands. Something possessive flickered low across his face again. Then he looked back at you. “You were trying to protect people,” he said quietly. Your throat tightened painfully “Sarah deserves justice.”

Baz looked up from the disk then. “We can help with that.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

Deran nodded slowly now. “You take this to the cops, they’ll actually listen.”

“Especially now,” Craig muttered darkly. “Perfect dead suburban family man bullshit kinda falls apart once this gets out.”

You stared at all of them. “You’d help me?”

Baz feigned confusion by the question. “Why wouldn’t we?”

You almost laughed at that. Because ten minutes ago these men silently appeared in your apartment like something out of a nightmare and scared the hell out of you without even trying. And now they were calmly offering to help expose a predator.

Nothing about the Codys made sense.

Pope stepped even closer. Close enough that your pulse stumbled slightly. “You don’t gotta do this alone anymore,” he said softly. “I’ll take you to the cops myself.”

And the terrifying thing was you believed him immediately.

The police station took almost two hours.

Two exhausting, emotionally draining hours of sitting beneath fluorescent lights while detectives asked careful questions and copied files from the disk. You felt nauseous the entire time.

Pope never left your side once. Not once.

He sat beside you in stiff silence through every interview, large body angled slightly toward yours the whole time like some unconscious shield. Every time your voice shook answering a question, his eyes lifted immediately to your face.

One detective finally asked if he was your boyfriend.

Pope answered before you could. “Yes.” The word came out flat and immediate. You turned toward him in surprise. Pope didn’t even look at you. Just kept staring at the detective like daring him to question it.

The detective only nodded slowly and moved on. But your stomach had flipped violently anyway. Because Pope didn’t say things casually. Everything with him felt carved in stone.

By the time you finally walked back outside, the sky had gone dark. You stood near the parking lot rubbing your arms tiredly while Pope watched you carefully beside his truck.

“You okay?”

“No,” you admitted honestly.

Pope nodded once like he expected that answer. “You wanna stay alone tonight?”

The thought made your stomach twist immediately. Nate’s apartment suddenly felt unbearable now, and you knew Deran had Adrian over. You looked at him quietly. “Can I stay with you?”

Pope’s entire body went still. You noticed. Because you’d started learning him now. And Pope looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, okay.”

The drive to his apartment was quiet.

Pope drove one-handed, occasionally glancing toward you like he was checking to make sure you were still there. The apartment complex itself surprised you.

Small. Quiet. Nothing flashy.

Inside surprised you even more. Everything was spotless. Painfully spotless. You stepped inside slowly while Pope locked the door behind you. The apartment looked almost untouched. Counters completely clear. Shoes lined up perfectly near the wall. Blankets folded sharply across the couch. Not a single dish in the sink.

“You actually live like this?” you asked softly. Pope shrugged. “It’s cleaner than a hospital in here.”

“I don’t like mess.” You looked around again. The apartment felt exactly like him somehow. Every object carefully placed where it belonged. Even the air smelled clean.

Pope watched your eyes move around the room intently. Like he cared whether or not you approved.

You smiled faintly. “I like it.”

The tension visibly left his shoulders.

God. That should not have affected you as much as it did. You turned toward him fully then. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping me today.”

Pope frowned slightly like the answer was obvious. “You needed help.”

“I know but…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Nobody’s ever really done something like that for me before.”

Pope stared at you so intensely your chest warmed. “You don’t gotta thank me for taking care of you.” There it was again. That dangerous kind of devotion sitting quietly beneath everything he said.

You swallowed hard. Pope’s eyes immediately dropped to your throat moving. Jesus Christ. The man stared like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “You can shower if you want,” he said suddenly. “I’ll find you clothes.” You nodded quickly mostly because you needed a second to breathe.

The bathroom was just as obsessively clean as the rest of the apartment. White towels folded perfectly. Everything organized. You caught yourself smiling slightly while turning on the shower. Of course Pope folded towels properly.

You stripped slowly, exhaustion finally crashing into your body as steam filled the room. The hot water felt almost painful against your skin at first. You closed your eyes beneath the spray immediately. For the first time all day, your brain quieted.

A soft knock sounded faintly through the bathroom. You barely heard it over the water. “Bambi?” Pope’s voice.

You called back weakly, “Yeah?”

“I got clothes for you.”

You hummed something unintelligible, eyes still closed beneath the water. A second later the bathroom door opened quietly. Pope stepped inside carefully holding a folded shirt and sweatpants. Then he froze. The glass shower door was partially translucent from the steam. Enough to see your silhouette beneath the water. Your head tilted back slightly. Wet hair slicked against your shoulders. Water tracing down your body slowly. Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You didn’t notice him immediately. Eyes still closed while water poured over your face. Pope should’ve left. Instead he stood there completely motionless staring through the steam like a man starving to death. His jaw flexed once hard enough to hurt.

Then you opened your eyes. And saw him.

For one suspended second neither of you moved. Pope looked almost caught.

Your heart started pounding instantly. But you weren’t scared. Not even a little. Because it was Andrew. Obsessive, strange, intense Andrew who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Slowly, you reached forward and pulled the shower door open wider. Steam curled out into the bathroom. Pope stared at you silently. Water dripped down your skin while his eyes moved over you openly now. No pretending otherwise.

Your voice came out soft. “You gonna just stand there?”

Pope swallowed hard. “You want me to come in there?”

You stepped closer instead of answering. Close enough now that steam dampened the front of his shirt. Then your fingers curled around the front of it gently and pulled. Pope came willingly. The second he stepped beneath the hot water, your mouths crashed together hard.

It wasn’t soft. Weeks of tension snapped all at once.

Pope kissed like he thought about it constantly. Hands immediately gripping your waist hard enough to bruise while yours tangled into his damp hair. A low sound left his throat when you kissed him back harder.

“You sure?” he murmured roughly against your mouth.

You answered by dragging his shirt upward impatiently. That nearly killed him. Pope pulled back just enough to yank the shirt over his head before grabbing your face again immediately. His hands were everywhere now. Like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.

Your chest. Your waist. Your thighs. Always pulling you closer. Always needing more.

You kissed down his jaw while your fingers worked open his belt beneath the spray of water. Pope’s breathing turned uneven instantly. “Bambi,” he muttered warningly. But his hands tightened against you anyway.

You looked up at him through wet lashes. The eye contact alone almost destroyed him. Because Pope loved your eye contact. Loved seeing exactly what you felt while touching him.

You pushed his jeans down just enough to make him curse softly under his breath before his mouth found yours again harder this time. The steam thickened around both of you while water poured over his shoulders. Everything about him felt overwhelming up close. Big hands. Heavy breathing. The intensity. Even kissing you, Pope watched your face constantly like he needed every reaction. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered suddenly against your mouth.

The sincerity in it made heat rush through you instantly. Pure Andrew.

Your fingers slid across his chest slowly and Pope actually shivered beneath your touch. That realization alone nearly made you dizzy. Because this terrifying man, this obsessive, dangerous Cody, looked completely undone by you touching him back. His hands stayed locked around your waist beneath the spray of hot water while your mouths moved together desperately, steam thickening the air around both of you until breathing felt difficult. Not because of the heat. Because of him. Because every time you touched him, Pope reacted like it meant something.

Your fingers slid through his wet hair and his entire body tensed instantly. A rough sound left his throat before he kissed you harder, backing you slowly against the cool shower wall. “Andrew,” you breathed against his mouth. His forehead dropped briefly against yours while he stared at your face through wet lashes, breathing uneven.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Calling me that.”

You smiled softly. “Well do you like it.”

“Yes.” Always honest. You laughed quietly and Pope’s eyes locked onto your mouth again instantly. Like he couldn’t help himself. The intensity of it made your stomach twist pleasantly. Water ran down his chest while your hands moved lower, tracing slowly across muscle and scar tissue. Pope shivered again beneath your touch and the realization almost drove you insane. This terrifying man who scared half of Oceanside looked completely undone just from you touching him gently. Pope suddenly grabbed your thighs without warning. You gasped softly as he lifted you effortlessly against him. His mouth found yours again immediately. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively while his hands held you securely like he never wanted to put you down again. Which honestly,

he probably didn’t.

Pope kissed down your jaw slowly before pressing his face briefly against your neck. Not even kissing for a second. Just breathing you in. The intimacy of it made your chest ache. Then suddenly he pulled back just enough to look at you again. Really look at you. Water dripped from his dark hair into his eyes but he barely blinked.“You wanna stop?” he asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard. Because despite all the intensity, all the possessiveness simmering beneath his skin Pope had been careful with you from the beginning.

You shook your head immediately. “No.”

Pope stared one second longer like he needed to make absolutely sure. Then he kissed you again and carried you straight out of the shower. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth as water dripped onto the bathroom floor.

“Andrew…”

He barely let you finish speaking before pushing open the bedroom door. The room matched the rest of the apartment perfectly. You didn’t even fully process it before Pope lowered you onto the mattress and climbed over you immediately. The second your back hit the sheets, something in him snapped. Like having you in his bed meant more than it should. His large hands slid beneath your thighs while he kissed you deeper, slower now, finally able to touch you without interruption.

You tugged him closer instantly. Pope practically groaned into your mouth. “You want me close,” he muttered against your lips almost like he was amazed by it.

“Yes.” His eyes flashed dark immediately. Pope loved hearing that. Loved anything that sounded like you choosing him. He kissed you again rougher this time while his hands moved over your body constantly. Your waist. Your hips. Your stomach. Like he couldn’t stop touching you long enough to think straight. Pope kept pulling back just enough to look at you. Watching your face every time you touched him. Every little sound you made. Every reaction. It was almost overwhelming how focused he was on you.

You reached up brushing damp hair back from his forehead gently. Pope froze for half a second. “What?” you whispered.

“You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re nice to me.”

The quiet sincerity behind the words hurt your chest unexpectedly. Like he genuinely wasn’t used to tenderness. You touched his face softer this time. “Andrew.”

His eyes shut briefly. You realized suddenly that Pope Cody would probably let you ruin him completely if you asked. The thought hit hard. Because underneath all the danger and obsession and intensity Pope was touch-starved in a way that felt almost painful. Every gentle touch visibly affected him. Every kiss. Every time your fingers dragged through his hair or across his shoulders. He reacted like he’d remember it forever.

Your hands slid down his chest slowly while he kissed along your throat, breathing rough and uneven against your skin.

“You smell good,” he murmured distractedly.

You laughed softly. “That’s a weird thing to say during a makeout.”

“I know.” Again with the honesty.

You smiled into another kiss while Pope’s hand tightened slightly against your waist. Like he physically needed to keep part of you underneath his hand at all times. His mouth moved slower now, deeper, tension simmering heavy between you both while the room stayed quiet except for uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath his weight. His mouth broke from yours only long enough to drag his lips down the line of your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The sound you made, breathless, broken, pulled a low hum of approval from his chest. Pope's hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you harder against him until there was nothing between you and the heat radiating off his body. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your neck, voice rougher than it had been moments ago, "how long I've been thinking about this."

You tilted your head back, giving him more space, and he took it without hesitation, tongue tracing down your throat, teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. His other hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could look at you. Those dark eyes, half-lidded and burning, swept over your expression like he was memorizing every detail. “I need you to understand something first.” His thumb traced over your lower lip, tugging it down just slightly. “If we do this-“ He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “You belong to me. Not for tonight. Not for the weekend. You’re mine. You understand?”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver straight through you, pooling heat low in your belly. You nodded, breath catching, and he shook his head slowly.

“Words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice steadier than you expected. “I understand. I'm yours.”Something flickered in his gaze, satisfaction, hunger, and a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss that wasn't gentle. It was claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned against him, fingers curling into muscle. He pulled back just enough to look at you again, breath mingling. “Such a good girl.” The words hit you like a live wire.

Pope’s hands cupped your breasts letting his knuckles drag across your skin as he went. His eyes dropped to your chest, and he let out a slow exhale. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You're so gorgeous.”

He didn't rush. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts, tongue circling your nipple and your back arched off the mattress. He sucked hard, then softer, then hard again, switching between the two until you were writhing beneath him, fingers tangled in his curly hair. His hand moved to your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak while his tongue worked the first.

“Please,” you gasped.

“Please what?” He lifted his head, dark eyes finding yours. His lips were wet, his jaw tight with restraint.

“Please-I need-“ You didn’t know what you needed.

“I know what you need.” His hand slid down your stomach, fingers circling your hip bone. “But I want to hear you say it.”

You swallowed, heat flooding your cheeks even as your hips bucked into his touch. “I need you inside me, Andy.”

The name, Andy, did something to him. His pupils dilated, his breath caught, and for a second he just stared at you like you'd given him something precious. “Say it again,”he commanded, voice rough.

“Andy.”

His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, and his hand finally, finally, slipped further fingers sliding through slick heat. He groaned into your mouth when he felt how wet you were. “That's for me,” he muttered against your lips. “All this, just for me.”

You nodded frantically, and he rewarded you by pressing two fingers inside you without warning. A cry tore from your throat, not pain, but pleasure sharp enough to make your vision blur. He curled them, found that spot immediately, and your hips jerked.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching your face. “Right there. I know.” He worked you slowly at first, dragging his fingers in and out while his thumb pressed against your clit in tight circles. Your hands gripped the sheets, your moans growing louder, more broken, until you felt that familiar tension coiling in your gut.

“m’close,”you whimpered.

Pope shook his head, pulling his fingers out. “Not yet. I want to feel you come on my cock.” Your whine of protest died in your throat when he sat back on his knees, eyes fixed on you as he stroked his hard cock, and you watched, transfixed, as his head fell back and he let out such a deep groan. He was hard, thick, the tip already glistening. Your mouth went dry. Pope tightened his hand around his shaft, stroking once, twice, moving his head so. he never broke eye contact with you. “You want this?”

“Yes, fuck-yes, Andy.”

He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guided his cock to your entrance. He didn't push in, not yet. He just let the head rest against you, teasing, letting you feel the heat and the pressure. “Tell me you're mine.”

“I'm yours.” Your voice cracked, desperate. “I'm yours, Andy. Please-“

He pushed in. Slow. Impossibly slow. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you until you couldn't breathe. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled moan escaping your lips. He paused when he was fully sheathed, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You feel-fuck.” He started moving. Long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you needed him. His pace was steady, controlled, each thrust a deliberate claim. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the angle. “Yeah, just like that.”

One of his hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning it to the mattress beside your head. His other hand, you saw it twitch toward your throat, saw the want flash in his eyes, and you tilted your chin up in silent invitation. But he pulled his hand back, gripping your hip instead.

“I can't,” he said, voice strained. “I can't, God, I want to, but I can't stand the idea of hurting you.”

“It wouldn't hurt me,” you breathed. “I want it.”

“I know you do.” His thrusts grew harder, faster, chasing his own edge. “But I won't. I'll give you everything else, every fucking thing, but not that.”

You wanted to argue, but the way he was fucking you made any thoughts impossible. He angled his hips, and suddenly he was hitting a spot that sent electricity through your entire body. Your nails dug into his back, and he hissed in pleasure.

“That's it. Let me feel you.” The pressure built again, faster this time, and your mouth fell open in a cry. Pope watched your face, drinking in every expression, and when your eyes welled with tears, from the intensity, from the sheer overwhelming pleasure, his breath stuttered. “Fuck,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you. Crying on my cock.”

The tears spilled over, tracking down your temples into your hair. He lowered his head and licked one off your cheekbone, the gesture strangely tender in the midst of the brutality of his thrusts.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So perfect. I want you to come. I want to feel you squeeze me.” His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles. That was all it took. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and consuming, your body arching off the bed as a broken scream tore from your throat. Pope kept moving through it, fucking you through the aftershocks, groaning as your walls clenched around him. “That's it,” he panted. “Fuck, that's it.”

He didn't stop, couldn't stop. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pulling your hips up and entering you from behind. The new angle was deeper, harder, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your cries as he took you apart. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he could lean down and speak against your ear.

“You're taking me so well. You feel that? That's me inside you. No one else. Ever.”

Words failed you. All you could do was moan and push back against him. His pace grew erratic, his grip on your hip bruising. “I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?”

“Yes-yes, Andy, please-“

His hand slid around to your front, fingers pressing against your clit again, and you felt a second orgasm building, impossibly fast.

“Come with me,” he commanded. “Now.”

Your body obeyed. The second wave hit as he drove into you one last time, burying himself deep, his groan long and guttural as he spilled inside you. Hot pulses of release filling you, and you felt every one.

He collapsed forward, chest heaving against your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the aftermath.

Finally, he pulled out slowly, and you felt the warmth of his cum trickling down your thigh. He turned you over gently, gathering you into his arms, his hand stroking your hair with a tenderness that made your eyes well up again. “You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, voice gone. Pope stayed wrapped around you for a long moment afterward, both of you breathing hard in the dark quiet of his apartment. The room smelled faintly like steam and laundry detergent and him. His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder while one large hand spread slowly across your stomach, almost absentmindedly keeping you pulled tightly against his chest. Like he physically couldn’t let go yet.

Finally, he shifted carefully, easing you up the sheets. His movements slowed immediately the second he saw your face twist slightly from sensitivity. Instant concern. “You hurt?” he asked softly.

“No,” you whispered quickly. “No, I’m okay.”

Pope searched your expression another few seconds anyway. Making sure. Then he leaned down pressing a slow kiss against your forehead before reaching toward the nightstand for a towel. The tenderness of it nearly undid you. He cleaned you up carefully, almost shy despite everything that had happened minutes earlier. Every time you flinched slightly from sensitivity, his hand smoothed automatically over your thigh or stomach in silent apology.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, throat tight. Pope noticed immediately. “You’re crying.”

You touched beneath your eye in surprise.

God. You were.

“I don’t know why,” you admitted quietly.

Pope’s expression softened instantly. He climbed back beside you without hesitation and pulled you into his chest again, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist while the other hand moved slowly through your damp hair. The repetitive motion felt calming immediately. Safe. “Do you regret it?” he asked after a moment.

Your head lifted quickly. “No.” The answer came so fast it visibly affected him. Relief crossed his face so openly it hurt your chest “No,” you repeated softer this time. “Not even a little.”

Pope stared down at you in silence. Then his hand moved gently across your cheek. “You sure?”

You nodded. And maybe it was emotional exhaustion or the intimacy of being held like this, but suddenly your chest ached with it. Nobody had ever touched you like Pope did. Like your comfort mattered more than his own. Like he was constantly paying attention. You curled closer instinctively beneath the blankets. Pope immediately tightened his arm around you. His eyes dropped toward the top of your head where it rested against his chest. “You fit good there,” he murmured quietly.

You laughed softly against his skin. “That’s such an Andrew thing to say.” The second the name left your mouth, his fingers tightened slightly in your hair. He loved that name from you. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved everything involving you “Y’know you’re the only one who calls me that,” he said.

“Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

You tilted your head up enough to look at him. Pope was already staring back down at you. Of course he was. You smiled sleepily. “You stare a lot after sex too, huh?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

You laughed quietly and his expression softened watching it happen.

For a while neither of you spoke. Pope kept tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets while you listened to his heartbeat under your ear.

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

There's always this really cute dad with his kid at the mom and pop restaurant you like to go to after your shift is done. Seeing them after a long day brings a smile to your face whenever they happen to dine at the same time you do. 

Though, maybe you shouldn't be staring at them as much as you do…

Your job as a paramedic doesn't really allow for much wiggle room when it comes to having a family. Not that your mind should be drifting to having a family when you look at them…or how nice it would be to join their little family. 

Another long day means you aren't all that good at preventing yourself from imagining scenarios you shouldn't indulge in. You decide then not to get your usual drink and opt for some water. Better to stay sober, so your mind doesn't wander any more than it already has. 

And you're thankful you chose not to drink. 

Because that little girl is choking right now and her dad has such a panicked look on his face, watching her cough furiously, her face going pale with fear. 

You quickly run up to them and ask the girl, “are you okay, sweetie?” 

She shakes her head, still coughing. 

“What's her name?” You ask her dad. 

“Lena.” Pope looks at you, seeing that you're still wearing your paramedic uniform. “Can you help her?” 

“Yes, of course.” You give him a firm nod, acknowledging his consent, before turning back to Lena. “Hey there, Lena. I'm going to need you to keep coughing, okay sweetie?” 

She tries her best to keep coughing but it's getting harder and harder so you have Pope move out of the way so you can pull her to her feet, kneeling behind her. 

You have her bend forward just a tad with you supporting her and start applying back blows. After five of those, you switch to abdominal thrusts. You repeat the sequence in hopes of dislodging the food from her throat. 

But she passes out instead and thankfully you have her braced against your arm so you can break her fall. 

Pope is in a full state of panic right now, seeing Lena laying unconscious on the floor. He knew he shouldn't have let her order that dish with those big chunks of peppers. He's hovering you now as you start compressions, sick to his stomach, anxiety overwhelming him. 

“What's your name?” You ask him after you give her two breaths using the spare face shield you always keep in your pocket and start the next set of compressions. 

“Andrew.” He's unsure why you ask. 

Until you tell him, “Andrew, I'm going to need you to call 9-1-1. You need to tell them where we are and that we have an unresponsive child. Is there an AED on site?” 

Thankfully, the owners of the restaurant do have an AED so you quickly turn it on and lift up Lena's shirt so you can apply the pediatric pads in the correct places. 

The machine prompts everyone to stay clear of the body while it monitors whether or not she needs a shock. 

She doesn't need it, so the machine prompts you to continue compressions while it monitors for any irregular heart rhythms that may require a shock.

You do your CPR cycles until you see a piece of food in her mouth when you go to give her breaths. You pull it out before applying the next set of breaths. 

Lena gasps for air then and relief washes over you. She starts coughing so you help soothe her by saying, “you're going to be okay, sweetie. Just keep breathing. Help is on the way.” 

You hand her off to the paramedics when they get there, who you know from work so you can guarantee to Pope that she's in good hands. 

“Thank you.” He tells you before he is swept away into the ambulance, unsure how he's going to ever repay you for saving Lena's life. 

It starts by making sure that your tab is always paid for at that restaurant. You tell the owners not to let Pope keep paying for your meals but they brush you off, saying you should enjoy having someone take care of a bill for you every now and then. 

You do enjoy it, but you feel guilty because you were just doing your job. You may have been off duty but you would've helped regardless.

So the next time you see Pope and Lena, you go up to them to say something but then Lena immediately rushes to give you the biggest hug. The kind of hug that warms your heart instantly. 

“Thank you for saving my life.” She says so sweetly to you that you almost cry from how precious she is. 

“Aw sweetie.” You pat the top of her head gently. “I'm happy I could help.” 

“Do you want to join us?” Pope invites you to eat with them. “I'm paying for your meal anyways. Might as well eat with us too.” 

“Please?” Lena looks up at you, wanting you to share a meal with her and her dad. 

“Okay, sure.” You cave, letting her take your hand and pull you into the booth with her. 

You sort of wish you had said no because now you're face to face with Pope and you've never been this close to him before. Minus when he was panicking over Lena's body but that doesn't really count. 

You're horribly shy, not knowing if you should say anything but then Lena prompts, “what do you normally order, pretty paramedic lady?” 

You giggle at her nickname for you then tell her your actual name. “In case you wanted to know.” 

“My dad and I have been calling you the pretty paramedic lady since we didn't know your name. We were hoping you'd be here today.” Lena explains and her words have Pope's ears going red. 

Because she's revealing that the two of them have talked about you a lot. And that he thinks you're very pretty…

Something you find quite endearing, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering about in response. “Is that so? Well, here I am. So glad you seem to be doing better, Lena.” 

“Yep!” She exclaims in that carefree way only children can. “And now I know I'm never ordering anything with peppers in it again. Yuck!”

You smile at her, loving how cute she is. Pope smiles at you, loving how cute you are. 

He really loves you. 

You'd be a perfect mom to Lena. 

Lena is usually not this talkative but she likes you a lot so now she's telling you all about her school and what she likes to do for fun. You listen intently, remaining engaged, asking her questions that she's happy to answer. 

Pope wishes he could just take you home with them. He would love to see Lena this happy all the time. 

Maybe that's why after the meal, he invites you to come over for some dessert. You should decline but then Lena practically begs you to and how are you supposed to say no to such a cute kid? 

So, that's how you end up in Pope's beachside house. You help tuck Lena into bed and then Pope asks you if you'd like a drink. 

“I should get back to my car.” You left it at the parking lot of the restaurant since Pope told you he'd drive you back to get it. 

As much as he wants you to stay, he decides it would be better not to ruin his chances with you by being himself right out of the gate. He has to suppress his desire to be possessive of you, to demand you stay with him. 

But it leaks out when you tell him good night and he leans in to kiss you. Because he just had to know what your lips felt like. 

And what kind of adorable face you'd make when he did kiss you. 

You're so flustered by the sudden kiss. You've only been kissed a few times in your life but none of them were as out of the blue as this. 

So when Pope cups your face with his hand and leans in to kiss you again, you're surprised how easily you kiss him back. 

“Can I see you again soon?” His words are warm against your lips. 

“Okay.” You say back super shyly with a nod.

So cute. Pope loves everything about you. 

You both exchange numbers before you head out of his truck, your face so hot to the touch from the memory of his lips on yours. 

You'll be thinking about him kissing you for a while. 

Like how Pope thinks about kissing you while he has his hand wrapped around his cock, jerking himself off to the thought of you moaning against his lips while he fucks you. 

He has to know what you sound like in bed. 

He just has to. 

And his patience is getting thoroughly tested because you're always too busy to stay the night.

You work a lot. More than a pretty girl like you should. Pope could take care of you. He has plenty of money from doing jobs to help you with any bills you have. 

It makes you nervous that it's obvious your new boyfriend wants you to spend more time with him but you can't find the courage to tell Pope that you're inexperienced and scared that you'll end up ruining everything when you don't know what you're doing. 

You can barely kiss him without feeling embarrassed by how much you like it…

“Don't go.” Pope tells you while he has his lips on your neck, kissing a trail up to your cheek, making your skin hotter than it should be.

It doesn't help that you're sitting on his lap on his living room couch. He's been pulling you onto his lap recently, since you got a little too flustered the last time he got on top of you while the two of you were making out. You seem less apprehensive about being on his lap.

Though, the feeling of how hard he is rubbing up against you is causing the butterflies in your stomach to dance around like crazy…

“I have to work tomorrow.” You have the night shift but still, you like to get enough sleep and decompress before the shift starts. 

“Sleep here tonight." Pope wants to spend more than just these little moments with you after Lena goes to sleep. “Please.” 

“Andrew…” You want to so badly but… 

Pope pulls you in for another kiss that has you melting into his grasp. He will convince you to stay tonight. You have to.

He wants to touch you, more than just like this, with his hands roaming over your clothes. He needs to touch your bare skin against his. He just needs—

“Dad?” Lena's voice has you scrambling off of Pope's lap. You sit down beside him, covering your mouth, hoping his kid didn't just catch you on top of her dad. 

Pope clears his throat, wiping his mouth of the lip balm you wear that he likes the flavor of, before asking, “everything alright, Lena?” 

“My lamp won't turn on.” She makes it known just how dark it is in here. 

That's strange.

It looks like the power went out, not just here but the whole strip of the beach. Neither of you had noticed since you and Pope have been kissing in the dark. Which is nothing new, since the two of you have been trying not to get caught by Lena so the darkness aids with that. 

“Shit.” Pope curses under his breath because he knows Lena doesn't sleep well without her favorite lamp on.

You know about the lamp. She loves that lamp because the colored tiles of the lampshade light her room up with pinks and reds alongside the usual warm ambient light. It's hard for her to sleep without it. The variety of color comforts her. 

So, you know you're going to regret this but… 

“Why don't you two come over to my place?” You offer, talking softly to Lena. “I doubt I'm out of power. We can bring your lamp. I've got a spare room you can sleep in and your daddy can take you to school from there tomorrow." 

Pope is surprised that you would do that for them. But he shouldn't be surprised. You seem very open to anything if it helps Lena. 

As if he couldn't love you more, you give him reasons to want you desperately. 

So, the first time you have Pope and Lena over to your place is also the first time you'll be spending the night with Pope. 

You have a rather modest apartment. Central Oceanside, easy access to work. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a cozy set up. A little messy but Pope can take care of that in the morning for you. 

Lena is fast asleep the moment you plug in her lamp beside the guest bed and shut the door. Which leaves you alone with Pope. 

And the awkward situation of whether or not you're going to let him sleep in your bed.

Thank goodness you washed your sheets yesterday…and that your apartment isn't a total mess. Pope keeps his place spotless so you feel a little embarrassed seeing your work clothes sprawling about. 

“I like your apartment.” His words ease you a bit. 

“You must be tired.” It's late… 

Pope walks up to you, his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you towards him. He adores that bashful expression you make when your body presses against his. 

His voice lowers as he whispers, “I'm not tired. There's something else I want to do before bed.” 

You bite at your lip, feeling so flustered by the implication of his words. 

“Andrew, I…” You have to let him know about your inexperience. He deserves to know, to gauge for himself if he wants you despite it. 

Pope doesn't like the nervous look in your eyes. Do you not want to sleep with him? 

It would break his heart if you didn't but that doesn't seem to be the case. You're still clinging to him, your body shaking from your nerves. 

It all makes sense when you tell him, “I-I've never done this before.” 

He blinks at you, confused. Because is that the truth?

You are younger than him but he can't believe no one has ever touched you before. 

Is he really your first? 

He'll have to be your last, then. 

That much he'll make sure of now. 

By making you incredibly comfortable with him. “Then we'll take it slow. But don't push me away, please.” 

“You would do that for me?” You don't want to be a burden. “I'm sorry, it might take me a while to—”

Pope quiets your anxious thoughts with his lips on yours, kissing you with so much affection before whispering, “I'd wait as long as you need me to.” 

He hopes it isn't too long but he will wait. 

But only if he gets to make progress in the meantime. No more stalling. He wants to push forward. 

And you let him, “then I'd like to sleep next to you tonight.” 

“Is that all you'd like?” His hands slide down to grip your hips. “Can I touch you a little more?” 

“Oh god…” Your face heats up immediately and you can hear your heart pounding in your ears. “W-What about Lena? She's right next door.” 

“You don't think you can keep quiet?” Pope teases you a little and he holds back a chuckle at how shocked you look from his words. 

“I-I've never—” Your words catch in your throat when Pope leans forward and kisses you on the temple. 

“I'm fucking with you.” He definitely can't do anything with you tonight. You need some time to adjust to the idea first. “Let's just sleep tonight. Can I at least hold you?” 

You nod. You wouldn't mind cuddling with Pope. It makes you nervous but you'd like that a lot. You've hugged him plenty of times and snuggled with him on the couch with his arm around your shoulder. 

It's just like that but laying down in bed, right? 

It's nothing like that. 

It has your heart wanting to burst out of your chest when you lay down and Pope pulls you against his chest, spooning you, his large arms wrapped so gently around your body, tucking you into him. You feel his warm breath tickling your ear and you bite your lip, trying not to react to how tingly it feels. 

“Is this too much?” He asks, already going crazy because your sheets smell like you. 

He wants to sleep here permanently… 

“It's okay.” You try to calm yourself down but it doesn't help that you can feel how big he is compared to you. 

It reminds you of all the times the two of you would kiss and then Pope would find his way on top of you, pinning you down with his firm body, making you imagine things you've been scared to indulge in. 

Only this time, he's behind you, holding you tightly against him as his hands glide along the fabric of your sleepwear. 

“I won't touch you directly.” He says right into your ear. “But can I do this?” 

His hands slide up to your breasts, cupping them. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, suppressing the noise your body wants to make when his thumbs roll over your nipples from over your shirt. 

Your head is swimming now…growing dizzier from his touch. 

“Andrew, wait.” You stop him, grabbing a hold of his wrist. He stops, even though he really doesn't want to…

“Sorry.” Pope knows he got greedy. 

“It's okay.” You reassure him that you don't mind. “But…I'm nervous.” 

“About?” That intrigues him. 

“What if it…feels too good and I…” You bury your face in your hands, wanting to scream. “Never mind, never mind, just ignore me—” 

You yelp a little when you feel his hard cock pressing up against your back, becoming much more aware of his sheer size compared to when you were on his lap. 

Oh, he's…really big. 

How is that supposed to fit inside of you? 

Now you're nervous about something else entirely…like why your mind went straight to the thought of Pope burying his huge cock inside of you…

“You should ignore me.” He tells you, not wanting you to feel any type of way about how aroused he is by your words. “Just let me make you feel good.” 

Your breath hitches when his hand slips under your shirt, cupping your bare breast this time. You don't normally wear a bra to sleep. Maybe you should've.

But then you wouldn't get to feel his calloused fingers playing with your nipples. 

“Oh my god…” You're squirming a little at the way he's rolling your hard nipple between his fingers. 

“Good or bad?” His voice is so low and intoxicating in your ear. 

“Good.” You stuff your face into your pillow then, letting out a tiny little scream that has Pope chuckling into your shoulder. 

“I can make you feel really good.” Pope's other hand slips past the waistband of your pants, his fingers grazing the top of your underwear. “If you let me.” 

You chew on your lip. You should say no. You should go to sleep… 

But you cave and tell him, “be gentle.” 

And now Pope wants to eat you up. 

He can't right now. It's obvious you're shy about letting him see your body, so he'll make do with touching you under your clothes. 

“Fuck.” He lets out that single word when his hand slips into your underwear and he feels how slick you are on his fingers. 

“I-I'm sorry.” You say in a light panic. “I-I don't usually get this wet—”

“Please stop talking.” He can barely hold himself back as is.

If you keep telling him things like that, Pope won't be able to stop himself from pinning you down and just fucking you until you're dripping with his cum. 

“I'm sorry.” You let out meekly, worried you've upset him. 

“No, I'm sorry.” He dips his fingers into your slick, groaning at how easily you coat his fingertips. “I feel like I could cum just from how wet you are for me.” 

“W-What?” You were not expecting him to say that. 

“You have no idea how much I've wanted to touch you.” He's not hiding it anymore, his fingers making their way up to your clit. He starts playing with it as he tells you, “I've needed this, needed you.”

Pope slides his other hand away from your breasts so he can wrap it around his cock, jerking himself off to him touching your clit. And to the little whimpers you're making from how good it feels to be touched by him and knowing how much he wants you. 

“Andrew, wait.” You grab at his arm because you're getting too close. “I'm going to cum if you don't stop…”

He growls into your shoulder blade, stilling his movements entirely. “Are you seriously going to make me stop when I'm so close?” 

You swallow at that. Is he really going to cum just from touching you? 

Does he like you that much? 

He must because he's never had so much willpower in his life. 

Pope can't ruin this, even if his whole body is tight with tension from stopping himself from bullying your clit until you're crying for him to stop. 

“J-Just give me a minute.” You then take a moment to breathe in deep, trying to mentally prepare yourself. 

It is a vulnerable thing to cum in front of someone. You've never done it before. Pope has but not really out of desire like this, though. 

You find the courage to ask him, “can we kiss while we cum together?” 

It's like you've awakened something inside of him because Pope is practically dry heaving against you. 

“You're too fucking cute.” He huffs into the nape of your neck. “I don't know how to be normal about you.” 

You think that's a good thing. It has to be, since he immediately sits up and lugs your body towards him until you're straddling his lap. 

“You don't have to look.” Pope pulls his cock out so he can stroke it easier. “But if you could help me out.”  

He puts his hand in front of you and you stare at his palm, wondering what he wants.

“Lick my hand for me.” He instructs, since it seems you need to be led.

Oh. You feel hot all over now… 

You swallow your nerves and lean forward, dragging your tongue along his hand until it's nice and wet. Then, when he wraps it around his cock and starts stroking it, the erotic sounds have your heart racing.

He groans with such need as he asks, “can I touch your pussy again?” 

You nod and he slips his other hand into your pants, sliding back to grab some of your slick before dragging his fingertips to your clit again. You brace yourself with your hands on his shoulder then bury your face into his neck, moaning against his skin, trying to stay quiet and failing miserably. 

“Fuck.” He grunts when he feels how swollen your clit has gotten for him. “I want to taste you so bad.” 

You definitely are not ready for that but the thought that he wants to has more slick building up between your legs. 

“Does it feel good?” He asks you, nudging you so you lift your face to look at him. “Tell me what you like. Just nod when it feels right.” 

Pope follows your cue, rubbing your clit perfectly at the same pace as him stroking his cock and you find yourself leaning in to kiss him, burying your hands in his hair, gasping against his lips when it starts to feel more incredible than before. 

“Are you going to cum for me?” He asks against your lips, not letting you answer because he keeps kissing you, stealing your breath away. 

But when you're right at the edge, you repeat the word “yes” between every kiss until you finally cum, your whole body shaking in response. And it only shakes more when Pope immediately dips his finger inside of you, filling you up. 

“Andrew—!” You gasp out his name when he curls his finger, looking for where to touch you to make you do that again. He wants to hear you say his name when you cum again. 

“One more time.” He urges you, groaning against your lips as he grips his cock tighter. “Cum for me again.” 

You do, the orgasm washing over you, your pussy clenching around his finger the way he wishes it was around his cock. He cums hard, coating his hand in his release. 

Every heavy breath he makes, you can taste it. You wonder what his cum tastes like.

What has Pope done to you? Your desires for him are growing by the minute… 

“Let me wash my hands.” He goes to move you off his lap but you won't budge. 

“Can I…” You look down for the first time, at his hand wrapped around his softening cock. It's still huge, despite having just came. “I—sorry, I don't know—”

Pope lifts his hand up towards you, showing you how the back of it is coated in his release. “Do you want to try it?” 

You nod shyly before leaning forward so you can taste him. Pope can feel his cock twitching back to life already at the sight of you lapping up his cum. 

Now he has to taste you. 

“Can I make you cum again?” He asks you when you're done cleaning his hand. 

“W-Why?” You came twice already. That seems like plenty… 

“I didn't get a chance to taste you yet.” 

“Oh…” You're even more shy now, your words coming out in little nervous mumbles, “I-I just don't know if I-I'm clean enough, I wouldn't want you to—”

“I'll just use my fingers again.” He tries to ease your nerves. “I won't go down on you tonight. But I want to. I really want to.” 

You like how vocal Pope is about what he likes. It quells the anxiety you feel at times about your relationship with him. You know he likes you but you had worried for a bit that you might have liked him a little more than he liked you. 

You're learning right now that is not the case. 

Pope likes you so much that the moment he makes you cum again from burying two fingers deep inside of you, he can't stop himself from wanting to do it again. 

“Andrew, please.” Your lower body is tingling too much from the way his fingers are curling inside of you. “I'm going to cum again if you keep—” 

“I need you to squirt for me and then I'll stop.” He can tell you've been holding back. 

“What? I-I've never—” You wriggle when he adds another finger, stretching you out even more than he did before. “Oh god, I can't—”

He can feel you tensing up so he starts thrusting his fingers rougher until you're unable to contain yourself anymore, the tension bursting completely. Pope smiles when he feels how much you've soaked his hand and likes how you're hiding your face in your hands, so embarrassed that you squirted for the first time. 

That's why he has to make you do it again. Then he'll let you sleep. 

“Please, Andrew!” You push at his arm, trying to get him to stop but he keeps fucking you with his fingers until you're squirting all over his hand and your mind has gone blank from the sudden rush of pleasure.

You grow even dizzier at the sight of him licking his hand clean, humming from how good you taste to him. 

“I want to do that again.” He tells you and you shake your head at him, making him chuckle. “I won't anymore tonight. I have to let you sleep.” 

Pope helps you to your bathroom so you can clean up all the slick that has built between your legs. If he had his way, he would've cleaned you up with his tongue but he'll shelve that for when you're ready to show him your body. A body he will surely worship the moment he gets to see it. 

But for now, Pope will enjoy holding your warm body against his while the two of you sleep. 

Something that becomes more frequent. 

You let Pope and Lena sleep over every now and then, whenever Lena wants to. The three of you have movie nights at your place. You sleep over at Pope's house when the three of you have family dinner night at the restaurant after your shift. 

They really are your family. You spend so much time with them that people tell you what a cute kid you have. And you've stopped correcting them…

Because you love Lena like she is your child. 

Pope loves how much you take such good care of Lena, always keeping her entertained, always being so beautifully kind to his kid. 

He loves you so much. 

“Can we get ice cream?” She asks the two of you when you're done with dinner tonight. 

“Only if your daddy says so.” You pat her gently on the head with your free hand, since she has your other hand held firmly in hers. 

Pope is going to pretend like hearing you call him “daddy” so casually doesn't make him want to fuck a baby into you. 

He manages to calmly say, “only if you promise to study for your test when you get home.” 

Lena nods happily, agreeing to those terms. 

The three of you get ice cream and hang out at the beach for a bit before going home. 

Home. You have so much of your stuff at Pope's house and he has so much of his stuff at yours. Same with Lena's things. 

“Do you want to move in?” Pope asks you once he's tucked Lena in for the night. 

You're unsure. You've only been seeing Pope for a few months. Isn't this a little too soon?

Pope feels like it's been too long. He still hasn't fucked you yet…

It's taking everything in him not to rush things but he wants to see you as often as he can and you moving in would allow for that. 

“I-I do but…” You don't know if it's a good idea. 

You'll start falling in love with Pope more than you already are if you live with him and see how wonderful he can be to you all the time…

“But what?” He pulls you into his arms, giving you a warm hug. “Talk to me.” 

You hug him back, sinking into the comfort of him, which gives you the strength to admit, “but I'm scared, Andrew. That I like you too much…” 

You cling into him tighter after you tell him that, nervous that he'll find you overbearing and wanting to put some distance between the two of you. 

“I love you.” Pope just says out right. 

You look up at him, your eyes wide with shock. “What did you say?” 

“I said I love you.” He leans down to kiss you, smiling when you're too stunned to kiss him back. “You're so cute. It's hard not to love you.” 

“Andrew…” Your heart is hammering so loud in your chest that you almost can't hear yourself tell him, “I love you too.” 

“Then, will you move in with me so we can be a family?” He asks, since he'd like that a lot. 

“Okay.” You say with a bashful grin and a firm nod. 

Then, Pope leans forward, whispering in your ear, “Lena has a sleepover tomorrow.” 

You know what that means and your whole body quivers with anticipation. It means you and Pope don't have to be quiet. 

Which means he's definitely going to fuck you tomorrow… 

You grip onto his shirt, your hands trembling a little. “I'm a little…”

“It's okay to be nervous.” Pope rubs your back gently. “There's no pressure. We can just do what we've been doing when we're alone.” 

“Oh god…” You bury your face in his chest. “You almost killed me last time.” 

“No, I didn't.” He says with a light laugh. 

“I came like twenty times or something crazy like that.” You grumble, remembering how obsessed Pope was with making you cum since the two of you had the house to yourselves for a night. 

“And you liked it.” He smirks and you pout at him. “Come on, you love it when daddy touches you.” 

You scream into his chest, drawing a laugh from deep in his belly. He loves messing with you and he's noticed you get so flustered when he calls himself “daddy” around you. 

At least you both are even in that sense. You have no idea how much it riles him up when you call him that unintentionally. 

“I do love it.” You say shyly, muffling your words a little. “I love you a lot, Andrew.” 

Okay, maybe Pope can't wait until tomorrow. 

He drags you into his bedroom, locking the door, before grabbing you by your face and kissing you, pressing you up against the door with his body. 

“I need you out of these clothes.” He looks at you still in your paramedic uniform since you just had dinner with them after your shift. 

“I should shower…” You've been out for more than twelve hours. 

“Then shower with me.” Pope tugs his shirt off without an ounce of hesitation.

He has seen you naked plenty of times now but he loves how shy you seem about it every time. 

Though, maybe you're shy because every time you see him naked, you have to remind yourself that this is your boyfriend and that every inch of that body is technically all yours…

“I might pass out.” You warn because you're sure the combination of steam and the heat rushing through you as you strip out of your work clothes in front of him will lead to you getting dizzy like always.

“Please don't. You're the paramedic in the relationship. I'm just a property manager who needs to take a CPR class…” He makes a lousy joke that has you giggling beautifully. “I really love you.” 

You feel extra shy that he says that right as you pull off the last piece of clothing from your body. 

“Come here.” He puts his hand out and you take it, letting him lead you into his bathroom. 

You've never showered with Pope before but you should've guessed he wasn't going to keep his hands off of you. Or his lips, which are plastered to yours the moment the two of you are under the shower head. 

He has you pinned to the shower wall now, holding you there as the water goes from cold to warm against his back, his body shielding you until the temperature is right. 

“I love your body.” His lips trail down from your lips to your shoulders. “Every inch of it.” 

“Let me get clean first, Andrew.” You don't want him kissing you all over while you still have the grime of work on you. 

“You're clean enough to me.” He'd eat you out right here if you let him. But he knows you won't. You're still acting shy around him. He'll help break you out of your shell slowly but surely. 

“Let's wash up.” You tell him before whispering in his ear, “and then I'll let you do whatever you want with me.” 

Pope has never showered so fucking fast in his life. You find it almost too adorable how quickly he finishes his shower before helping you so you don't take too long either, washing your hair for you while you scrub your body clean. 

Then, when your hair is all dry and you feel nice and clean, Pope practically tosses you down onto his bed and his face is between your legs in an instant. 

“Oh god, Andrew, you can't—” He can't be this eager when Lena is sleeping next door! 

He knows you're bad at holding in your voice… 

“Then scream into your pillow.” He has you face down with your ass up in a second and his tongue is on you again immediately, ravishing you like an animal. “Fuck, this is amazing, you're so wet, you taste so good, I'm going to fucking cum just eating your pussy.” 

You can hear him stroking his cock after he gathers some of your slick in his hand to use. You moan into the pillow when his tongue dips into you, the tip of it flicking at your entrance, teasing you, making you wish he would just push it inside of you fully already. His free hand moves between your legs to play with your clit and he groans when you cum on his face from the sudden dual stimulation. 

“Good girl.” He praises you for cumming. “Making your daddy proud.” 

“Andrew—!” You muffle another scream when his tongue slips inside of you and he starts fucking you with it, sliding it in and out, enjoying how slick you're growing from how good it feels.

“I want to cum on your pussy.” Pope is already close, his hand death gripping his cock, so turned on just knowing you love him. “Can I?” 

“Okay.” You don't mind since he'll clean it up before it gets into you. 

At least, that's what you thought was going to happen.

But the moment Pope cums all over your pussy, his fingers quickly push it into you, drawing out a gasp from your lips. 

“Wait, Andrew—” You bite down on your pillow as he starts fucking you with his fingers, the pace much rougher, unlike anything he's done before.

You squirt so hard that you can feel it dripping down your thighs. Your whole body is shaking from how intense your orgasm is shooting through you, the pleasure completely overloading all of your senses.

And it doesn't stop. And you can't scream for him to stop because you'll wake Lena. 

So you just take his brutal fingerfucking until you're cumming nonstop, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, your toes curling, your body reeling from the constant pleasure hitting you. 

“You can definitely take me now.” Pope tells you, finally pulling his fingers free from your tight pussy. 

His cock is nice and hard again. It would be impossible not to be hard at the sight of you cumming your brains out on his fingers. 

You're still so dazed that you don't even register what he's doing until he lines his cock up with your entrance. 

When you feel the tip of him pushing into you, it's like you sober up. “W-Wait, Andrew, we can't, we don't have a condom—”

“I'm not fucking you with a condom.” Pope sinks the tip of his cock inside of you, slipping past your tight entrance, groaning when he feels your pussy around him. “I love you. You love me. We're making love. I want to get you pregnant, my love.” 

You can't even think straight. Every word out of his mouth is crossing all the wires in your brain. It's like you're short-circuiting… 

The pressure of his cock prying you apart is what keeps you locked in the moment, in the feeling of him burying himself inside of you inch by inch. 

It would be a lie if you said it wasn't amazing. 

You've never felt so full before. So utterly fulfilled before. Like this was what you have been waiting for all this time. 

“You're doing so good.” Pope rubs your back gently. “I'm almost halfway in.” 

You're unsure if you heard him right because you already feel completely full. How is there more of him to take? There's no way your body can—

Pope starts thrusting more and more of his cock into you and you cum just from the act of getting split open. Your pussy clenches around him perfectly the moment he hilts inside of you. 

“Breathe, my love.” He coaxes you into relaxing, into allowing your pussy to get used to the shape and size of him. “You swallowed me up so well. Let's see if you can do it again.” 

His words are not enough warning for him to pull out of you completely and lay you down on your back before shoving his cock back inside of you all of a sudden. 

This time, you're looking right into his eyes as you cum on his cock again. “Good girl, cumming so hard for her daddy.” 

“Andrew, let me…I need a second…” You're gasping for air, trying to find where your mind went in the pleasure-filled haze. 

It has disappeared completely, because all you want now is for Pope to fuck you. 

Especially when he starts gently kneading your lower belly, massaging you right above your womb where his cock is pushing up against. 

“Let's give Lena a sibling to play with.” Pope tells you, rubbing your soft stomach. “One that looks like you, my beautiful love.” 

You're too far gone now. 

You reach up, grabbing a hold of Pope's face and bringing him down to kiss you. You roll your hips against his, driving his cock deeper into you, wanting him to fuck you while you kiss him. Pope happily listens, thrusting his cock into you at a pace that has you moaning against his lips.

He keeps you quiet by tangling his tongue with yours, taking up space in your mouth, kissing you while he fucks you. His hands slide up to your chest, grabbing at your nipples, playing with them as another orgasm ripples through you from all the sensations happening at the same time. 

You're in heaven. You've never felt so good before. 

“I love you, Andrew.” You breathe out, all airy and full of affection. 

“I love you too.” He says back with a smile. “You are so perfect for me.” 

Just as it was meant to be. 

You stay clinging onto Pope, his lips on yours as he pounds his cock into you until you feel his warm release filling you up for the first time. It's an incredible feeling. 

One that you hope to feel all the time. 

You can't keep your desires at bay anymore… 

The moment you get home from your shift the next day, Pope is in your apartment and has you pinned to your door, kissing you furiously. You're already stripping off your clothes, tugging at his clothes, wanting him to fuck you like he has been desperately yearning for all day after last night. 

“Let me fuck you right here.” He growls against your lips, sending shivers down your spine with his words, “so your neighbors can hear how good your daddy can make you feel.” 

You're terrible at holding your voice in because you moan his name so loudly when he drops to his knees and starts eating you out right then and there. Your hand is in his hair, pulling at his soft curls. You're grinding your pussy against his face as his tongue eagerly dips in and out of you, reveling in your taste. 

“Andrew, I'm going to cum, I'm going to—” You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from waking your neighbors when he sucks your clit and draws out your first orgasm of the night. 

“Don't stop now.” Pope plays with your clit in his mouth, coaxing you back to the edge of another orgasm. “Cum all over my face, my love.” 

You can't stop yourself from listening to him, your body shaking from the pleasure he's pulling out of you. You whimper when he shoves two fingers into you, spreading your pussy wide open so his tongue has space to slip in with them. 

It's all too much—

You cum so hard that you see stars speckling your vision. Your knees are so wobbly that you can barely keep yourself up. 

“The night just started and you're already going to pass out?” Pope chuckles at your dazed expression. “Come on, let's get in the bath.” 

He had prepped a bath for you to come home. The water is a little colder than he'd like but he hadn't planned on eating you out at your front door. Next time, he'll put that into consideration with his timing. 

You don't mind the lukewarm water, though. 

Because your skin is on fire. 

Pope allows you no reprieve, his fingers lazily rubbing your clit while the two of you bathe together. 

“Andrew, please, I need to wash up…” You arch your back against his chest, your body close to convulsing from the orgasm he's building you towards. “I can't cum again, just give me a break, please.” 

“Cum one more time.” He nips at your earlobe, his words hot against your sensitive flesh. “Then daddy will let you bathe.” 

You should've known when he told you to cum, it would mean cumming hard for him. 

Because his fingers thrust into you and you're fucking screaming from how they refuse to stop moving even after you've cum. 

“Andrew!” You shout his name out of desperation, needing him to stop torturing you with his fingers but he won't. 

He just curls them deeper, teasing your womb, groaning when your pussy clenches around his fingers, milking them like they're his cock. 

It should be his cock inside of you. 

Fuck it, it will be. 

Pope picks you up out of the bath. You're clean enough. He doesn't care to wait anymore. 

You're thrown down onto your bed and he climbs on top of you, lining his cock up. You wouldn't be able to stop him if you tried. 

He sinks every fucking inch inside of you until your body can't stop shaking from how good it feels to have the love of your life buried so deep inside of you. 

“Say you love it when your daddy's cock kisses your womb.” He rolls his hips, pushing the tip of his cock right at the entrance to your womb, forcing your eyes to roll back into your head from the rush of pleasure. 

“I love it—” You can't barely speak the rest of the words because he keeps pounding the tip of his cock over and over again at that spot until you're squirting all over him. 

“You really love it, don't you?” Pope rests his hand where your clit is. “Let's hear you scream my name.” 

He starts rubbing your clit at the same harsh pace as he thrusts inside of you and you fucking burst. It's like an avalanche. Each orgasm is followed by another, each building in intensity, each causing your head to go stupid. 

All you can think about is cumming. 

Pope loves the sounds you make when you let go, when you allow yourself to just feel good and not care about anything else but the way he's forcing your body to feel. 

“Tell daddy what you want.” Pope pinches your clit, drawing a moan from your lips. “Come on, my love. Say it.” 

“I want your cum.” You finally admit it. “I want my daddy to put a baby in me.” 

“Yeah?” He's going to go fucking crazy now. “Is that really what you want?” 

You nod then beg, “please, I need it now, Andrew.” 

Pope has never cum that hard in his life. He fills your womb so completely that some of his cum leaks out of you even though his cock is just resting inside of you. He likes the way you're spasming beneath him, cumming uncontrollably from the feeling of his cum inside of you. 

It makes him want to do insane things. 

Like when he slips his cock out of you and replaces it with his fingers, only to bury his face between your legs too. 

You're gasping for air the moment his lips seal around your clit and his fingers start fucking his cum deeper into your pussy. You can't even tell him to stop. You're not able to form words. 

You're just a moaning mess, the sounds leaving your lips surely worthy of a noise complaint. 

But it's okay. 

You're moving in with Pope soon. You won't need this apartment anymore. 

So who cares if your neighbors know your daddy is making you cum your brains out right now? 

“Let me see it.” He has his eyes glued to your pussy, to his fingers bully your insides, forcing you closer and closer to another unbelievable orgasm. “Show your daddy how hard you can cum.” 

You cry out his name when you squirt all over his fingers, your orgasm blinding you, your vision going fuzzy, your cum mixing with his as it spills out of you.

Pope flips you onto your stomach in your daze and you're immediately shoved into your mattress by his cock roughly thrusting into your still squirting pussy. You've surely soaked your sheets now because every thrust has you drenching your thighs with your release. 

“I can't, I can't—” You can't possibly cum anymore. 

You'll go crazy if you do. You'll never want this to end if you do. 

That's the goal for Pope. 

To make you dependent on him for pleasure. To have you crave what only he can give you. 

“Hush, my love.” He says sweetly as he rubs your back, lulling you into a sense of comfort. “I'll show you what your limits are.” 

Your limits being getting fucked all night long until you're dripping between your legs, spilling his cum out of you with every slight motion you make, your mind and body wrecked with endless amounts of pleasure. 

You wake up to Pope kissing every inch of your body. You feel surprisingly clean. 

Did he bathe you in your sleep? He must've. You were so tired after getting wrung out. You can barely remember anything that happened after he snuggled you so lovingly after fucking you so roughly. 

“Glad you're not working for a few days.” Pope is hoping you'll get pregnant soon so you won't have to work much at all. 

“I don't think I'd be able to work if I was scheduled.” Your legs feel like actual jelly… 

“I'm sorry, my love.” He comes back up to lay beside you, pulling you against his chest. “I got carried away, didn't I?” 

You lean into his chest, breathing in the smell of him that you enjoy so much, then let out a little sigh. “It's okay. I…liked it.” 

Pope might as well ask you to marry him right now. 

He hasn't gotten a ring yet, though. He'd want to do it properly if he did. 

He'd want to ask Lena just to be sure she's ready for you to become her new mother. 

She is. Of course she is. 

Lena loves you. Almost as much as Pope does. 

“I like seeing you happy, dad.” Lena leans her shoulder against his arm, her small hand held in his. 

“Would she make a good mom for you?” Pope asks again just to be sure. 

She nods, smiling all big and cute at him. “And now you guys can finally kiss!” 

He bites back a laugh. 

Little does she know, the two of you have done much more than that already… 

a/n: okay so like you know this could've been way more wild but then I just felt so mushy…and I wanted to write happy!pope so there he is. he’s a girl dad who loves you sm. gosh I could just drown in how cute he is with lena! 

Pope cannot fucking believe the line out the door for the shop across the street. 

For your cutesy little piercing parlor and sticker tattoo shop's flash event. 

You're taking customers left and right, churning out piercings with perfect precision while your coworkers, the loveliest and most talented tattoo artists, pop small, fun designs on people's skin. 

Everyone leaves your shop with a smile on their face and soon enough, your books are full for months, a feat that is usually difficult for a new shop like yours. 

The power of social media and dedication to the craft!

The Codys are not happy about you stealing all of their business, even though none of them do the kind of style that your shop does. Smurf is especially irritated because she's not making as much money as she used to.

So, she decides she'll have her boys rob you.

Your place deals in cash only, after all. 

But the plan doesn't go well…and they're caught in the act by your hidden security crew, which they never accounted for since the security team enters from the adjacent building and is set up underneath your shop. 

They're lucky you didn't call the police. You told them that you would if they ever tried again but you decide to be cordial, since you're technically business neighbors. 

That pissed Pope off even more.

Because why are you so nice? 

Why can't you just be irritating and nasty so he has an excuse to hate you? 

Why do you look at him with such soft eyes and wave at him when you see him on the street? 

He can't fucking stand you…

Especially when you come into Deran's bar with flyers for one of your flash events. It's bird-themed, since your tattoo artists have been hyper-fixated on birds as of late.

You always allow your artists creative freedom, so you're happy to let them host whatever kinds of events they want to do at your shop. 

“Hey there, neighbor.” You go up to Deran at the bar, noticing that Pope is there drinking at the counter. 

He has a beer bottle to his lips as you approach and you catch yourself watching him swallow, his tattooed neck moving when he does. 

You snap your attention back to Deran, who is wiping a glass down, staring at you with furrowed brows. “What's up?” 

“Would you be okay if I put up some of these flyers in here? A lot of my clients are regulars of yours and I'd love for them to catch this event I'm hosting.” You show him the flyers. “Oh! I made sure to do it on a Wednesday, since your brother's shop is closed on that day, so I won't be stealing anyone away, I promise.”

You give Pope a gentle smile and he chugs the rest of his beer, glaring back at you in response. He hates how considerate you are. It annoys the fuck out of him how sweet you act. 

It has to be an act. There's no way you're this nice.

He opens his mouth to tell you no but then Deran goes, “sure. The bulletin board is over there.” 

That earns him a glare from Pope as you skip away to put up your flyer. “What the fuck, Deran?” 

“What? She didn't rat us out. The least we could do is let her advertise.” Deran wasn't there since he was working at the bar that night but he is grateful to you that his brothers aren't in jail for attempted robbery. 

Pope wants to grumble something but you come back before he can, saying to him and Deran, “by the way, if either of you ever want to get pierced, it's on the house! Same goes for any of your family.”

“Why?” Pope's jaw tenses when your eyes meet his, looking up at him in a way that makes him crave you on your knees in front of him. 

“Why not?” You beam another smile at him. “I love piercing people. I'd do it for free if I didn't have to pay rent. I figure it's a good way for us to build rapport.”

You give Pope a playful little nudge, which causes his entire body to tense. Because why are you so casual with him? He tried to rob you, in case you forgot. 

But you don't seem to care at all that he did. 

You just happily wave goodbye to him and his brother, “think about it and let me know!” 

He will not be thinking about it. Definitely not—

“Want to come with me when I get mine?” Deran asks Pope.

“Are you seriously going to let her fucking pierce you?” Pope scoffs. He can't believe his brother right now. “Baz can do it for you if you want one.” 

“I'm not letting Baz pierce me. He barely has the license.” Deran shakes his head at the very thought.

Smurf used to be the one who pierced at the shop but she retired from it a few months ago, which is why your shop has been getting so much attention. 

Your shop is one of the few piercing parlors in Oceanside and it's very highly rated. 

Baz learned how to pierce from Smurf but he only does it upon request. They don't advertise his piercings, since he is mostly a tattoo artist like Pope and Craig. 

“Come on, it'll be fun. We can all get pierced.” Deran suggests, since it's been a while since his brothers had any fun together. 

Pope openly rejects the idea but when Deran recruits Craig and Baz, he is stuck coming along too. You keep your shop open late for them, since Deran can only do it when the bar is closed. It's well into the night when they all arrive at your place  but you get everyone's piercing done rather quickly. 

Baz gets his ears pierced. Craig gets a lip ring. Deran gets a nose ring. 

Pope…is still undecided. 

“Pick something or let's go home, Pope.” Baz wants to get back to Lena and Catherine, since it's three in the morning. 

“Aw, don't rush him!” You wave Baz off. “I can drive him home if you all carpooled. Let Pope take his time deciding.” 

Pope should not agree to that. He should just go home. He definitely should not—

“I have to get back to the bar and clean up so can you decide?” Deran feels bad for pushing Pope but he does need to get some work done. 

“He lives right by the beach. She can take him home easy. It's like a straight shoot from here.” Craig wants Pope to get a piercing too but he's getting sleepy and doesn't want to wait for him. 

“I got him.” You shoo them all away. “I'll take your brother home, no problem. Give him some space to decide.” 

Pope doesn't even get to make the choice himself. His brothers just leave him there, trusting you. 

Why do they trust you so easily? It angers him that you're so lax. 

You should be more defensive. You're here late at night with him. Alone because you told your security to go home since you know Pope has a gun. 

If anything happened, you assume he would help. 

Would he help, though? 

Would he stop someone from hurting you? 

He would. Because he's the only one who is allowed to hurt you. 

That much he has decided. 

He still has to decide on this stupid piercing. 

Maybe he just won't get one. 

You're so patient with him, sitting there, humming to yourself, scrolling on your phone while you wait for him to decide. 

Pope can't help the way his eyes trail your body, noticing that you don't have any tattoos. Only piercings, which makes sense given your profession. 

But why not tattoos? 

Maybe you have one hidden somewhere on your soft skin. 

Maybe between your thighs or above your round ass. 

The words leave his lips before he can stop them, “why don't you have any tattoos?” 

You look up from your phone, shutting it off so you can give him your undivided attention. He hates how considerate you are. You always do this, always focus so deeply on whoever you're talking to. 

He wishes you only did that for him. 

“I just haven't thought of what to get yet.” You answer truthfully. “Though, this bird event seems pretty fun. I was thinking of maybe getting a dove. They're so pretty.” 

“A dove?” Pope finds himself imagining where it would go on your skin. 

It is rather perfect for you. You exude a sense of peace and calm. He doesn't like how relaxed you make him feel. You must make everyone feel this way. He hates that he isn't special in any way to you. 

“I think they're romantic.” You say to him, giving him one of those brilliant smiles of yours. “They mate for life.” 

Is that what you desire? A mate for life? 

Pope could be that for you. Though, he doesn't know why that thought crosses his mind. He despises you. You and your lovely smile that makes his heart race in his chest. 

“I could design something for you.” Pope says without thinking it through so he adds, “in exchange for you piercing my brothers and I.” 

“Aw, that's sweet of you, Pope.” You place your hand on his shoulder, squeezing it too casually for his liking. He doesn't shrug off your touch though. He lets your hand linger there as you tell him, “you don't need to. I'm happy to pierce you all for free. No trade needed.” 

“I don't like to owe people.” He states upfront. 

And he hates that you're so willing to ease him, “ah, then in that case, I'd love a Pope original! What a wonderful trade. You have a great style.” 

Your hand drifts down to the tattoo sleeve he has on his arm, all of his designs. He did them himself. No one has ever touched his skin like this before, without any fear laced in their touch. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” You pull your hand away from him when you notice his eyes on it. “I shouldn't have touched them without asking.”

“You can touch them.” He lifts his arm so you can keep your hand on his skin. Even though he shouldn't want you to. 

You trace your hand along the stylized text intermixed with the designs on his sleeve. “Who's Julia?” 

“My twin sister. I added her name when she died.” Pope is so direct with his words. 

There's no sadness in his tone. 

So he doesn't know why there's sadness in yours, “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Why?” He doesn't understand you. 

Why would you be sad about some stranger's dead sister? 

“Because you're not that old, Pope. She died pretty young then.” You frown at that. “No one deserves to die when they still have their whole life ahead of them.”

Pope finds you so odd. You call him young when he has tattoos older than you. You don't understand how bright eyed you look, so innocent and unweathered by the harshness of the world. 

“She overdosed.” He tells you, in some poor attempt to dissuade you from caring so deeply. 

Because if you keep caring so much, how is he supposed to hate you? 

“I've lost friends from that. Addiction is a difficult monster to overcome.” You run your fingertips along her name on his arm again before moving your hand away. He wishes you hadn't. He's growing to like your subtle touches. 

“Do you have anything to drink?” The heavy conversation is making him parched. 

“You can't have alcohol before a piercing but I do have a stocked fridge.” You invite him to follow you to the kitchen. 

Pope can't stop himself from staring at you, his eyes drifting up and down the length of your body, picturing all the tattoos he could ink on your skin. He decides then that he's never going to let anyone else etch anything into your body except for him. 

You're his to design. 

You feel a bit strange, goosebumps prickling your arms. You have no idea why. Maybe the air conditioning is on too high right now. 

Or maybe it's because you're all alone with Pope…

You hadn't really thought about it like that. Like this is a dangerous situation, to be alone with a man whose family tried robbing your shop.

But you reason to yourself that he wouldn't want to risk going back to prison. 

So he won't do anything to you, right? 

Not that you should be thinking about his tattooed arm pinning you down, holding you steady as he—

“What are you going to drink?” Pope asks you, his head right next to yours, peering into the open fridge since you're blocking it with your body. 

“Oh!” You snap out of your head, stepping away, trying not to feel shy about your spinning thoughts and how close he was to you. “Probably just a water.” 

Pope grabs two water bottles from the fridge. He opens one for you and then hands it to you. You take a few sips before closing it up. He watches a bit of water drip off the side of your mouth. 

You feel his hand cup your jaw, startling you. He wipes the water from your lip. You blink up at him, your heart beating so fast in your chest all of a sudden. 

Why is he so close—

“Do you have a tongue piercing?” He asks.

You let out a light sigh of relief. That must be why he's staring so intensely at your lips. He must've spotted your piercing. 

“Yeah I do.” You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to show him the piercings on either side of the tip of your tongue. They're so dainty that most don't notice them right away, since they're a translucent crystal. “Some people would call them snake eyes but the traditional snake eyes piercing is very unsafe.” 

“What makes them unsafe?” Pope doesn't see how it could be.

So you show him how yours is different. “I have two individual piercings. A traditional snake eyes piercing is a single piercing where a curved barbell goes across the tip of the tongue, which never heals well and can ruin your teeth. I always reject people who ask for that piercing. Mine are more of a modified venom piercing.” 

“It's like you're speaking another language.” His words make you giggle, a sound he hasn't heard before that has his heart skipping a beat. 

“Sorry, I can get a little too into it. I love piercings.” You tell him, always giddy when you get to talk about them. 

“Can I do those?” Pope likes the idea of them. Likes the idea of his tongue inside of you, teasing you with them. 

“Oh, sure! Let me just check your tongue. I have to make sure your anatomy is compatible with it or I'll have to refuse. I would never want you to risk your health for a cosmetic look.” Your words are rehearsed, like you've said them millions of times. But he likes the care you put into your tone. 

You guide Pope back to your piercing chair and have him open his mouth for you. You put on a pair of gloves then gently touch his tongue, checking to see if it would work for him. 

“Do you like how mine look? I can get you something similar or even the same ones if you want to match!” You say that with lots of enthusiasm.

As if you want to match with him. 

He wouldn't mind that. “We can match.”

“Aw, how fun!” You're super excited now. “You know, you'd look good with an eyebrow piercing too. We can match there as well.”

You point to the one on your eyebrow. He notices then that the set on your tongue pairs with it. 

“If you want.” He never thought of getting pierced at all before. But if you think he'd look good, he'd do it. He'd do anything for you if you keep looking at him with so much happiness in your features. 

“You're silly.” You give him a playful nudge. “It's your body, Pope. What do you want?” 

He wants you. That's what he wants. 

He wants you so badly that every touch you give him makes his cock twitch in his pants. 

“You can do it. Let's match.” He sits there patiently as your fingers map out where on his eyebrow the piercing would look best. 

“Next you'll have to let me do your ears.” You say with so much glee. “But we should save that for another night. I'll be here forever, getting carried away!”

Pope wouldn't mind spending the whole night with you but he won't say that out loud…

By the time you're done piercing him, it's nearly four in the morning. You're yawning like crazy as you disinfect your supplies.

“Let me help.” Pope takes some of the things off your hands, cleaning them for you. 

“You're sweet.” You tell him because he is. “You don't have to.”

“I'm not a client. You did this for me for free. It's the least I could do.” He doesn't mind cleaning. He likes doing it. 

“Then whenever I get my tattoo, I'll help you clean up too, so we're even.” 

“I'll draw something up for you soon.” He has a lot of ideas. It's been a long time since he was excited to design a tattoo. 

His pretty dove. 

“I can't wait to see!” You flash him a big grin.

You drive Pope home that night and before he leaves, you explain to him that he shouldn't do anything that might get his tongue piercings infected like swap saliva. 

“Just for maybe two months. Once it's all healed up, kiss as many people as you want.” You always say that to your clients, since it's a fun little tagline.

But Pope thinks you want to kiss him.

So, he takes care of his piercings methodically with sterile saline, not wanting to risk anything that would disappoint you. He stops drinking alcohol or eating anything that might aggravate the piercing. He comes by your shop after a few weeks to get the jewelry resized to fit on his tongue better. 

You compliment him on his aftercare. “You've done such a good job, Pope!”

Your praise repeats in his head whenever he's alone, whenever his hand is wrapped around his cock, whenever his mind trails to how nice it would be to hear you praise him while he's fucking you. 

He hates how hard he cums when he thinks of you. 

Because he knows you don't think about him like he thinks about you. 

At least, that's what he thought. 

But then he starts to notice something, when the two of you start hanging out more often once his tongue piercing has healed. 

It starts because Pope invites you out to drink when you tell him that he's good to do so and you accept. He wasn't expecting you to say yes. Nor was he expecting you to enjoy his company so much. 

There's a lot of things he is surprised you say yes to.

Like when you're talking to him about how you occasionally pierce people's cocks and he asks you if you'll do his. 

Because he wants an excuse for you to touch his cock.  

And you say yes, because you don't mind getting more experience. 

It's a rare piercing to do so you always jump at the opportunity as long as you feel safe with the person. You tend to only agree if the person is a regular who you've pierced many times before. 

Or Pope, who you've grown rather fond of the last few weeks. 

You have him over late at your shop, dismissing your security again since you feel safe with him there. 

Then, you prep him for the piercing. He wants a frenum piercing, a straight barbell placed just below the tip of his cock on the underside of his shift. 

You've seen many cocks before, since you've done this piercing a handful of times, but you try not to react to how big he is despite not being hard at all. 

You could fit a lot of piercings along his shaft. You've always wanted to do a Jacob's ladder, especially on a cock that would suit it. 

Not that you should be thinking of piercing his cock more, or how those all might feel rubbing up inside of you…

Pope catches the way you're staring at him for longer than you should in a professional setting. He had an inkling you might be attracted to him but this confirms it now. 

“What are you thinking about?” His words get you all flustered. 

So you don't catch yourself before you say, “you would look really good with more than one piercing.” 

“Then do as many as you want.” He tells you and loves the way your eyes snap up to him in surprise. 

“A-Are you sure?” You swallow nervously. “It might take a while to heal, you know…” 

“I don't mind. You'll make sure it heals well, right?” Pope would love having you stare at his cock often with that bashful expression on your face. 

“I…I mean of course I will. But I think the most we should do in one sitting is three.” You don't want to overdo it because you don't know how the swelling will go. You don't want Pope to be in pain for too long because you got overeager at the prospect of piercing his cock…

“Then three is good for me.” He gestures to himself. “Go ahead, little dove. Have fun.” 

You've noticed since you told him that you like doves, he calls you that. It makes your heart skip a beat every time you hear it.

Though your heart might be stopping in your chest because Pope looks really good once you've gotten the piercings placed on his cock. You want so badly to run your tongue along the length of his shaft, feeling the piercings on your tastebuds. But you can't, for obvious reasons.

He has to heal first… 

But ever since then, you can't stay away from Pope. 

You start asking him to hang out more often, all on your own, because you want to be around him all the time. 

For the last few months, you've invited him over to your place, which is a nice studio apartment by the beach, only a few blocks from his house. Pope spends time with you there, scribbling out ideas for tattoos while you rant to him about work.

He never knew you had that side to you. You usually are always so upbeat and full of sunshine. But you're showing him that even you can get worn down. 

“I had a girl come in. She was an influencer from LA. She wanted an industrial piercing.” You show Pope what that is, though you don't need to. 

Since he began spending more time with you, he has done extensive research on all sorts of piercings so he can understand what you're saying when you talk to him. Something you find incredibly endearing, which is why you find it so easy to talk to Pope.

“But her ear anatomy just did not suit it. It would've never healed and hurt a lot so I explained this to her but she started yelling at me.” You're completely still as you talk about this. Pope notices you do this when you're confronted by someone displaying any kind of malice towards you. You freeze up bad. 

It makes him want to kill that fucking influencer. 

“And now there's a video online of her “review” of my shop and it's just a bunch of lies…” You pull your knees up to your chest, hugging yourself for comfort. “I don't know what to do. My tattoo artists have made videos backing me up but they insist I make one too. I'm just not good at that kind of stuff, though.”

So, what he's hearing is that Pope needs to take care of this influencer for you. 

He can do that.

But first, he needs to comfort you somehow. 

So, he scoots over, putting his arm around you. You lean into him instinctually as he rubs your shoulder. 

“You don't have to do that. Everything will be okay.” He'll make sure of it. 

“I'm usually more optimistic but she has a lot of followers. And I'm just a small business. The internet can be such a cruel place.” You let out a sigh. “My work is cosmetic. People can flock somewhere new.”

“Like they did with my shop to yours.” Pope comments but then regrets bringing it up when you look up at him all sad.

“Did I really take that much business from you? I'm sorry, Pope.” You frown. “I shouldn't have opened up shop on the same block. It was just such a good rent price…” 

Pope knows that to be true. Smurf owns the block now, after the robbery gone wrong. She wanted insurance in case you did press charges that your business would go down the drain. Thankfully you stayed on her good side since then. 

“It's okay, you brought a lot of business to my brother's bar.” All the newcomers wanting to check out your place has made the block a prime area to be at in Oceanside. 

“Still, I don't want you to have a hard time because of me. Your designs are amazing.” You compliment him so sweetly that Pope can feel his heart wanting to jump out of his chest.

“If you could have a tattoo anywhere, where would you want it?” He asks, his hands sliding down the length of your arms. “Maybe here?” 

Your breath catches in your throat when Pope suddenly tugs you onto his lap, so his hands can rest at your sides more easily. 

“You would look good with a tattoo here.” He says, grabbing at your hips before sliding lower, his large hands engulfing your thighs. “Or right here.” 

“Pope…” You bite down on your lip when his hand slips between your legs, grasping your inner thigh. 

“I would love to tattoo you right here.” His voice lowers, his warm breath tickling your ear. His hand grips the soft flesh of your thigh hard enough that you're certain you'll see his handprint there later. “Would you like that?” 

You can't believe how breathless you sound when you answer, “yes.”

“I'll do it soon, once we decide on a design.” He says, his hand inching closer and closer to your pussy. “But right now, let me help distract you from how difficult work has been.”

“Wait, Pope—” You gasp when his fingers trail up the length of your slit through the flimsy shorts you wear at home. 

It's hot in Oceanside right now and your apartment doesn't have a good air conditioner. Pope was going to help get you one but he wanted to enjoy seeing you in such thin clothing for a little longer.

He nips at your earlobe, tugging a little at the piercings you have there, drawing a moan out from your lips that you can't stop. 

“You definitely don't have work on your mind anymore, right?” He chuckles at how you nod your head, so shy. “Good girl. Now let me help you relax.” 

You chew on your bottom lip when Pope starts rubbing small circles around your clit through the fabric. Surges of pleasure overwhelm your senses, along with small pockets of shame. Because why are you letting him touch you like this? 

You have never let anyone touch you this easily. You haven't even had sex before. Just some kissing and grinding, that's as far as you've gotten while drunk and a little horny.

But you weren't even horny before Pope started touching you. 

Now that he has, you're squirming on his lap at how wet you are. He can feel the heat radiating off of your pussy onto his hand. 

You're so close. Your clit is hardening under his fingertips, making it easy to play with. You're clinging onto him now, muffling your moans into his shoulder. 

Then, when the pleasure shoots through you, you shake all over and Pope has to hold you steady. You've never cum like that before. You're panting against him and he loves the sound of it.

It makes him greedy for more, so he slips his hand into your shorts passed your underwear, dipping a finger inside of you. 

“Pope!” You cry out when you suddenly feel his thick finger fill you up. “Wait, wait, slow down!”

He doesn't listen, curling his finger inside of you, pulling more of those cute whimpers from you. 

“I just came, this is too much.” You mumble out. “I'm going to cum again—”

“Go ahead, dove. Cum a lot.” He drags his finger along inside of you, finding a spot that makes you shiver. “Right here?” 

You nod, even though you shouldn't. Because why are you telling him how to touch you? You shouldn't—

But Pope curls his finger right where you need him to and you burst, your orgasm crashing through you forcefully. And when he adds another finger, you squirt uncontrollably, soaking through your shorts, feeling so embarrassed that you came that hard.

Pope doesn't seem to mind, though. “That must've felt amazing, little dove. Want me to do it again?” 

Now greed overwhelms you. Because you nod and let him finger you until you've drenched his lap, your mind fuzzy from all the orgasms. 

You don't even remember why you were feeling anxious earlier. Every thought in your head is occupied by Pope. 

Just the way he wanted it to be. 

You apologize profusely for cumming so hard and he just chuckles in response, the sound of it so wonderful. “I don't mind. I left some clothes here, didn't I?” 

Pope did, back when the two of you went to the beach. He's left a lot of stuff in your apartment since then. 

So, he doesn't mind if you make a mess. He wants you to. He wants you to be a mess because of him.

And you are, because he hasn't left you alone since then. 

Pope is always over at your apartment. He waits for you after work to take you home. He touches you because you let him. He sleeps beside you because you let him. 

You don't know why you let him. You know you should put a boundary up, since the two of you aren't dating so why are you letting him sleep next to you and make you cum? 

Because you want him so bad. 

But you've never dated anyone before so you don't know how you're supposed to ask. You figure if Pope wanted you, he would ask. He seems content with the relationship you two have right now, though. 

Which makes your heart ache a bit more than it should. 

“What's wrong?” One of your tattoo artists asks, seeing the gloomy look on your face. 

You can't tell them it's because Pope had to go away for a week on some “job” for his family. He has been more open with you about how his family actually makes money. His shop is mostly a front but also a way for him to relieve stress, since he enjoys tattooing people. 

So, you just tell them, “I'm just a little down in the dumps still from that review.”

“Fuck that bitch. I heard she hasn't even posted in a while. Probably got too much heat from lying her ass off.” 

You shouldn't feel strange to hear that but you're shocked that an influencer like her, who posts multiple times a day, hasn't posted anything in a while. Maybe she is just in hiding. 

Pope knows the truth. He killed her, a few days after he touched you for the first time. He wasn't going to let some influencer make you sad so he took care of it because he doesn't want you to ever worry about someone like her again. 

He wants you to have the peace of mind only he can provide. 

You scroll through her profile, seeing that her last few posts weren't even about your shop. They're about some other business and this one is even bigger than yours, so it would make sense for their fans to have maybe pushed her to hide. 

That's what you reason to yourself. 

“By the way, have you given it any thought?" 

“Hmm?” You look up from your phone, confused. “About what?” 

“The tattoo, silly.” They show you the cute little dove that they made for their flash sheet. “No one picked it during the event and I've been dying to ink this one.”

You've been debating it since you saw the design but you did tell Pope that you wanted him to give you a dove tattoo. He's shown you a few designs but you haven't chosen one yet. 

You like this one a lot though. It's simple and tiny. 

So, you nod. “Sure, why not!”

It'll help you get your mind off of things. Plus you love your tattoo artists so you know they're going to do a great job. 

The dove looks fantastic on your side, right below your armpit. It's easy to take care of and heals up nicely. 

You love it a lot.

Though, you haven't told Pope about it yet. 

Not that you need to…

You do need to do something about your feelings for him because once he's back from the job he was doing, you realize how much you missed him while he was away.

You had such a bad day today that you're a bit too excited when you hear him unlocking your front door. You ended up giving him a key so he would stop having to pick your lock every time. You didn't want your neighbors to call the cops on him.

You can't sit still when Pope comes in and immediately goes to sit next to you on the couch.

“Come here.” He pulls you onto his lap, cradling you in his arms.

Pope has missed you so much. 

He likes the way you lay your head in the crook of his neck, folding into him, letting him hold you. 

He can tell you've been crying so he asks, “what's wrong, dove?” 

“The cops came to my shop today.” You say outright. 

Pope tenses at that. “Why?” 

“Apparently they found that influencer's body. Looks like she was killed and then tossed off a cliff into the ocean. They came asking me questions but it happened on the night of the bird event at work so I have a ton of people who could back my alibi.” 

He did that on purpose, because he figured if they ever found that woman's body, they would question you since she technically harassed you. So, he had to be sure you had an airtight alibi. 

“That must've been scary.” He rubs your back. “Are you okay?” 

You nod, holding onto him tighter. “Just a little spooked. I can't believe she's dead.”

“Good riddance.” Pope doesn't hide how glad he is that he took care of her for you. 

You shake your head. “No one deserves to die like that, Pope.”

He shrugs. He doesn't know if he agrees. Some people need to be put down if they hurt the people he cares about. 

But he'll comfort you regardless. “I just hate that she was mean to you. You were so anxious.” 

“Still am.” You sigh, letting out everything that's happened while he was away.

Pope listens intently, missing the sound of your voice. You feel like you've babbled on for way too long, having missed talking to him. 

“I'm sorry, I must be so exhausting to listen to. You must be tired after your job.” You don't usually vent this much. 

It makes you feel bad that you do, since you don't want Pope to think you're taking advantage of him being so open to letting you yap. 

“I don't mind.” That's how he normally responds. “You listen when I have something to talk about.” 

“That was like one time.” You shake your head against him. “You rarely talk.” 

“I'm better at listening.” 

“You don't have to do this, you know.” You look up at him, your eyes catching on the eyebrow piercing you gave him that matches your own. 

“I don't have to do a lot of things.” Pope says, his hand resting on your thigh. He smiles at the way your breath hitches when his hand drifts upwards, his fingers grazing your clit through the thin sleep shorts you tend to wear at home.

“Pope…you really don't have to.” Your skin heats up when he applies more pressure with his fingertips, causing you to squirm a little on his lap. 

“You always feel better when I do, though.” He keeps rubbing small circles until you're no longer frozen, trembling from his touch instead. 

Then, he stops and waits until you inevitably tell him, with your warm breath on his neck, “please keep going.” 

“Are you sure you want me to?” Pope taunts you a bit. “I thought you wanted me to stop.” 

You feel so shy, overwhelmed by how much you like it when he touches you. You like being this close to him, getting to look at the ink that is etched into the skin of his neck. It's your favorite sight to see while you're cumming on his lap. 

“I don't want you to feel like you have to.” You don't want to be a burden. 

He admires how considerate you are. As if he wouldn't jump at the opportunity to fuck you if you let him. He settles for only touching you for now because he knows one day, you'll want him to do much more. 

Like when your eyes drift to his lips. 

You want to kiss him. You want to hear your tongue piercing collide with his. You want to know what it feels like to have his lips on yours. 

But you've never been with someone so intimately before. 

And you're unsure if that's what Pope wants. 

Which is why you're afraid to go any further than what the two of you have been doing. 

Even though Pope would love to be yours, as long as you're his. “I want to. Are you going to let me?”

“You never let me…” You can tell he's hard under you but every time you offer to touch him, he rejects you, even though you told him that his piercings have healed great. He still refuses, despite the many times you have checked to make sure he was all good to be touched. 

That's another reason why all of this makes you so nervous because it feels so one-sided…

“This isn't about me.” That's what he always says. Because it isn't about him. 

Pope would love for you to touch him, but he doesn't want to be touched because you're desperate to reciprocate. He wants you to touch him because you love him. 

So, he will wait until he has made you feel so good that you fall for him. 

“You're having a bad day.” He tells you, trying to quell your worries. “I want to help you feel better.” 

You lower your voice, whispering so close to his lips, “I don't think friends normally do this.”

Your nerves intensify because you finally said it out loud… 

Pope cups your face, feeling how hot your skin is to the touch. Then, he says, “do we have to be just friends?” 

His words make your heart beat so fast in your chest. Because you know what he's asking. 

So you need to be sure, “do you like me, Pope?” 

He nods. “More than I should.”

Because he has always fallen hard and has never been reciprocated. 

That's why your words startle him, “I like you too.” 

Though, your lips startle him more when they touch his so softly. 

It's the most gentle little peck. 

But you kiss him. 

And it makes him go absolutely crazy. 

Pope is on top of you in an instant, pinning you down to your couch, his hips settling between yours, letting you feel just how hard he is from your single display of affection. You're left breathless when he starts kissing you with so much desire. 

Then, when his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, wanting entry into your mouth, you can't stop the moan that comes out when you feel his piercings. 

Pope smiles in response. “You're so cute.” 

He flicks you with his tongue again, the beads of his piercings rolling over your now swollen and sensitive lip. You shiver all over from the contact, imagining his tongue trailing down your bare skin like that…

“Wait, Pope.” You grab onto his shoulders, pushing him away for just a moment. He doesn't like that. 

You just told him you liked him, didn't you? 

Why are you stopping him? 

“I've never…done this before…” You confess, your ears burning from embarrassment. “Like, been with someone. It's all so new to me.” 

“You've never had sex?” He pleads in his mind for you to say yes.

You nod and his cock throbs in his pants. Pope groans into your shoulder, wanting to fuck you right now to guarantee that he's your first. 

“I'm sorry.” You thought he made that sound because he was annoyed with you. 

He lifts his head, his eyes locked on yours, and then he says with the most intense glare you've ever seen from him, “don't apologize to me. Just let me fuck you, my little dove.” 

Your head is swimming. It feels like you're drowning, air unable to reach your lungs, words unable to leave your lips. 

You've never seen such want in someone's eyes before. 

You need to get him to slow it down a bit. 

You shouldn't jump in this fast… 

“Pope, I'm really nervous.” You hope you can get through to him. “I don't know if I can today. But I promise I want to.” 

The desire doesn't leave his eyes. Because he has never found you more delectable than he does in this moment. You look so out of your element. Like a fish on land, wriggling beneath him. 

He's going to show you how good it'll feel to be his. 

“Can I still make you cum?” He won't take no for an answer but he asks anyway. “I want to make my girlfriend cum.” 

“Your…” You're consumed by the heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I'm your boyfriend now.” He leans down, giving you a kiss on the lips that sends sparks through you. “Is that going to be a problem?” 

There's a slight pause before you shake your head. “I want you to be my boyfriend.” 

“Good little dove.” His eyes trail down the length of your body before going back up to meet your eyes. “You're so beautiful. Can I touch you now?” 

“Okay.” You tell him but then add, “but we can't have sex. I don't have any condoms.”

He wouldn't use one anyways so he's fine with you not having any. “I'm just going to touch you and kiss you.” 

Pope will see if he can stop himself from doing more than that. It all depends on your reaction when his hands slide under your shirt, lifting it up slowly. You're grinding up against his cock from all your squirming at his touch. He could just fuck you right here. 

He decides he will, when he lifts your shirt past your breasts and you have a tattoo of a dove on your side. He doesn't even care that you aren't wearing a bra or that your nipples are pierced.

His eyes are glued to the tattoo he had no clue you had. 

It's so small and dainty, just below your armpit so he never saw it since the tattoo was easily hidden under your clothes. 

It looks nothing like the designs Pope has been making for you. 

“What the fuck is this?” He raises his voice and he can feel you tense under his hands. 

“W-What?” You look down, seeing that Pope has his eyes on your tattoo. “Oh, one of my artists did it for me. It's a leftover design from the bird event. Do you not like it?” 

“I fucking hate it.” His words are bitter. “How could you let someone else tattoo you? Why didn't you ask me to do it?” 

“It was spontaneous.” You don't really know why you're explaining yourself. 

It's your body. You can do whatever you want to it. 

Except let someone else tattoo you, apparently. “I'm going to cover it up with my design.”

“What? No!” You pull his hands off of you, yanking your shirt back down. “I like it. I don't want to cover it up.” 

“You're my girlfriend and you let someone else do that to you when your boyfriend is a fucking tattoo artist!” He can't hide the anger he feels. 

You were supposed to be his to ink. His beautiful piece of art. 

But now you're trying to fight back, “you weren't my boyfriend then. And even if you're my boyfriend now, you don't get to make those decisions. I'm allowed to do what I want with my body.” 

“Is that so?” There's a shift in his eyes.

The desire is still there but…it's darkened. And you can't stop the goosebumps from forming on your skin in fear. 

You muster all your courage to nod. 

Which draws such a laugh out of Pope. A menacing laugh. A truly frightening one. 

“Then I'm going to do whatever I want with your body now too.” He says before he rips your shirt off of you. 

You freeze completely. The thought never crossed your mind that Pope could be that strong. He talked about working out, about boxing, but you never thought about the kind of strength he must be capable of. 

You know now the moment he tugs off his shirt and lets you see how muscular he is. And you can't move, fear dominating every one of your senses all of a sudden. 

He looks like he wants to hurt you. 

All because you got a tattoo from someone who isn't him…

“Your nipples are so hard.” Pope says as he stares at them, at how perky they are with the piercings that match the ones you have. That lovely translucent crystal. 

You can't stop him from leaning down and flicking his tongue over each of them. He repeats this motion over and over again until you're so sensitive that you're afraid you could cum from this. 

And you do cum, when his fingers grab onto them and tug, the sensation shooting an orgasm straight through you. 

“So you like it rough.” Pope smirks, rolling the beads of your piercings with his fingertips, making you arch your back in response. “I'll make sure to fuck you nice and rough then.” 

“No, Pope, please.” You're so frozen in fear that you can't push him away so you need him to listen. “I don't want to have sex. I told you I don't have any condoms.” 

“You just came from me tugging at your nipples. Don't pretend like you aren't desperate for my cock.” Pope's hands drag down the length of your body before settling at your hips, his fingers dipping into your waistband. “How about this, if you aren't wet, I won't fuck you, deal?”

You shake your head. “No, that's not fair!”

He laughs at your misery. “Not fair? Because you're so wet for me, aren't you?” 

You shriek when he tears apart your sleep shorts, tossing the fabric aside, leaving you in just your soaked underwear. His fingers graze up along your slit through the fabric, coating himself in your slick to show you just how wet you are for him. 

“Explain this.” He flaunts his tattooed fingers in your face before pressing them against your lips. “Open up. Taste yourself and tell me your body isn't ready for me.” 

You press your lips together in protest which ticks him off. So, Pope shoves his fingers into your mouth, playing with your tongue, tugging at your piercings. His other hand dips between your legs, pushing your underwear side so he can touch you directly. 

You moan with his fingers in your mouth when he starts rubbing your clit just the way he has been. “There you go. Lean into it, dove. Let it happen.” 

You shouldn't. You should get him off of you. You should make him stop. You should bite his fingers off and run. 

But your eyes roll back when he pinches your clit and says, “maybe you should pierce right here, so you're always ready to be touched.” 

You cum way harder than you should, imagining him teasing your clit with a piercing through it. He basks in how beautiful you look with your orgasm glazing over your eyes. You seem frightened by how good you feel. 

Pope likes the conflict he's brewing inside of you. The same conflict he struggled with since he met you. You must hate him for doing this but you love it too. 

That's why you don't scream when he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. You don't scream when those same fingers thrust into your pussy with ease.

Though, you wouldn't be able to even if you wanted to, because Pope has his other hand wrapped around your throat. Your eyes are locked on the tattoos along the length of his muscular arm, the sight having haunted your fantasies for a while now. Feeling his hand grip your throat, knowing what it must look like, you almost cum just from that visual. 

You're going to cum when he curls his fingers inside of you, letting you feel just how thick they are, splitting you apart. But he doesn't let you cum. He only teases you, avoiding all the spots he knows you love. 

You grab onto his arm for leverage, your body shaking from how quickly your orgasm is building but getting promptly denied from achieving. 

“Pope, please.” You're so close, you could burst.

“Do you want to cum?” He asks, his movements slowing, taunting you to the point of desperation.

“Yes.” You can't handle the edging. 

“Call me Andrew and I'll let you cum.” He demands and smiles when you listen immediately.

“Andrew, please!” You cry out when he finally thrusts his fingers into your faster, fucking you with them until you're squirting all over his hand uncontrollably. But then, he keeps going, not giving you a second to breathe, forcing you over the edge again and again. “Wait, wait, stop, I'm still cumming, I'm—”

Pope silences your pleas with his hand, tightening his hold around your neck. You're choking. You can't breathe. You start clawing at his arm, trying to get him to let go, but he won't budge.

And it makes you cum harder than ever before, your vision going blurry from the intensity of his fingers fucking you while no air can get to your lungs. 

Humiliation floods you when Pope says, “look at you, squirting from getting choked. I didn't realize my lovely dove was so filthy, cumming so hard from getting taken so roughly.” 

You're at his mercy because you can't get free. He has you pinned down by your throat. Which is why you can't escape his lips latching on your nipple, his tongue flicking your piercing with his own, all while his fingers are still pounding into you and his hand is still keeping you from the air you so desperately need. 

“I need…” You're trying so hard to say something but the orgasms consume you before you have the energy to speak more. 

Pope stills his movement, lifting off your chest to look at how dazed you are, asking, “what do you need?” 

He lets you breathe, his hand moving away from your neck. He loves the sight of you gulping air down like you might not get the chance to breathe again.

“I need a break, Andrew.” You tell him, the sound of his name leaving your lips so airy and cute.

That's enough to convince him, with a catch. “I'm going to take you to bed and spend some time with my head between your legs. You can take a nap if you want. I don't mind, dove.” 

He helps you lay down onto your bed before his face is buried between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders so he has direct access to your pussy. 

You need the rest, closing your eyes, trying to settle the intense beating of your heart in your chest. You didn't think sex could be like this, so overwhelming.

Nor did you think it could be so gentle, his tongue dipping in and out of you so methodically slow before dragging upwards, his piercings teasing your clit over and over again. 

The orgasm Pope pulls out of you from just going down on you is unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's a calming kind of bliss, like a cooldown from a tough workout. 

Suddenly, you feel spoiled by how focused he is on making you cum. You have no idea how long he spends between your legs. You could've fallen asleep but you wanted to stay awake to feel the pleasure that courses through you at the sight of him being so attentive. 

It almost makes you forget how rough he was with you just a few moments prior. 

The duality is confusing. You expect him to be harsher, to fuck you with his tongue like he did his fingers. But he isn't.

And you don't know why you wish he would… 

Maybe because your body is craving having something buried deep inside of you. Something hard and thick and way too big. 

Like his cock with those three piercings you gave him…

Pope stands up, unbuckling his belt and tugging off his pants before climbing back into bed. 

You're so out of it from all the orgasms that you don't even think to react when he lines his cock up at your entrance. You only react when you start feeling him push into you, prying you open. 

That's when your eyes snap to the sight between your legs and you shove at him, “wait, stop! You aren't wearing a—”

“Hush, little dove.” He forces more of his tip inside of you and you have to grab onto your sheets to brace yourself for the immense pressure of him stretching you wide open. “This is your punishment for letting someone else touch you.” 

His hand grazes over your tattoo, shaking his head. He's so disappointed that he couldn't make love to you for your first time. But the sight of your tattoo angers him so much. 

You're lucky he hasn't just jammed the entirety of his cock inside of you. 

But Pope is considerate enough not to want you to bleed like most do during their first time. 

He only wants to make you feel good, which is why when the tip of his cock is fully seated inside of you and you whimper at the feeling of his first piercing rubbing up against you, he makes sure to continue teasing you with it over and over. 

“Andrew, it feels—” You've never experienced anything like this.

You had no idea how a piercing could feel inside of you, let alone a cock. So having the tip of his cock split you open then drag those beads back and forth against that spot by your entrance he was pounding with his fingers earlier, you immediately see stars in your vision, the orgasm overtaking you unbelievably quickly. 

“You're squeezing me so tight. Did you just cum?” He coaxes another orgasm out of you with his repetitive motions, reveling in your shocked expression. “I should've known you'd really like the feeling of a piercing inside of you. How about another?”

He sinks his cock deeper into you and you feel the second set inside of you now. You're clenching so tightly around him that Pope believes he must be in heaven.

When you feel the final set of beads, you know he's halfway in. And it feels like you're already full to the brim. 

“Oh god, Andrew, you're so big…” You look between your legs, seeing that there's still more of his cock to go. 

“More room for you to add more piercings, since you like them so much.” He starts back up his rhythm, pulling almost all the way out of you before pushing all three sets of piercings back inside of you. You're cumming like crazy on his cock, the sensations causing you to convulse. 

That's when he slams the rest of his cock inside of you, when you're so lost in your orgasm that you cum again just from him hitting your womb. 

“Look at me, dove.” He commands, having you follow his hand. He rests it on your lower stomach, pressing down on the bulge in your belly, showing you exactly where he is inside of you. “Feel that? That's my cock.”

He pushes his thumb down right where you can feel the tip of his cock inside of you. He sees where it is and smiles.

Because Pope has a great idea. “I should tattoo some lines right here so I know exactly how deep you want me.”

You try to shake yourself from the orgasmic daze but it's impossible. The moment his cock moves inside of you and you feel his piercings drag back and forth, you're gone. You've given in completely to the pleasure. 

So you cum when he finally does, his release so hot that your belly feels warm to the touch. The motion of him pulling his cock out, tugging his piercings along with it, having you shaking beneath him from the stimulation. He grinds the underside of his cock against your sensitive clit, letting you feel his piercings rub against it over and over again until you're cumming all over his cock.

Then, Pope flips you over, grabbing you by the hips. You don't get how he's still so hard. But his need for you is just that strong. He has wanted this for so long that there's no way he was going to stop after one round. 

Plus, he has to show you how his piercings feel in a new spot. 

Pope sinks his cock into you from behind and you moan into your pillow, his piercings dragging across a completely different place inside of you. He strokes your insides, his hips rolling back and forth, finding the right pace to get you squirting all over his cock and screaming his name loud enough that your neighbors are definitely going to complain. 

You get even more vocal when his hands slide down to cup your breasts, tugging on your nipple piercings as he fucks you rougher and faster than before. Your words are nonsensical now, a mixture of his name, telling him to keep fucking you and to make you cum harder and how good you're feeling from his cock. 

Pope will have to record this next time. He wants something to watch whenever he gets stuck on a job away from you. He'll make you watch yourself cum on his cock while he fucks you. 

“We're going to fuck until your body remembers the shape of my cock, piercings and all.” He says right into your ear as he pushes your body down flat, fucking you prone. “You're my dove. All mine.”

Pope cums so deep inside of you that the orgasm it causes makes you black out. 

He's still fucking you when you wake up. He's still fucking you when you pass out again. 

The only time he stops fucking you is when he's covering up your tattoo with a design of his own, one that he drew up while he was away. 

A beautiful dove, to match his beautiful dove. 

You wake up, aching all over, your pussy overflowing with his cum. Then, you feel the second skin on your side and the large tattoo that is protected beneath the plastic. 

But that isn't the only piece you feel. 

On your lower belly, right below where your waistband would go, there's a few lines tattooed. And in what must be Pope's handwriting, it says: Property of Andrew Cody, please return if found. 

You glance up, your eyes drifting towards where Pope is set up on your couch. He's finishing up the matching dove on his side. He catches that you're awake, smiling.

“Did you sleep well, my little dove?” He wipes away the last bit of ink before he sets his tattoo gun down. “Ready for another round?” 

Your heart hammers in your chest. Both because of his words and…because you spot your name tattooed where his heart is on his chest. 

And you know then that you belong to him. 

Whether you like it or not. 

a/n: oh he's so batshit…but why do I want him so bad…why do I always write pope so crazy and possessive (bc he is crazy and possessive, oop!)

sorry to subject you all to my fantasies yet again, I've just been so obsessed with tattooed!pope…the devil strikes again!

The walk from the coffee shop to the hospital wasn’t far, just a few blocks down, but you took your time.

The summer sun warmed the tops of your shoulders, the condensation around your iced matcha cooling in your grip. You could hear the last bits of ice sloshing around, already starting to melt only ten feet out into the hot July weather. The girl behind the counter had actually gotten your name right, written in looping marker, a little heart next to it that made you smile.

Pittsburgh bustled on around you, a passing ambulance wailing catching your attention as you walked toward the same destination, the sound rising and falling as it pushed through the intersection ahead. The hospital came into view at the end of the next block, glass doors sliding open and shut, people filtering in and out in small numbers.

Hopefully it was an easy day for them, but you knew better than to say that out loud in fear of jinxing the last half of the shift.

You stepped into the street at the white striped pedestrian crosswalk, adjusting your hold on the cold cup in your hands as you took another sip, the drink cutting through the blazing summer heat. And as you came to step up onto the curb on the other side, you heard the sound of screeching tires.

A truck suddenly pulled up to your right, jumping the curb as the front wheel bumping hard against the concrete when it came to a stop, engine still running. The driver’s side door flew open so fast it bounced once on its hinge.

"Help!!!" a woman screeched, blood on her jeans and across her shirt. Her voice was shrill, panicked: "I need help, please—I don’t know what happened! She was working on my farm, and I—please!"

The cup slipped from your hand, hitting the ground behind you with a hollow plastic crack, liquid spilling out and running toward the curb, green bleeding into the gray. You were already moving, your shoes slapping hard against the pavement as you ran to the passenger side, your hand fumbling on the handle before you yanked it open.

Your brain sort of…stalled for a second as you looked in.

A woman sat slumped in the front seat, her body angled awkwardly against the console, blood soaking through her shirt, her entire right side drenched in it, dark and wet and still spreading. Where her shoulder should have been—

It didn’t register at first. She looked like a realistic mannequin. A costume with fake blood from the Halloween store. It just…it looked… Just wrong. Just—

Your eyes dropped to her lap, and again, your brain was having trouble matching reality to logic. An arm, pale, unmoving, manicured pink fingernails. Not a prop or something from a costume set.

Her arm.

You looked her over, her head tipped back against the seat, her mouth parted, her skin pale and damp.

"Ma'am?" you squeaked, fingers going straight to her carotid, and you felt a very thin, thready pulse. You turned to the driver, "Go get someone from inside!"

You didn’t wait to see if she listened.

Moving without thinking, you set the arm carefully down on the passenger side floor so it wouldn’t fall, hands already going to your own shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one quick motion, leaving you in your bralette and cutoffs, the fabric bunching in your fists as you folded it over itself.

In any situation where someone is bleeding profusely and you don't have a tourniquet, you always apply pressure. Whether its with your hands, with your shirt off your back, doesn't matter. Pressure. Always remember pressure. Memories of Jack Abbott teaching you life saving first aid one day when his shift was less eventful and he had sat with you in the lounge over a cup of coffee. You're gonna want to look and see if it's stopped bleeding—don't. You'll only lose whatever clot you'd created with the pressure. Constant pressure, it could save someone's life one day.

You pressed your shirt hard against what was left of her shoulder, your hands slipping immediately, the blood soaking through the cotton quickly, warm and slick as you leaned your weight into it.

“What's your name?” you asked loudly closer, trying to keep her there, your forearms already starting to shake with the force of it. You brought your hand to her sternum, trying to see if she'd react to pain. She let out a little moan. “You're okay, you're gonna be okay. Open your eyes!”

Your own gaze lifted, distracted by movement on the other side of the car. Instead of the driver doing what you'd asked, she had already slid back into the car on the other side, "I have to go. I can't. I'm sorry." she began to say, as you shifted your arm around the hurt woman’s back and pulled her out of the passenger seat. You felt one of her shoes catch on the lip of the door, readjusting her full weight into you as you stumbled back a step to keep from going down with her.

Once she was out of the car, you leaned in to grab her arm, but suddenly, the car was moving.

“Hey!” you shouted or gasped or screamed, you couldn't remember. You had one arm around the bleeding woman, the other reaching into the vehicle just in time to grab her disconnected limb. And just like that, the car jerked forward, the open door slamming shut as it pulled away from the curb.

“Shit, shit shit—hey! I need help!” you yelled, throat scraping a little at the panic in your voice. You turned toward the hospital doors, people already starting to notice. Thankfully, Ahmad the security guard saw you and he was next to you in seconds.

"What the fuck!?"

"They just—they left her, oh my god—" you panted, the smell of the fresh blood flooding your senses.

Ahmad called into his walkie for help, and soon a gurney was coming around the corner from the ambulance bay, and a group of nurses and— to your surprise, Robby— came to your help.

"Jesus—" Robby cursed under his breath, grabbing you by the arms to pull you upright and out of the way as they took the woman from your hold and placed her on the gurney. His worried eyes scanned over you, squeezing your arms, checking you over as you stood shirtless on the side of the road. His eyes soon snapped to the patient—Jesse had stepped in immediately, his hand replacing yours at the woman’s shoulder, pressing down hard on the blood-soaked shirt.

“Proximal traumatic amputation—left shoulder,” he called out as the team walked together, “Massive bleed—checking her pressure now. Weak carotid, probably going to need blood.”

Robby was leading you inside with everyone, a hand at your back to keep you walking. The cool blast of AC hit you as the doors opened. "Alright, get her in a room, Dana, what's available?!"

"Trauma one!" She shouted from the charge nurse desk, pointing

The entire team turned on the dot.

“Someone grab the arm—careful—don’t lose it,” Robby barked as they cleared the doorway. “Mel’s on EFAST. I want MTP activated—blood in the room now. Get a saline flush going on that leg. Move!”

He turned to you once she disappeared into a trauma room, catching your arm to stop you just outside the doors. "What the hell happened?"

"I—" you swallowed hard, your hands shaking, blood still slick across your fingers, and your vision began to blur. "Oh god—"

His hands covered yours, hiding them from your view, "Are you hurt?"

"No—no," you said quickly, shaking your head hard. "I'm fine, uh—she—she was dropped off. On the curb! I just happened to be there. She—the lady who was driving said it happened at her farm and—and then, Robby, she just drove off!"

"Okay. Okay, thank you, honey. We've got it from here." he said, the edge gone from his voice now, grounding for you even as your ears started to hum and as his attention kept pulling back toward the room. "Do you want to go sit down and—"

You shook your head, eyes widening. "No, no—please, can I stay with you?"

He hesitated for a second, eyes flicking through the trauma room doors again, then back to you, then down at your hands in his.

"You sure?" he asked.

You nodded.

He gave a short nod back and guided you in with him, his hand pressing once at your back as the doors swung open.

Noise hit you all at once—monitors beeping, voices overlapping, orders being called out and answered, someone already on the phone with surgery, the room moving fast around the woman on the bed. You watched on, Robby setting you in the corner, grabbing sterile gloves and beginning to say something—but your ears were ringing louder and louder.

His eyes flickered over to you between his questions and orders once in a while, arms crossed tightly around his chest. Your lungs were beginning to feel shallow, not enough air being pulled in. God, there was too much blood, it was all making you dizzy, the smell and the sticky feeling on your fingers putting you right back in this same room years earlier. Suddenly your vision swam and it wasn't the woman from the road in the bed, but your parents, breathing tubes down their throats as everyone yelled and scrambled to save their lives, leaving you pushed in the corner as you watched on.

The door to your left swung open, a couple heads glancing up before dropping right back to what they were doing. A young man stepped in, clean scrubs, badge swinging against his chest as he moved uncertainly into the room, hovering like he didn’t know where to stand before drifting closer to the bed.

"Ortho consult?" he said loudly over the space so that you could hear him even over the buzzing between your ears.

No one answered him right away, but made room for him to take a look at the woman's shoulder.

“Time of injury?” he asked, glancing around, then back at the shoulder. “Do we have the limb? Was it preserved? I need to get a photo for Park—”

Robby looked up, "He couldn't come down?"

"Busy upstairs with a crush injury—" he said quickly, pulling his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping across the screen, "I only started yesterday as a resident, can't say for myself—." he said, looking closer at the open wound.

Robby let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as his arms crossed tighter over his chest. "Jesus…"

As the new resident leaned down to snap a photo of the amputation, he smirked up at you.

"Hey, shark bait."

You barely heard him, but you did see Robby's head snap up from across the room.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

He faltered, already shrinking under it. "I just—you know—her and Brendon—"

Robby's lip curled as he jerked his chin toward the door. "Get out."

The resident didn’t move.

"Now," Robby snapped, voice suddenly very sharp and very scary. "Go upstairs, find Dr. Park, and tell him exactly what you just said. Word for word. Then you will tell him to send me a grown up who knows how to keep their mouth shut and actually knows what the fuck to do."

The resident turned, snapping another quick picture before shoving his phone away and getting out.

Robby stood there staring at the closed doors, shoulders tight. Then he let out another long exhale through his nose, and turned back to the room.

"Alright, let’s go people, once we get her stable she can go upstairs," he said, already back in the zone, each instruction coming out with a little less patience as everyone worked to get the woman stable. Whitaker had already taken her arm, setting it into a metal basin, saline sloshing as he flushed through it, hands moving fast but careful as he explained every step to his posse of med students.

Robby was on the move again, circling behind his team. He held his hands up to not brush any residents and nurses as he cut across the room, and then he was in front of you.

The snap of his gloves came first, latex pulling tight before he stripped them off, dropping them into the bin without looking. His hands were warm when they closed around your arms, thumbs pressing in to get your attention.

His face swam in and out of your vision.

"Honey," he said, voice cracking a little as he leaned down to your eye level. "I don't think you should be in here. We got this. Go find Dana, okay?"

You nodded, or, at least, tried to. Your fingers still curled into yourself as you swallowed thickly, the smell of iron flooding your senses.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, leaning out into the hall. "Princess, where the hell is Dana?"

"Outside for a smoke!" she yelled from the main desk. And once her eyes landed on you, they widened, and she hurried over. "You okay?"

You nodded again, this time a little stronger, your breath coming a little easier with the door open, the smell easing off.

She stepped in close, one arm coming around your shoulders, steadying you. Robby said something low to her and she nodded, already guiding you away from the fray.

"C’mon, let’s wash your hands," she said, her voice softer now as she guided you down the hall, her hand staying at your back, keeping you moving when your steps slowed.

She brought you to the sink in the room, reaching past you to turn the handle, letting the water run until it warmed before pulling your hands gently under the stream. The sensor clicked, soap dispensing into your palms, and she worked it in carefully, her fingers moving over yours, between them, over your wrists, rinsing away what had already started to dry there. The only sounds were the running water and the buzzing in your head, though you were starting to be able to breathe better without all the machines around.

She rinsed your hands clean, then reached for paper towels, patting them dry and then guided you to the plastic chairs in the middle of the room. She filled a small paper cup from the sink and brought it to you.

You realized then she'd brought you to the lounge. It was quieter in here. It didn't smell like blood, but of someone's salty ramen that was heated up in the microwave, the machine beeping its reminder to whoever forgot it.

Princess had brought over a container of baby wipes, and began pulling them out to wipe your face, your neck. Each one came away with so much blood on it you didn't know what to do. She was crouched in front of you, setting the cup down on the round table, her deep, dark eyes on your face. "You’re alright," she said, quieter now. "Just need a minute. Everything’s okay. You’re here. It’s Wednesday, five in the evening, July 30th, 2025. You’re alright. Breathe."

July 30th, not March 4th. Everything was okay. You weren't here to await the prognosis on your parents lives, but here to see Robby. Robby, you're...friend? What was he? He was your rock, your…your…

You breathed in deeply, your tremors starting to settle. Princess nudged the cup closer, and you took it, fingers wrapping around the thin plastic, cool water sliding down your throat.

The door opened abruptly, and though you thought you'd see Robby come back to check on you, but it was another familiar face.

Brendon Park.

He filled the doorway, broad and stoic and intense.

"Leave." he said shortly to Princess. She rolled her eyes and dropped the last wipe she'd been cleaning your shoulder with onto the table. She quickly glanced at you with an eyebrow raised, and you said a small thank you before she walked out the door.

His sharp eyes watched her, towering over her small stature as she slid past him and out the door. He shut it behind her, and finally looked over to you.

He was across the room in two wide steps, closing the space quickly, lowering himself in front of you. One knee hitting the tile, bringing himself level with where you sat.

"Hey," he said, so differently from his razor sharp dismissal of the nurse, his hands coming up to soothe your thighs. "Hey, look at me, bunny."

Bunny. The nickname Brendon had for you, because of how wide your eyes would get the first time he made it clear he wanted you. Intimidating, terrifying, and yet…you’d come to learn that beneath that piercing, narrowed gaze and that massive, unshakable ego, he was soft in the places no one else ever got to see.

"Did you—did you check on the patient yet?" you asked, your voice catching a little as you wiped at your eyes, fingertips coming away damp. You hadn't realized you'd been crying.

He caught your hand before you could drop it, turning it in his, holding it between his palms. His touch was anchoring, and he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your knuckles. You caught a flash of the pink spiral bracelet he had on his left wrist.

"Not yet, but she's stable. I wanted to check on you…Heard you found her."

You nodded, chin wobbling.

"You were so brave, bunny." He pressed another kiss to your knuckles, slower this time, his thumb brushing once along the side of your thumb. "My resident, on the other hand, told me he was kicked out of the trauma room. What exactly did he say to you?"

The question pulled you out of wherever your brain had gone in the past twenty minutes, just enough to let a small flicker of amusement break through, like a light in the darkness, as Robby’s face came back to you.

"He called me shark bait," you said, a half smile tugging at your mouth, though it came off as more of a grimace. "You should’ve seen Robby—"

"Robinavitch is going to look like a saint once I get a hold of that fucking kid."

The way his voice dropped predatorily gave you a shiver.

"Brendon—"

He kissed your knuckles again, cutting you off, his grip steadying you where you sat.

"Be a good girl and wait for me, okay?" he said, his eyes holding yours, making sure you were actually listening. "I’ll handle that prick and come find you again later. Gotta save this lady’s arm. Could be in surgery a while."

You nodded. "Thank you…for…" you sighed, shaking your head and looking away, "I don't know."

He stood, letting your hands slip from his, but his touch didn’t leave you. His palm came up to your jaw, tipping your head back to look up at him. You followed the movement, craning your neck and taking him in: broad shoulders, slicked-back hair, his scrubs pulling tight across his chest and arms.

His thumb traced over your bottom lip as he said, "You're welcome, bunny."

Eventually, Princess came into check on you with Dana at her side, as if she had needed back up in case Brendon was still circling the room. They moved you down the hall to a quiet room, handed you a change of clothes and stayed just long enough to make sure you were steady before they went back to their duties. The door clicked shut and the noise felt like it dropped off all at once.

You sat for a little while, hands in your lap, and you could swear there were bits of blood beneath your fingernails even though Princess had scrubbed you clean. It was just the feeling, the memory of it. You flexed your fingers, reminding yourself it was the here and now, that you were okay. You felt silly, a little selfish thinking of your own memories instead of the woman going into surgery. You prayed she'd get her arm back.

You swallowed, shoulders tight, breath evening out slow through your nose. She was here, she was stable, and getting the help she needed. That was all that mattered.

The door opened again before you could sit with it any longer.

Robby came in, his eyes tight and brows thick with threaded worry, striding to the bed quickly and pulling you up into him like he needed to feel you against him. You went easily, arms sliding around his middle, your cheek finding his chest, and let him rock you where you stood, the sway of it doing something quiet to your nerves that hadn’t quite settled since the trauma room.

"How are you?" he sighed into your hair, his hold tightening like he meant it. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

You pressed your face in a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie, warm against your skin, familiar in a way that had your throat stinging again. "S'okay, I'm okay," you murmured, your voice still a little frayed at the edges.

You pulled back to look at him, hands bunching the back of his hoodie, holding tightly onto him.

"Honestly I'm…" you sniffled, trying to catch yourself before you really started to cry, "I'm glad I was there when I was. What if that lady just…left her on the side of the road or something?"

Robby was looking at you in that way he got sometimes, something thick behind his eyes that you couldn’t quite pin down, pride and worry and something softer tangled up together, his mouth pulling into a small, tight smile.

"I'm so proud of you, honey," he said, voice gentler now, the edge of it worn down. "You took such good care of her before we got there. And… the fact that you're worried about her and not the memory of... It makes your old man real proud is all."

You gave him a small smile. "You're so sappy today."

"You make me sappy," he said, a soft, breathy laugh slipping out of him, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he needed a second to collect himself. When he looked back at you, it was steadier, more like him again. "If you want to go home, McKay is heading out early, she could take you and—"

"No, it's okay," you cut in gently, shaking your head, the idea of leaving so soon not sitting right with you just yet. You didn't want to be all alone when your nervous system caught up to you, if the memories flooded again and no one was there.

"I told Brendon I'd wait for him."

"Oh, it's Brendon's turn is it?" he smirked, his hands giving your arms a small squeeze. It felt good to fall back into this, it felt like solid ground.

"He came to check on me." you said gently, remembering him in the lounge, "it was really sweet."

"Can't say that's the first word that comes to most people's minds when they think of Dr. Park—"

Your fingers slipped under his hoodie to pinch at his back, earning a quick huff of a laugh out of him.

"He is very sweet, actually. He's just… ya know, shy about it."

You knew it sounded ridiculous the second you said it, but you meant it anyway, thinking of the way he’d looked at you, held you, spoke to you.

"Oh, shy is actually the furthest from what that man is!" Robby laughed, louder now, shaking his head.

You smiled, a little wider this time, and then it softened again on its own, your thoughts circling back, something nudging your mind. There was a flicker of hesitation there, something you couldn’t quite ignore now that you’d brought the conversation back to what you'd come for all along.

"Is…that okay with you?" you asked, the question coming out slowly, your fingers still hooked in his hoodie. "If he comes in to see me?"

You weren’t even sure what you were asking for exactly— permission, reassurance, some kind of line you hadn’t crossed yet?—but there was an uncertainty in your stomach, of needing to make sure.

"Anything you want, honey," he said, and there was no hesitation in it, just that same steadiness he always gave you. "Do I need to check on you?"

Heat rushed up your neck, settling hot in your cheeks, your teeth catching your bottom lip as your gaze dropped. Your body knew what that meant before your brain caught up.

You nodded, almost automatically. "Part of the deal, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, quieter now, something thick and low threading through his voice as he looked at you, "yes it is. Why don't you tell me your plans for Dr. Park today?"

Your head tipped back a little in surprise. "You really want to know?"

"Of course I do." His voice dropped further, almost a whisper now as he leaned in, his face close enough that you could feel his breath move across your lips. "I like to know what my girl gets up to with my staff."

"Technically Brendon isn't on your staff, Dr. Robinavitch…"

That smile pulled across his face, sharper, more of a leer than genuine joy. "Humor me."

You were a little confused, but when had Robby ever given you a reason not to humor this thing you'd created? He was always so open with sharing his ideas with you, his fantasies, his wants and needs and curiosities. It made the two of you a good match, after all. You were eager to fulfill all of them and he was more and more open each time you did. It was like peeling back layers of a person, under their mask, under their outward-facing humanity, and seeing the deepest, darkest parts, and taking him by the hand, letting him lead you through it to the other side.

"I think…" you murmured, your hands sliding up around his neck, fingers brushing along the sweat at his hairline. "I think I want to make him feel good. I just need…to turn my brain off and just…"

The word stalled somewhere behind your teeth, making you feel suddenly very shy.

His arms were wrapped around your waist, and he pulled you up on your toes so you were flush against him, hips to hips, your chest pressing up into his. "…Yes?"

"I really want to…" your eyes lowered, and your voice was hardly a whisper when you said, "suck his dick…"

"What was that now?" he asked, turning his head as if he couldn't hear you right, so that his ear was right at your lips.

"Robbyyy…" you whined, tipping your head back in half frustration, half nervousness.

He pulled you against him even harder, and you suddenly realized the prodding against your belly was his cock, covered by layers of fabric but still pushing into you, throbbing. Your breath caught in your lungs, belly flipping and sending a rush of heat through your spine.

“C’mon, I know you’ve got it in you. Use your words.”

"I want to suck Brendon's dick." you admitted, holding your breath.

Robby hummed, satisfied, and leaned down to kiss you. "What a good girl," he murmured against your mouth before his tongue pushed in, cutting off anything else you might’ve said. The kiss went deep fast, messy, hungry, pulling a desperate little squeak from you as he bent over your frame. As you tipped back, your leg lifted to balance yourself, and he used it, hiking over his hip and guiding you back until the edge of the hospital bed was at your back and he was lifting you across it.

"You drive me fucking crazy sometimes, you know?" he moaned, his kisses growing sloppier by the second. Your moans were climbing higher in octave as he drove his covered member into the crook of your lap, harder and harder, pushing you deep into the thin mattress.

"Fuck, Robby, please—"

"Let me see your mouth—" he demanded, pulling back just to look at you, "gotta make sure you're ready for Dr. Park, don't I?"

You opened it with a little smile.

"Stick your tongue out."

You did as you were bid.

His expression shifted, something darker settling in as he looked at you like that, stretched out on the hospital bed, compliant, waiting. You could feel the way your body reacted to it, the way your pulse picked up in your chest.

He grabbed a glove from the dispenser, snapping it on quick, and then his fingers were at your mouth, pushing in without hesitation. At the same time, his hips pressed harder into you, making you moan desperately.

"Gooood girl…" he murmured. "Gonna go deeper now, let’s see if you can take it."

You focused on your breathing, slow through your nose, your body adjusting around him, letting him guide you. When you tried to close your mouth, he pulled back fast, tapping your tongue in warning.

"Keep your tongue out." he said roughly.

"Yes, sir," you answered, the words muffled but automatic, your tongue back where he wanted it.

He pushed further this time, testing and watching you closely. You caught the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his pupils widened as they locked on you.

"What a good girl, not even gagging when I have my hand down your throat." his beard twitched as a smile pulled from his lips, "what if I—"

He pushed in a third finger, your lips stretching around his gloved digits. Your eyes began rolling back at the feeling of him invading your mouth, his cock begging to be let out to give what you needed. You locked your ankles around his lower back, bringing him even closer.

Suddenly your throat constricted when his fingers pushed a little too hard on your gag reflex, and he let out a wrecked groan, pulling his hand from your mouth in a flash and replacing it with his tongue again.

He couldn't seem to help himself today. Usually he was good about checking you over and going about his business, waiting until he was home to have his fun. But today he couldn't stop kissing you. And he was kissing you hungrily. They were wet and sloppy and all you could do was respond in equal fervor, trying to keep up with his abrupt eagerness.

"Fuck, I love kissing you," he groaned, his mouth still pressing into yours between words. "Such a perfect girl… so good to me. Gonna take such good care of Park, aren’t you, honey?"

"Yes, Robby," you moaned as he dragged his covered cock up into you again and again.

"And tonight, when we get home, I want you to be on my bed, naked, and I'm going to—"

"Robby!" a voice came from the door, following by a few quick, hard knocks.

Dana.

He groaned under his breath, shoulders dropping, and then he was moving, pulling back, helping you sit up like nothing had happened even though your body was still humming with heat and your heart still thrummed in your chest.

"Yeah, come in," he said, already sounding like himself again once he cleared his throat. He didn't face away from you, just waited to hear her come in over his shoulder.

Dana stepped in quick. "Got an incoming trauma at the backdoor." Her eyes flicked to you, apology plain there before she added, "MVC."

MVC. Motorized vehicle collision.

Suddenly all the heat from your body drained out at once.

"Okay," he said, pushing his hands into his face, dragging them down until he sighed and added:. "I'm coming."

She nodded, and shut the door behind him.

Robby looked back down at you, a little sad in his eyes.

"I'm sorry—"

"It's okay, of course," you said quickly, understanding and a little breathless. You plastered on a smile as much as you didn't feel its effects, and added: "Go save lives."

He bent down, kissing you for longer than absolutely necessary, and then pulled away with a whispered, "To be continued. I'll let Dr. Park know you're in here."

You nodded, humming as you licked your lips. "Bye."

Robby looked over his shoulder at you as he got to the door, "Bye, honey."

It didn't take too long for Brendon to find you, to hold you, to talk to you about the day you'd had. He spent a long time just sitting next to you. He'd stayed like that for a while, his hand at your back, massaging in circles while he listened. It was something you wished everyone got to see, though… selfishly, there was another part of you that thought it was sweet that he was only like this with you. Besides, you knew he wasn't always sweet or gentle. He was good about knowing when to give it to you just how you liked it.

And it definitely didn't take long after you told him what you'd wanted to do to him that both of your clothes were discarded into the corner and he was pushing himself down your throat.

"That's it," Brendon sighed, "turn off that pretty little brain of yours and take it."

It was actually working. Your brain felt fuzzy in the most intoxicating way, senses filling with the smell of musk and his cologne—something like evergreen and citrus with expensive clean essence. You couldn't help the way your eyes slipped shut as it settled over you.

The sounds, stacking on top of each other until they were all you could hear, were like a symphony orchestra that lulled you. It was the deep, throaty pull of his breathing, the rough noises he let out without thinking, the wet, obscene suction of your mouth, and rhythmic contact of his balls against your chin.

It began to pull you under, your mind drifting, going quiet.

His hands moved to the back of your head, gentler than anything else about him, and you opened your eyes, looking up.

"I got you," he murmured, voice lower now, closer. "Gonna get this out of your way."

He pulled you down his member, slick with your saliva, to get you closer, your throat contracting around the invasion of the thick, mushroom-shaped tip. He was so thick it had your lips stretching, your jaw feeling like it needed to unhinge just to take him fully. You breathed through your nose, eyes only able to see the beautifully cut V of his hips as he held you in place.

"Stay right there, bunny."

His fingers worked through your hair with a gentleness that didn’t match the rest of him, the most intimidating doctor of the OR, with his sharp gaze on you. He gathered the strands back, keeping it off your face. The pink spiral tie slipped from his wrist, stretched between his fingers before he pulled your hair into place. He'd done it so many times to you before, with the concentration only a surgeon could have while he tied it off without causing any strain to you.

“Aren’t you gonna get made fun of for a pink hair tie on your wrist?”

He’d smirked, snapping the plastic lightly against his skin.

“I’d love to see them try.” There’d been a note of amusement in it when he looked at you knowingly. “Been a while since I’ve had a good fight.”

“People are gonna ask questions,” you’d sang in a knowing-tone, trying to match his playfulness even as you put your clothes back on from the side of the hospital bed. You'd only known him a few weeks then, only seen him in private once before this. He'd decided to carry a tie with him at work after your first encounter where your hair got in both of your faces, and stuck to you in sweaty strands.

He’d stepped in closer then, crowding your space without touching you, tall enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep his eyes, his glower sending shivers down your back.

"Let them, little bunny." he whispered, pushing your hair back behind your ear, "And I'll tell them the truth. That if they'd pay more attention to their own problems, maybe they'd get their cock sucked as good as I do. Only losers can't handle a pink hair tie on their wrist."

You'd laughed it off, but he'd meant it.

“Better,” he soothed, wrapping his hand around the ponytail he’d tied, lifting you back to pull you off him. You were left catching your breath, a thin line of spit still connecting you to him.

“Fuck—yeah,” he muttered, his other hand coming down to himself, fisting the head slowly at the top as he looked at you. His mouth parted, eyes fixed on your face in bliss.

"You're so cute like this, bunny," he moaned, "even cuter when my cock is in your mouth, don't you think?"

“Yes, Brendon,” you answered softly, breath still uneven and your lips parting again as his hand kept you in place, held open for him.

“Why don’t you go ahead and touch yourself,” he went on, a small smile pulling at his mouth. He traced your open lips with the tip of himself, coating your bottom lip in a trail of his precum and your own spit. “I can feel you fidgeting. She’s eager, isn’t she?”

You hesitated for a moment, rubbing your lips together uncertainly.

He leaned down then, pressing a brief kiss to your mouth. His voice quieter when he spoke. “What is it?”

"I—” you swallowed. “I need… permission.”

“To touch yourself?” he asked, a flicker of something amused passing through him. “I’m giving it to you. I want to watch.”

You shook your head, a small wriggle of embarrassment making your stomach flip. “I need it from…Robby.”

That got a laugh out of him, his thumb coming up to wipe at your bottom lip before he stood again. “Jesus… You two are...” he shook his head, not finishing the sentence.

His hand stayed on your hair, but he released himself to reach down into his pocket. He took out his pager, your eyes widening—

"What're you doing—"

“Robby? It’s Park.” His voice shifted back to his usual short-worded, clinical, controlled tone as he brought the device to his ear. “Yeah, she’s fine. She wants to ask you something.”

He held it out to your ear.

“Honey?” Robby’s voice came through, a little distorted. “Everything okay?”

"Hi, Robby, yes," you said, breathlessly, your skin hot with a little bit of shame as you eyed Brendon above you. His eyes had gone dark with arousal, his hand still at the back of your head. He swayed his hips so his cock touched your lips as you spoke. You kissed it gently.

"What do you need?" Robby asked.

"Ummm…" you said, then licked Brendon's tip when it prodded at your face again, then spoke again, "I was…wondering if I could touch myself."

"You—? Oh."

There was a moment of quiet on the line, and then you heard Robby's voice muttering something to someone away from the speaker, and a moment later he was back.

“You’re with him right now?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

"Fuck," he breathed. "Let me hear it. Let me hear how good you take it, and then I give you permission. But honey —I hope you're ready to be up very late tonight."

"Yes, Robby." you said, goosebumps rising over your flesh.

You looked up at Brendon. “He wants to listen.”

He raised an eyebrow, something darkly curious flickering across his expression, but he nodded.

You leaned back in, your mouth finding Brendon's cock again and opening wide, tongue out flat to massage the underside. His breath left him in a long exhale, his hand tightening slightly where it held you, the phone kept close. You pushed yourself up and down onto his length, bobbing until you gagged on an especially rough thrust against your palette.

“That’s my girl—” Robby said, quieter now, like he was trying not to be overheard. “Okay, be good. I need to go. You can have one. Do you hear me?”

Brendon's hand was still around your hair, pushing you down onto him further. "Mhm", you muffled, half a choked moan.

The line went dead.

Brendon pulled the pager away, tossing it aside, his chest rising and falling heavier now, something in him sharpened by it all.

“Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered. He pushed himself back between your lips faster now, “Go on, now. Show me.”

Your hand moved tentatively down your body, until you pushed a finger under your panties and pressed into your center. You were an absolute mess. Sopping, slippery, your hand barely finding any friction where it met your clit. You moaned around his dick, the sound muffled, helpless.

His head flew back, Ah, ah, fuck— chest rising and falling breath catching, spilling out in uneven bursts. It filled your ears, core pulsing in time with it, like your body had locked onto his rhythm, gaining momentum towards the edge with every passing second.

You closed your eyes, letting him take the control he wanted, the control you wanted to give. He pushed his cock so far into your mouth your nose nearly touched the skin of his belly, and your throat began to convulse around him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, Bunny—I’m gonna—oh fuck,” his voice broke roughly, choking on a groan as he went on: “you take me so well… such a good girl… that’s it—keep touching that pretty pussy.”

All you could do was moan, your vision blurring, your body tightening as the feeling built. Your fingers moved faster, sloppier. Your throat jerked as your body began to tighten up.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you, “I can feel it… you’re getting close, aren’t you?” His grip shifted, steady, insistent. “C’mon—come with me. Let me see what Robby gets to have, huh?”

That sent you over the edge. Your mouth fell open around him and he continued to fuck into your waiting, wet, wanting lips until he was pushing your head down so hard your nose finally did press into his navel, hot spend filling the back of your mouth.

"Swallow." he growled between moans, and you listened—barely tasting the salty tang of his release since he was so far down your throat.

When your hand came up to tap at his thigh, he eased back immediately, grip loosening, pulling away with a quiet breath. He adjusted himself back into his pants quickly, then dropped down in front of you, close again.

His hand came to your face, steadying you, and he kissed you—hard at first, then slower, taking his time as he licked the remnants of himself off your tongue.

Finally, as you caught your breath and he caught his, he pressed gentle, chaste kisses to your lips until your lips felt bruised.

"You—" he kissed you, "are—" another kiss, "—amazing—"

You giggled, sighing dreamily, bringing your hands to his hair. It was a little stiff from where he'd slicked it back, but the nape of it was beginning to soften from sweat. "Thank you for coming to see me. I had fun."

"Glad I could turn it around for you, Bunny." he said. His hand slipped behind your head, undoing the tie he’d put in, careful as he pulled it free and slipped it back onto his wrist. “Don’t wanna forget this—for next time.”

You smiled up at him as he stood above you, hiking his hands under your armpits, and raising you up to your feet.

"You sure you're okay?"

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m going home soon anyway. It’s almost eight—Robby’s probably done.”

“Does it ever…” he started, and then stopped, something changing in his expression when he looked at you. It was the most uncertain than you’d seen him before.

“What?”

He shrugged with those expansive shoulders, adjusting himself, buying a second. “If you were my girl, I wouldn’t be sharing. That’s all.” He paused. “You’re too perfect.”

"I'm no one's girlfriend." you replied, maybe a little sharply.

He looked at you for a second longer than he should have, something tightening in his eyes. It was like he was building up that persona he wore around the hospital. The Shark—with his dark, heavy brow and pinched face.

“Robby should be careful,” he said, quieter now.

“Why?” you asked, your mouth pulling into a frown as you watched him.

He sighed, stepping close to you, and bringing his thumb and forefinger to your chin before lifting your face to look up at him. For a second, you remembered how intimidating he could be as he stared down at you with that piercing gaze.

“Because one day someone’s going to slip up,” he said quietly, his voice dropping. “And you’re going to realize it’s a lot less about the sex than you think.”

You couldn’t tell what your face gave away. Your mind stalled, blank, but your stomach dipped, the words slamming heavier than anything else he could have said.

He dropped his hand from your face, eyes staying on you a moment longer before he turned, stopping at the door to look back once more.

"Have a good night, Bunny. It was good to see you."

“You’re looking mighty proud, Dr. Langdon,” you sang as you stepped into the locker area, fresh off the elevator from hospice care.

You often visited them upstairs. Around a year ago you found it actually helped to see the people that would feed you, keep you sane, and talk to you some of the hardest days. At first you avoided it, would get nauseous just thinking about stepping onto the fifth floor. But over time you realized how much they had been there for you. And now, between Robby and his attendings and residents, and the nurses and doctors upstairs… you really had a community here.

It was still early morning. You’d hitched a ride with Robby on his motorcycle, your hair still a little messy from the helmet now shoved into one of the lockers. The ED was shifting between night and day crews, tired nurses drifting toward the doors with bags over their shoulders while fresh coffee smell started creeping in from the lounge.

When the elevator doors opened, you spotted Frank heading towards you from the opposite end of the hallway.

There was a real smile spread across his face when he looked up at you. Not his usual tired little shy grin you'd gotten used to seeing the past month or so he'd been back for. It warmed your cheeks to look at him like this. Bright enough it immediately caught your attention as he walked past with something close to a bounce in his step, one hand hooked around a Red Bull already cracked open.

“Hey, you,” he chuffed a laugh, ducking his head with a shrug, “yeah—I mean—”

Another breath left him quick through his nose, eyes lit up despite trying to hide his pride.

You turned towards him as he passed, and he did the same—the two of you circling each other through the narrow row of lockers. He grabbed something from inside his and shut it again with his hip, taking another sip of his energy drink and still smiling.

You paused, smiling widely up at him, "Tell me."

He looked so handsome like this: glowing, forehead a little shiny with dappled sweat, tips of his hair hanging in front of his pretty blue eyes.

“I, uh…” he smiled again, almost disbelieving, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Just did a reduction on a diaphragmatic rupture.”

Your smile dropped instantly, eyes widening. “Are you serious?”

"You know what that is?"

“I mean, Robby told me about it—holy shit, Frank.” You stared at him, lost for words for a second before going on. “I read about one in last month’s Emergency Medicine Journal that Robby gets, and he kinda explained it to me, ya know, in civilian terms.”

Frank nodded, still trying and failing to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Sixteen year old kid,” he said. “Dirt bike accident. Came in satting like shit. Everybody thought tension pneumo at first.”

"That must've been so intense."

“First night shift since I've been back and I’m apparently supposed to go home and sleep after that somehow.”

“Says the guy drinking a Red Bull.”

He looked down at the can in his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it, laughing quietly before taking one last swig before turning and tossing the can into the trash across the room.

"How are you?" he asked, turning back to you.

You leaned back against the lockers, letting out a long sigh.

"I…" you pursed your lips. "I'm fine. Probably not as good as you are at the moment." it was meant as a tease, a joke, but came off a little sadder than you meant.

He tilted his head, the smile easing from his mouth as his eyes moved over your face more carefully. “Wanna talk about it?”

You couldn’t help but smile up at him a little. Always attentive, Frank Langdon was. Always patient enough to stand and wait for you to say what you meant, even when you didn’t really want to.

“Not really. Just…” You looked down, folding your arms over your chest. “Not sleeping super well.”

Partial truth. The other half of it was something you weren't entirely sure how to name. You couldn't put your finger on this feeling wriggling around in your head the past few weeks.

Frank nodded, stepping a little closer to you, "You can always talk to me, ya know?"

You looked back up at him, softer now. “I know. Thank you.”

“Mhm.” He leaned a shoulder lightly against the lockers beside you. “Though for the record, I don’t think hanging out upstairs counts much as therapy.”

You laughed quietly through your nose. Of course he knew. “And what does Dr. Langdon prescribe instead?”

“That depends.” His eyes flicked over your face again, brow furrowing in mock concern. “How severe are the symptoms?”

“Hm.” You pretended to think about it, bringing your forefinger up to tap on your chin. “Trouble sleeping, a little irritability. General sense of doom.”

“Ooof,” he nodded seriously. “That’s bad.”

“Mm. Terminal, probably.”

That got another laugh out of him, head ducking for a second before he looked back at you again, something warmer settling into his expression now. He made another face then, one of his thinking faces, though there was a little amusement too.

“What?” you laughed. “What’s that face for?”

“Guess I know how to take your mind off things for a bit, is all.”

“Oh?” your smile widened.

Frank pushed off the locker so he could brace one hand against the locker beside your head, leaning in as he looked down at you. The hallway light caught against the tired lines beneath his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw after too many hours on shift.

“Guess I was just hoping since…” His tongue darted out over his bottom lip absentmindedly. “Since I saved that kid’s life, maybe…”

You smiled slowly, a glint of delight coming back to your eyes. “Do you only save lives so you get rewarded, Dr. Langdon?”

His mouth twitched upward immediately. There was something almost competitive in the way the two of you looked at each other suddenly, both waiting to see who would crack first and say the thing sitting plainly between you. It felt playful. Easy. For one, you were grateful for the subject change. On the other hand, you couldn’t remember the last time Frank flirted this openly with you. Or maybe it was because he usually wasn't so obvious. Though, maybe it was the fact you were laying it on just as thick now.

“Only when I know you’re coming in,” he teased, his voice lowered and warm enough to send heat creeping up your neck.

You lifted an eyebrow, chin tipping up as your eyes dropped to his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to come by more often then. Make sure you’re not neglecting your patients.”

“Guess so,” he murmured.

He leaned closer. Only inches away now, close enough you could smell the fruity aftertaste of Redbull on him, the antiseptic of sanitizer, and lingering scent of his aftershave buried beneath twelve hours of hospital air. You watched with bated breath as he tilted his head, eyelids lowering. He began to dip down toward you, your lips nearly—

"What's goin' on back here?"

Frank pulled back fast, though not completely. His arm still caged you against the lockers. You turned your head toward the mouth of the hallway to find Robby standing there with a stack of papers in one hand, brows drawn tight enough to carve a line between them over his reading glasses.

“Just talking to Dr. Langdon,” you said innocently.

Frank finally stepped back fully under Robby's glare, the warmth of him leaving with it. The confidence he’d had moments ago seemed to drain out of him all at once, shoulders tightening beneath his scrub top.

“Maybe you can let Dr. Langdon get back to work now,” Robby said sharply, pretending to look over the papers in his hands. “West Bridge is rerouting patients to us. Flooding incident. Gonna need all hands on deck.”

“Shit,” Frank muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I’m coming.”

But he made no move to leave yet. He just stood in front of you, looking a little out of place suddenly, like he’d gotten caught somewhere between staying and going. You wondered what this past year of meetings and evaluations and drug screenings and apologies had really done to his confidence. If Robby had ever actually sat down and talked to him honestly, or if he’d done what he always did and buried it beneath work until the silence made it impossible to bring up. He sure as hell never wanted to talk about it with you, no matter how gently you'd ask.

The silence stretched.

When the three of you just stood there too long without anyone making a move to leave first, Robby finally spread his arms a little, papers still in hand as he looked between the two of you.

“Now?”

Frank gave a small nod at the dismissal, finally stepping away from you to head down the hallway with him. Robby had already started to turn when you reached out and caught Frank gently by the jaw, your fingers brushing along the stubble there as you turned him back toward you.

“We’ll talk later,” you murmured, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

The flush that climbed into his cheeks was immediate, and he brought his hand up to catch at your elbow, giving it a light squeeze. He didn't say anything, but smiled a little, almost sheepish but lighter somehow, like the reassurance settled his nerves even by a fraction.

As you started to follow behind him out into the main open area, Robby suddenly planted a hand against the wall in front of you with a loud smack, cutting you off before you could pass through the doorway.

"What exactly was that?"

"We were just saying hi."

"Hi and a goodbye kiss?" Robby asked sharply.

You shrugged, unbothered on purpose, even as the suddenness of him blocking the doorway made your pulse jump beneath your skin. “You used to like when I flirted with your residents.”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Your stare hardened.

“Oh, I see,” you said slowly, folding your arms over your chest. “So there’s suddenly rules now? What else would you like to add?”

“That’s not what I said.” he said, pulling his glasses off and tucking them into his shirt collar.

“No?” You tilted your head, “Cause last I checked, you didn’t exactly mind sharing.”

“Langdon’s different.”

Ah, of course.

“Because he went to rehab?” you asked. “Because before that you had no problem letting me—”

"He's unstable—"

“And you’re not?” you shot back before you could stop yourself.

You saw it in the way his stare sharpened on you, his jaw ticking under his beard as he looked down at you without answering. The morning shift noise carrying faintly from out in the department beyond the archway.

“He’s been back two months,” you said, hissing quietly through your teeth as the irritation grew. “You let him come back. You let him stay. He’s doing everything right and you still look at him like he’s one bad day away from sticking pills in his mouth again.”

Robby shifted the subject, as always. “You seem awfully concerned about him lately.”

And maybe a month ago, you would've backed down. Maybe you would've softened to him, let him steer the conversation away from himself and onto you, but today was different. Hell, the last few weeks had been different. That wriggling in your brain was something ugly, just sitting under your skin since your time with Brendon Park.

You lifted your chin. "What's that supposed to mean?"

“It means,” Robby said carefully, “I don’t think Langdon’s in a position to get attached to things that aren’t his.”

Your eyebrows shot upward and before you could stop yourself, a short disbelieving laugh escaped you.

"Oh my god," you scoffed, "this is about ownership, isn't it? And you're marking your territory."

Robby’s head was already shaking before you finished, one hand pinching briefly at the bridge of his nose. "Why are you acting like this?"

"Like what?" you snapped.

“Like we didn’t already agree to this.” His voice dropped lower still. “To me calling the shots on our… relationship. I think I’ve let you get a little too comfortable lately.”

The word sat strangely between you now. Relationship.

“That’s because, Dr. Robinavitch,” you said, your own voice tightening now, sharpened by defiance, “I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t belong to you. Actually—” you laughed once without humor, “—I don’t belong to anyone.”

Something shifted faintly across Robby’s face at that.

“And also,” you continued before he could cut in, “you agreed to this too. To me flirting. To me choosing sometimes. There was never a problem with it before. And you know what I think?”

Your pulse was beating too hard now. You could feel yourself getting too wound up, too close to saying something you wouldn’t be able to take back. But the irritation sitting under your skin the past few weeks had finally found somewhere to go. You felt petty, and suffocated, and—and—

"I think you are just too prideful to admit you’re more angry at yourself than Frank. Because he fucked up, and somewhere in your head you think that means you—”

"Enough!' he snapped, voice cracking down the center. You both looked at each other for a long time then, silence heavy and stretching until it became harder to look at him directly.

You could feel him looking at you then in a way that made heat creep up the back of your neck, like he was seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.

“Think it’s time you went home,” he said flatly. "Don't you?"

You held his stare another long second before slowly dropping your arms and smoothing your expression back into something sweet.

“No,” you said softly. “I don’t think so, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Then you stepped around the arm still braced against the wall.

“Think I’ll stay awhile and see what night shift is up to instead.”

The noise of the ED buzzed around you as you walked out into the open area of the desk, the last of your adrenaline flicking through your fingers as you shook them off. Phones rang around you, monitors beeped in an off rhythm, and someone was laughing loud near the lounge, the doors opening and nurses coming in and out. The whole department had that strange early morning feeling to it, night shift hanging on by threads while day shift slowly poured in to replace them, everybody tired in different ways.

Dana was planted in front of the boards, reading glasses low on her nose as she scribbled something down onto a chart balanced against her forearm.

“There she is,” Dana called once she spotted you. She pulled the glasses down fully and opened her arms wide. “Thought maybe Robby chained you to that motorcycle of his or somethin’.”

You snorted, stepping into her quick squeeze before leaning against the desk once she let you go.

“Morning to you too.”

“Mornin’, angel girl.” Dana capped her pen and pointed it at you. “Hey. You busy?”

You opened your mouth to answer before realizing you actually didn’t know. After the weird tension with Robby in the hallway, suddenly the idea of finding somewhere else to be sounded pretty appealing.

“Why?”

“We’re hosting a blood drive downstairs,” she said. “Red Cross is beggin’. Critically low supply again. You should donate if you can.”

Honestly, it sounded perfect. Downstairs, quiet, away from Robby and whatever the hell that conversation had just been.

“Yeah,” you nodded slowly. “Actually that sounds kinda nice. Who's running it?”

“Mateo and Javadi.” Dana narrowed her eyes immediately after saying it. “Nobody’s ever said a blood drive sounds nice.”

You saw her eyes flick over your face and behind you before she handed you the flyer. The paper crackled softly between your fingers as you skimmed over dates and eligibility requirements and little cartoon blood drops smiling in the margins.

As you read over the flyer, your attention snagged suddenly on the feeling of warmth near your shoulder, so close that the fine hairs along the back of your neck lifted before you even turned around. The smell of Irish Spring and coffee suddenly embraced you as a voice said low by your ear:

“Hey.”

The single word slid down your spine.

You turned and found yourself nearly chest to chest with Jack Abbott.

Jesus Christ.

You’d always thought he was handsome, obviously. Everybody did. But up close after a night shift he had this worn roughness to him that somehow made it worse. Dark circles beneath his eyes, jaw shadowed from not shaving for a day or two, black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His curly salt and pepper hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times overnight.

His eyes, though, his eyes were focused on you with intent, a small smile pulling the corner of his mouth.

You leaned back against the desk, "Hey yourself."

Amusement flickered across his face, his hands behind his back as he loomed before you as he swayed on his feet, "How are you?"

You couldn't help the way you licked your bottom lip as you inhaled, "Good."

He nodded once, his gaze dropping to your mouth and then over your face slowly enough to make your pulse stumble.

“Good.”

"Oh brother."

You smiled, shoulders dropping at Dana's voice behind you. You could just picture her eye roll as she watched the interaction.

Jack smiled too, barely glancing behind you at all. The thought occurred to you suddenly that he was almost as intimidating as Dr. Park, but an entirely different way. Brendon's attention felt sharp, invasive, like being circled by something dangerous. And with Jack, it felt warm but in a lighter way. Your spine tingled when he looked at you like that—knowing, cheeky even, a twinkle in his eye—your chest pushing out as your flesh lit up in goosebumps, legs beginning to feel wobbly and unstable under his gaze. Where you didn't know Park's intentions when he pierced you with that shark like gaze, you could read almost every thought across Jack's.

"Long night?" you asked.

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You could say that.”

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

That finally got a real smile out of him, brief but enough to crease the corners of his tired eyes. God, he had a nice smile.

Dana moved around the desk so she could catch your eye as she pointed at you both aggressively with her pen.

“Absolutely not. Nope. I know that look.” She pointed toward the hallway. “Go donate your blood and let this man go home and sleep before he has to be back tonight.”

Jack's gaze never left yours.

“Can’t yet,” he said quietly. “Still got a few patients I need to sign off on. Couple discharges.”

“You’ve been here fourteen hours,” Dana snapped.

“Fifteen,” he corrected absently.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Geez.”

He shrugged one shoulder, swaying a bit in front of you, though there was something almost sheepish about it under your attention now, like he suddenly realized how wrecked he probably looked. His eyes only left yours to look at the flyer behind you.

“Donating?” he asked you.

“Dana’s bullying me into it.”

“Good,” he said simply. "The vampires upstairs in their ivory tower are getting restless."

You laughed softly through your nose while the approval settled warm in your chest in a way that felt embarrassing, considering it was something so silly. Despite whatever hard night it had been, Jack always had a way of lightening the mood, even if it was with terrible jokes.

"Hey, Abbot!" someone called, and Jack’s attention finally pulled away from you and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Dr. Henderson approached from down the hall, ipad tucked beneath his arm, navy scrubs still clean despite the long shift.

"Hey, trouble," he said, nodding his head up to you, his charming gap in his teeth showing as he smiled on his approach.

"Hey, Crus," you smiled, leaning back further against the desk.

Dana made another exhausted little tsk noise as she sidled back behind you at the desk.

Crus looked back at Jack, expression shifting more serious. “Ms. Jones from triage has been waiting ages for that arm x-ray. I’m gonna pull ultrasound down here and clear her myself. No reason for her to sit in this hellhole longer than she needs.”

Jack nodded once. “Cool. See if you can dispo a few more stragglers while you’re at it too so you can get home in one piece.”

Crus nodded, but then paused. So did Jack. There was a bit of an awkward silence.

"Anything else?" Jack asked, eyebrows raised.

Crus glanced down at you, smile turning cockier. “Just wanted to say hello to my pretty friend here.”

“You already said hi,” you teased.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jack's jaw ticking.

“What’re you doin’ after this?” Crus asked.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Dana cut in sharply. “Get your butt downstairs before I gotta start carryin’ around a god damn yardstick to beat these brutes back.”

You stood quickly, grabbing the flyer from her again and turned to Crus, "If you happen to be here when I'm done, I'll come find you."

He smiled even wider at that.

You glanced at Jack then with a little wink before turning away without waiting for anything from him. The last thing you caught was the pursed set of his mouth, his eyes narrowed faintly at your back.

The thing about Jack Abbot and you…was, well, that there was nothing about you and Jack Abbot at all.

Which was strange, considering there had been something with most of Robby's closest residents and attendings. Not everyone, obviously—but enough that you knew that Jack knew what you were to those around him too. Nobody in the ED was exactly subtle.

And then there was the black ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. The one he twisted absently when he was talking to residents, one he never took off, one that seemed to sit between him and everything else like a hazard sign bolted into concrete. Even if his wife had died years ago.

But Jack was flirty with everyone. That was just who he was. Playful, funny, forever making terrible old man jokes just to get a laugh out of somebody during a hard shift. He liked making you laugh especially. You’d noticed that early on.

And while his stares could make heat creep all the way down your chest and settle into your belly, and looked at you sometimes like he was already halfway through some thought he shouldn’t be having, you also knew he never meant anything by it.

Because he never did anything about it. Ever.

You wondered sometimes if Robby had ever even offered, or if there was some invisible line between the two of them that wouldn’t allow for it. They’d known each other so long they were closer to brothers than coworkers. Maybe there were just certain things you didn’t touch when it came to Jack Abbott. The idea of anything being off limits in Robby's mind made your jaw tick again.

You knew you shouldn't have been so defensive earlier, of Langdon or of anyone else. You did have a nice arrangement with Robby, one that made your mind shut off when he took the reins, an arrangement that made you feel wanted and needed and…

You didn’t even want to think the word.

Loved?

Please.

As if any of this meant anything deeper than helping the staff blow off steam after brutal shifts, letting them forget for a little while about dead patients and screaming families and all the things they carried home. That’s all you were. A cute little distraction around the ED.

And in return, you got to feel like you belonged somewhere. You got to feel like even Robby—

"Juice box?"

You blinked hard and looked up.

A curly headed mop of hair tilted down toward you, warm brown eyes and pretty tan skin and a thick-lipped smile waiting patiently while he held out the little apple juice box toward you.

You smiled automatically, fidgeting in your chair as you reached out to take it. “Thank you, Mateo”

He nodded, dark curls falling around his forehead. “I’m about to head out, but you were lookin’ a little pale over here.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “V’s gonna take over now.”

You glanced toward Victoria Javadi helping someone else tape gauze over the inside of their arm, smiling brightly while she thanked them for donating.

“Cool, yeah,” you nodded quickly, forcing your thoughts away from handsome attendings and complicated arrangements. “Sounds good.”

He paused in front of you, "You good?"

"Mhm, sorry—" you shifted around the reclining chair, "just, tired—I think I was starting to fall asleep."

"…or pass out." he corrected knowingly, "I'll get you a sandwich."

You smiled sheepishly, "Okay, fine, thank you."

He winked before stepping away toward the snack cart, and when he came back a minute later with a wrapped sandwich. Instead of leaving again, he dropped down onto the little rolling stool in front of you.

“Gotta take this out first.” He said, reaching for your arm, his fingers warm against your skin as he peeled the tape back from the crook of your elbow. “Can’t let you wander around the hospital still attached to us.”

You laughed softly, welcoming the touch.

"I uh…" Mateo's eyes flickered towards the doorway before coming back to your arm, "I heard you and Robby earlier."

Your stomach tightened, "Oh."

He still wasn’t looking directly at you, focused instead on removing the needle smoothly before pressing gauze firmly against your arm.

“I just wanna say…” He shrugged a little. “I think you’re right to defend Langdon.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“He’s earned the right to be back here,” Mateo continued quietly. “And I know you…” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Well. You’ve helped me through some pretty shitty days too.”

Your eyes softened. People knew Langdon had gone to rehab, though maybe not everyone knew the full story of what happened a year ago, how ugly it had gotten by the end, or the way everything between him and Robby had blown apart afterward. Still, it made something in your chest ease, knowing there were people here besides you willing to stand behind him.

“That being said," Mateo went on, "I don’t want you thinkin’ people only want you around because of…” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flushing faintly. “You know.”

You smiled, a chuff of soft laughter spilling from you, but you let him go on.

“People actually like you,” he finished simply. “You’re cool as hell to have around.”

You reached out without really thinking about it, hand wrapping gently around his forearm. You weren't sure why that made your throat tighten suddenly as you said, "Thank you."

He smiled back at you before finally securing a rainbow bandaid over the little cotton pad at your arm.

“There,” he patted your elbow lightly, “no heavy lifting.”

Without overthinking it, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his neck before you could leave, sitting up and bringing him in closer. He hugged you back immediately, warm hands settling against your spine before curling around your waist, holding you against him.

“Don’t let Robby’s shit day stop you from comin’ around here, yeah?” he murmured.

You ducked your face briefly into the side of his neck, warm spice and bergamot filling your senses. Your brain betrayed you immediately with flashes of those same hands gripping your thighs months ago, his mouth against your stomach, the low sound of your name on his tongue.

“Yeah,” you sighed softly.

Then when you finally pulled back and looked over his shoulder, you caught Javadi watching the two of you from across the room. The second your eyes met hers, she looked away sharply, mouth tightening as she threw something into the trash harder than necessary.

Your stomach dipped, and you let go of Mateo quickly after that, standing up and thanking him again before making a fast escape out into the hallway.

By the time you made it back upstairs, the little cotton pad taped to the inside of your eblow was starting to itch beneath the rainbow bandaid, your half-finished juice box crinkling softly in your hand every time you squeezed it. The sandwich Mateo gave you was nowhere to be found now, left forgotten probably on your recliner downstairs while you got distracted spiraling through your own thoughts.

Which, apparently, was becoming a habit lately.

The department had picked up since earlier. Stretchers lined parts of the hallway now, triage louder than before, somebody coughing hard near the waiting room while a monitor alarm chirped steadily from one of the trauma bays. You could smell the burnt, forgotten coffee from the lounge in the air and the floor cleaner by the 'wet floor' sign in the middle of the room.

You slowed near the desk, eyes drifting automatically through the movement around the department.

Mostly looking for Crus.

Partially avoiding Robby.

Which was stupid, because the second you thought it, your eyes snagged on him across the department anyway.

He stood in front of Dennis Whitaker, both hands clutching the tubes of his stethoscope while he listened to the resident presenting. Robby looked exhausted already, dark circles beneath his eyes and a pained look across his face as he stood there.

But then he looked up, the eye contact so sudden it made your stomach dip. His attention was caught on you completely, something shuttering carefully across his face as he forced a neutral expression. Whitaker was still talking, oblivious to the sudden change in his attending's attention, and after a long moment Robby finally looked away, turning his attention back towards the chart in Whitaker's hands.

“Look who survived her heroic blood donation,” Dana called without looking up from the computer.

You wandered toward the desk with a quiet sigh. “Barely.”

Dana snorted.

“Crus still here?”

“Mhm. Went up to radiology with one of the nurses maybe ten minutes ago.” She clicked through a chart before looking at you over her readers, “He’ll wander back down eventually."

Well, you sure as hell weren't going to wait down here for Robby to find you.

“I’m gonna go up,” you muttered.

Dana pointed at you immediately. “You wanna eat somethin’ first?”

You waved her off anyway and headed toward the stairwell before she could mother you any harder. The elevator dinged somewhere down the hall and you glanced toward it hopefully, only to find a crowd of transport staff immediately flooding doors again with a patient bed.

Yeah, nevermind. The stairs it was.

Heading up the stairway corridor, the noise of the ED dulled to muffled echoes behind you, the stairwell smelling of dust and stuffy industrial metallic. The only sound accompanying you the further you got was the sound of your footsteps and heavier breathing.

By the third flight, your legs felt heavy, chest heaving in lungfuls that usually wouldn't have winded you so much. Your head felt a little floaty, and you had to tighten your grip to haul you up onto the next landing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while you stood there a second, listening to the distant hum of hospital life vibrating through the walls around you. Somewhere above, a door slammed shut.

Two more to go.

You pushed upward again.

When you finally reached the radiology floor, you stepped out into the quieter hallway with another long breath, smoothing your hair back from your forehead. The halls up here always felt strange compared to the ED—slower paced, colder, less frantic.

Before you closed the door of the stairwell, you glanced back and saw something peculiar.

The door across on the landing was propped open with a towel just next to the small sign bolted to the metal.

ROOF ACCESS AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Why was it open?

Something about it made your stomach do a little dance. It wasn't exactly fear, but maybe curiosity. Worry, even. You knew who liked to spend time on the roof, after all.

You stared at it another second before turning toward it instead of the radiology department. The heavy metal door groaned softly as you pulled it open wider, another narrow staircase stretching upward above you. You glanced back once, making sure the towel still sat wedged near the hinge to keep the door from locking behind you, before starting up.

Your lungs burned with every breath, the climb catching up to you all at once. Cold sweat prickled along the back of your neck beneath your hair, the rooftop shifting faintly beneath your feet when you stopped moving too suddenly.

Too many damn stairs.

The air was still cool for a Pennsylvania morning, late summer clinging stubbornly to the afternoons but finally starting to ease, mornings carrying the promise of fall again. The breeze skimmed over the sweat dampening your skin and raised goosebumps along your arms as you stepped fully onto the rooftop.

And there he was.

Standing near the edge with his beck to you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tan cargos. He didn’t turn around when the door shut behind you, and for a second you wondered if he already knew it was you or if he was just too lost in thought to care.

"What're you doin' up here, Jack?"

His shoulders sagged slightly at the sound of your voice, head dipping forward for a second, chin nearly brushing his chest before he let out a long breath through his nose.

“Thinkin’ about throwin’ myself off,” he muttered.

You walked closer slowly. “Mm. Bit dramatic.”

He huffed a little amused laugh at that, though you couldn't see his face. You stood just behind him at the railing. He was so quiet your chest had started thumping against your ribs. Play with me, you wanted to beg, joke back, please.

Down below, an ambulance siren wailed somewhere out on the street while another backed into the bay beneath you, the sharp beeping echoing upward between buildings. A car alarm chirped a few blocks away before abruptly cutting off.

The city moved on while you stood in silence.

"That bad?" you murmured after a moment.

He looked up at the skyline, "You know...I always liked sunrises more than sunsets. Sunsets get all the attention, but there's nothing like seeing the sun rise again and again. Despite how shit it may seem, it just keeps coming, doesn't it?"

"Like you?"

You maybe shouldn't have said it, but you couldn't help it. You wished he'd just look at you. The nausea twisting in your stomach had gotten worse now, your vision still faintly shaky from the climb, but you kept your eyes fixed stubbornly on the broad line of his back beneath the black cotton stretched over his shoulders.

“Had a little girl this morning,” he said instead of answering you. “Left in a hot tub too long. Came in with burns all over. Her little heart was giving out before we could even get her onto high-flow and start pushing fluids.” He shook his head slowly. “Always the kids, man.”

Your eyes dropped toward the rooftop gravel below your shoes. The ground shifted faintly again and you closed your eyes briefly, fingers clenching together as you leaned harder against the railing.

“Shit,” you whispered. “I’m sorry.”

"Me too." he whispered, almost too quiet against the wind. "Why are you up here?" he asked, barely glancing back.

But the second his eyes actually landed on you, you saw his expression change. He did a double take to look directly at you, his eyes widening as he took you in.

You opened your mouth to answer him but your vision had gone completely fuzzy. You couldn't hold onto the railing, all your strength feeling like it had zapped from you in a moment's notice.

Oh—

Oh, fuck—

Jack turned fully toward you at the exact moment your knees buckled.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—hey—!”

The world dropped violently sideways before a pair of strong hands caught you hard around the waist and shoulders, hauling you against him. You weren’t even sure how he’d gotten to you that fast, only that suddenly there were two of him swimming in your vision.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack breathed.

Your vision came back in strange pieces. Pink and gray sky, his black t shirt. The feeling of his hand gripping the back of your neck.

“Easy,” he muttered, and somewhere in the back of your mind you felt his thumb softly caressing the column of your throat. “Easy, easy. I got you.”

“I’m okay,” you mumbled automatically.

“Bullshit.”

You could feel his breath against your skin, minty from whatever gum he'd brought with him on his shift. Irish Spring soap flooded your senses stronger than before. His body radiated warmth through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"You donated blood this morning, right?" he said, asking quietly.

"Mhm," you said, closing your eyes for a minute.

Jack closed his eyes briefly like he was physically containing his irritation.

“So you climbed seven flights of stairs after donating blood?” His hand tightened slightly at your waist. “Did you eat anything?”

"Forgot my sandwich. Mateo, he…" you sighed, content in his hold, letting your head rest on his shoulder. "Juice box too."

"Okay, baby, we're gonna get you home."

Baby. Jack had never called you that before. He'd flirted with you, made eyes at you, but never the pet name. And with him holding you so close, your stomach was rolling again, but not from the nausea.

You hummed contentedly, and he held you there for a long moment. When you opened your eyes, he was still staring at you.

"You're right" you said gently.

"Yeah?" he breathed, "Why's that?"

"The sunrise is so pretty."

Jack glanced behind him automatically toward the skyline, the sky dusty blue now with long streaks of pink still dragged through the clouds. Morning light painted the side of his face pale gold when he turned back toward you again.

“Makes you look pretty too,” you added, a faint smile pulling at your mouth.

Jack stared back down at you for half a second before he mirrored the look.

“Okay,” he groaned, carefully easing you upright again while keeping one hand firm at your waist. “Definitely time to get you horizontal before you start hallucinating.”

Jack kept his hand against your waist as he guided you back toward the stairwell, watching you carefully every few seconds like he didn’t fully trust you not to tip over again. The rooftop door whined and slammed shut behind you.

“No more stairs,” he muttered immediately, steering you toward the elevator hall instead.

You smiled faintly. “Bossy.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Eventually you made it back down to the ground floor, the ED exploding with noise once the doors opened. The morning rush had hit, the elderly from the nearby nursing homes being wheeled in quickly and codes being called around you.

Jack reached for your hand, guiding you through quickly. It was warm, rough around the palm, fingers curling firmly through yours.

"I gotta tell Robby—" you tried to say, but as you glanced around looking for him, you saw Robby standing with a gown half on him, gloved hands pulling it over his shoulders as him and a group of others stood around a patient. Jesse was there, cutting off a patient's shirt as they began moving quickly.

"Looks a little busy." Jack muttered.

You looked to the main desk, spotting Dana and calling to her as you approached.

"Can you tell Robby I'm heading home?" you asked, jerking your head to the trauma bay he inhabited, "Jack is gonna take me. I feel like shit."

Something gentled slightly across Dana’s face then, less curious than before.

“Yeah, honey. I got it.” Her eyes flicked over your face once and immediately narrowed. “Jesus Christ, you do look awful.”

Before you could defend yourself, she reached into one of the patient nourishment carts, yanked out a wrapped sandwich, and tossed it directly at you.

Or, well, at your head.

Jack caught it one handed without even looking.

“Make sure she eats the whole thing.” Dana snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack answered, back turned to her.

You laughed quietly under your breath while he tucked the sandwich beneath his arm and started guiding you toward the exit again, still holding your hand.

And then that strange prickling feeling crawled up the back of your neck again. Awareness, a sixth sense someone was watching.

As Jack guided you out the doors, you turned around to peak at the ED one last time, and realized people were watching you.

Dana stood behind the desk now talking quietly to Robby, who had stepped partly out of the trauma room. His gloves were gone now, one hand braced against the doorway while he listened to her, but his eyes stayed fixed on you.

Langdon stood farther down the hall beside a patient room, ipad tucked beneath his arm while an older woman spoke to him from the stretcher. But his attention had drifted completely past her shoulder now, blue eyes caught on you too.

Crus had reappeared near the lockers, backpack slung over one shoulder as he headed toward the opposite exit. He slowed slightly when he saw you.

Even Brendon Park, who hardly ever wandered down here, was halfway down the hall with Yolanda Garcia beside him flipping through imaging on a chart. He had looked up at your departure too.

The whole thing felt suddenly surreal.

All these people.

All these tangled little relationships and secrets and conversations and hands on your body and soft moments everyone knew about.

They were all looking at you, with your hand in Jack's, leaving with him. It made your chest tighten oddly, holding onto his hand harder as he guided you out.

“Better?”

You licked the last crumb from your thumb, crumpling up the plastic sandwich wrapper with a sigh as you leaned back into the passenger seat of Jack’s truck.

“So much better.”

Your head still ached faintly, but with actual food in your stomach now, you finally felt like your body was catching back up to itself. The cold shaky feeling had mostly faded too. When you checked yourself in the visor mirror, there was finally color back in your face instead of that ghostly gray pallor from earlier.

You looked over at Jack with a little smile.

He was already looking at you.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“You finally stopped looking like a Victorian child with TB.”

You snorted a laugh immediately. “But a cute Victorian child, right?”

"Very cute," he said, not yet turning on the car as the two of you settled in to the warm leather seats.

You licked the last bit of salt from your lips and slumped further into the seat, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. He was still looking at you a little strangely.

"What?"

His hazel eyes softened slightly. “You scared me a little up there, y’know.”

“So did you.”

He looked away then, one hand settling onto the steering wheel while you studied him quietly from the passenger seat. The salty shade of his scruff that had grown in, the exhaustion still sitting in his eyes despite the teasing. His wedding ring caught dimly in the morning light where his fingers rested against the wheel.

The police scanner clipped suddenly to life near the dashboard.

“—I 376—multiple vehicle MVC, possible ejection—”

Both of your heads turned automatically toward it.

Jack’s posture changed instantly. It was subtle, but immediate— shoulders straightening, his eyes sharpening as he reached over, the static crackling through the speaker.

“—three critical, one pediatric—”

“Shit—sorry—” he muttered, quickly shutting it off.

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly, willing the thoughts and the memories from your head. Not now, today was already such a mess. Not now. Your stomach twisted unpleasantly, threatening to send the sandwich right back up again.

“Hey.”

You felt his hand wrap around yours then, only realizing afterward how hard you’d dug your nails into your own thigh.

“Hey,” he repeated softer. “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you even have that thing?”

Your eyes cracked open again to see Jack leaning across the center console now, still holding your hand, thumb moving against your knuckles.

“I, uh…” He sighed, glancing down toward the space between you before looking back up again. “I don’t like the quiet.”

"You n' me both," you muttered. "But a police scanner? You couldn't try like, white noise? An audiobook?"

He smiled a little at that, "Boring."

“Right. Well I’m sure your cortisol levels are just phenomenal listening to active disasters all day.” You shook your head slightly. "Not to mention your weekend hobby of being shot at."

That pulled a real smile out of him now, teeth flashing briefly. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."

You rolled your eyes, "And fishing wouldn't have sufficed?"

"Too quiet. You're starting to see my dilemma now."

“Oh, I can think of a few things that could keep your mind occupied better than this.”

The second the words left your mouth, heat rushed up your neck. You rolled your lips together, wishing you could've shut your mouth sooner. Shit.

Jack opened his mouth to say something, his eyes dropping to yours, and then he slid away.

You looked away immediately, staring hard out through the windshield toward the concrete pillars of the parking garage while your stomach twisted itself into knots. You could still feel the warmth of his hand around yours, which somehow only made it worse.

God. You wanted to crawl under the truck.

"You know why I haven't given in?"

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “What?”

Jack tipped his head back against the seat, eyes fixed somewhere up toward the roof of the cab now instead of at you.

“Why I haven’t…” He swallowed once. “Been part of all that. With you.”

Your heart was suddenly lodging itself into your throat.

"No." you whispered.

He looked over at you.

"Same reason why everyone else was looking at you when I was holding your hand as we walked out." he said.

His voice had gone softer somehow, lower now, like he was trying not to say too much and failing anyway. Every word came out careful and quiet enough that it made you want to lean closer just to catch them. You’d never imagined this with him—not really. Not beyond the flirting and the long looks and little moments between shifts. This kind of honesty from Jack Abbott felt almost frightening.

You didn't really understand what the meant by that.

He held your gaze for a long second before looking down at your joined hands still resting near the center console.

“But it’s not—” You tried to laugh lightly, though it came out strained. “It’s just hooking up, Jack. Just blowing off steam.”

He gave you a knowing look, "I don't think so, sweetheart."

Your skin felt hot and as awake as a live wire under his watchful stare—the way he could see it all so clearly, the thing you'd been trying to not name in the past few weeks, the thing that made you spit venom at Robby this morning.

"If I…If we—" He stopped himself, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip while his jaw tightened. Your heart was hammering in your throat now as he went on: "I'm not exactly built for anything casual."

You tipped your head to look at him, trying to keep your face relaxed, forcing a small smile that you didn't feel, "Jack—"

“I’m serious.” His voice sharpened slightly for the first time since getting into the truck. “I can’t do casual. I’ve never been able to.” He looked away briefly, his mouth opening to inhale like he couldn't catch a steady breath. “And after my wife…”

The cab of the truck suddenly felt too small.

“Since Eve died,” he said carefully, “I’m not really right in the head, sweetheart.”

Your chest twisted at the sound of his honesty, the exhaustion not just from the shift but from whatever he was dealing with inside, whatever all the long nights and the police scanner and the active duty seemed to distract from.

"It doesn't have to be like that," you murmured, turning to fully face him, "We don't have to do anything, I like being friends. I've never asked you to—"

"But fuck," he let out a harsh breath, eyes boring into you, "I want to."

You stared at him for a long moment without blinking. Part of you wanted to change the subject immediately, to laugh it off, to rewind the entire conversation before either of you started saying things that couldn’t really be unsaid. Brendon Park's face suddenly appeared behind your eyes:

Because one day someone’s going to slip up and you’re going to realize it’s a lot less about the sex than you think.

You looked away from Jack and back out toward the concrete beams of the parking garage.

“I can’t be your girlfriend, Jack.” Your voice had gone strangely stiff now, every consonant sharp. “I can’t be Robby’s either, and he knows that. That’s why this works.”

"I'm not —"

“The last time I was somebody’s girlfriend,” you interrupted, “my parents died.”

Jack went completely still beside you. Your throat tightened immediately, like your body regretted saying it the second the words were out, but now you couldn’t stop them.

"I had taken them to my boyfriend's house, and his parents were so fucking drunk when we arrived they could barely hold a conversation," you said quickly, your eyes beginning to burn at the corners. "His dad kept getting angrier and angrier, shouting over my mom every time she tried talking, and his mother was making comments about my body, about how I should ‘lock her son down before somebody else does.’” Your laugh came out thin and shaky. “And my boyfriend just sat there letting it happen, laughing at their awful comments.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I was so hellbent on convincing my parents they weren’t always like that, that he wasn’t always like that, but they wouldn’t listen.” Your breathing had gone uneven now, tears thickening your voice. “They kept telling me I deserved better, and I thought they were judging me for planning to move to the city with him, so I just—I snapped.”

You let go of Jack's hand to press the heels of your hands hard against your eyes.

“I told my own dad I hated him.” The words cracked coming out. “That was the last thing I ever said to him.” Your shoulders shook harder. “And he turned around with this look in his eyes, and that’s when that fucking truck—”

Jack’s arms were around you instantly.

One second you were sitting there trying to force the words out and the next he was leaning hard over the center console, pulling you into him so quickly it knocked the breath from your lungs. You sobbed against his chest, and you could feel his mouth pressing against the top of your head as he said: "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything—"

You could barely speak, you were crying so hard. You'd never told anyone all of that. Robby only knew pieces, but he never knew why you'd blamed yourself. He was the only one who ever understood without having to know. It was why it worked with him, why everything had been good until now. Both of your own darkness tucked underneath this feeling of being wanted and seen and understood, his and your own.

You clutched onto Jack’s shirt, tears staining through the soft black cotton, until eventually your breathing began to even out into uneven little pulls of air instead of outright sobs.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered finally, dragging the back of your hand hard across your cheek as you tried pulling away.

But Jack wouldn’t let you go.

His arms only tightened around you instead, one hand spread broad against the middle of your back while the other stayed firm at the nape of your neck.

As you sucked in air and tilted your head up to look at him, to try to get him to understand, you stopped when you saw the look in his eyes.

You became suddenly, painfully aware of how close he’d gotten.

His face hovered only inches from yours now, your knees pressed against the center console while his body leaned over it to hold you. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the rough drag of his thumb where it rested against the back of your neck.

He whispered your name.

And then was leaning in.

His lips tasted like faded coffee and old minty gum, like a low burning fire— the warmth of standing out in the cold too long, even though it was a tepid day outside the windows of his truck. You parted your lips in surprise, and he leaned in deeper immediately, kissing you harder now, but still so careful you could feel him holding himself back. You could’ve sworn you heard a broken groan slip from his throat at the feeling of you opening for him, his body otherwise perfectly still around you.

He pulled away. The light of the mid morning sun began to paint his face so you could still see just the barest speckle of hazel outlining the pupils that had blown wide with desire.

"That was stupid." he said, only just a whisper.

"Uh huh," you murmured, and then dove back in.

You pressed yourself against him harder, breath hitching as you moaned against his mouth, hands fisting into his shirt, pulling him closer. It felt frantic, like you'd been possessed with a newfound hunger. He only broke away long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere blindly into the backseat before his hands were on you again. He was slipping them under your shirt before downright pulling you on top of him. You went willingly, knees sinking awkwardly into the crux of the seat on either side of him, straddling his hips. The position pressed you flush against him and your breath caught at the hard bulge beneath the cargos pressing against you.

He was kissing you again, and jesus, he kissed like he fucking meant it—tongue plunging into your mouth, suckling at your top lip and letting his teeth graze over it. Your hands went to his hair, fingers carding through like you could only just get him close enough, hips pushing down onto his, and you could feel a bulge in his cargos that only made your brain fuzzier. You tangled your fingers into his hair, over his shoulders, anything to try and drag him even closer while your hips rolled down against him.

"Fuck, Jack—" you whimpered as you ground down again. He let out a pained moan, his hands going to your face, before he pushed you away.

The two of you sat there panting into the same air for a second, his eyelids heavy but still fixed on you completely while your hands stayed curled against his shoulders.

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered, calloused hands at the sides of your face with his thumbs imprinting into your cheeks. He tilted your head this way and that, and you wondered, with the way he was looking at you now, if he was cataloging this all to memory in case you said no.

You nodded, letting your own hands travel up to his face, feeling the scruff of his graying stubble along your soft digits.

Jack’s eyes fluttered shut briefly at the touch. And then he was opening them again, a fire sparking behind his pained look, and he suddenly pulled your face down so you were mere milometers away from him, feeling the way he spoke more than you could hear it, "Say it."

"Yes, Jack," you whimpered, "I'm sure."

"And Robby?"

Fuck.

“I’ll talk to him,” you whispered, your breath catching when Jack’s mouth brushed slowly against your bottom lip again. “Tomorrow."

"Tonight."

You nodded frantically, "I’ll explain everything tonight.”

“What a good girl you are,” he murmured, and kissed you harder. His hands left your face to push your shirt up over your head, and you couldn’t help glancing around before your hands fell to the clasp at the back of your bra.

Jack’s hands were already there, undoing the hook and eye without fumbling once. “Tinted windows, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his mouth and let the bra slip free, breasts bare beneath his hands. He cupped you gently at first, then rougher, palms working over you with a greedy sort of focus that made your stomach tighten. He broke the kiss again to take one into his mouth, and your lips fell open at the feeling of his tongue against your pebbled nipple, a moan shaking out of you as his other hand kept a tight hold on the other.

“What a cute little thing you are,” he murmured against your skin, kissing the valley of your breasts before taking the other nipple into his mouth fully. You watched his brows pull together almost painfully, his eyelids fluttering as he groaned low against your skin.

"Jesus Christ, Jack, please—I need more—want more of you—"

He unlatched himself from your breast with a pop and nipped your chin, "Backseat."

You scrambled off his lap with a yelp when his palm cracked against your ass, laughter bubbling out of you as you climbed into the wide backseat of his truck.

He followed after you, and you only caught the quick flash of metal from his prosthesis as he climbed over the console before he muttered a curse and dropped down beside you.

"Lemme take this damn thing off—" he muttered, annoyance in his voice.

"Do you need help—"

He shook his head, already working at the straps, cargo pant leg shoved up high over his knee so you could watch him unfasten it. You’d only really seen it a handful of times before, usually when he was adjusting the socket after it rubbed him raw through the day or messing with the suspension during a shift.

It was off soon enough. He set it carefully in the footwell before leaning back against the window, his leg swinging up onto the seat. The fabric of his pants was pulled back down over his shin, sagging slightly once the prosthesis was gone.

“C’mere,” he murmured, giving a small tilt of his head. You started to scoot toward him, but he stopped you with one finger pointed your way. “Those off first.”

You smiled knowingly and unbuttoned your denim shorts, shoving them down your legs until you were left in nothing but your panties. Jack let out a slow sigh, eyes dragging over you in open appreciation.

“Seen enough?” you teased.

“Not even close,” he said with a grin, reaching out to pull you back onto his lap.

He pulled you down onto him with both hands, one settling firm at the back of your thigh while the other cupped your jaw, guiding your mouth back to his before you could even laugh again. The kiss turned messy fast, all heat and teeth and the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, and you could feel the way he exhaled through his nose when you shifted against him, the low sound he made vibrating right into your mouth.

Jack’s hand slid slowly up the inside of your thigh, broad palm dragging over warm skin until his thumb hooked beneath the waistband of your panties.

“You're a squirmer," he said against your mouth, "Nervous?"

You laughed at first, "And you are a tease—"

But the word broke into a gasp as his fingers slipped beneath the lace of your panties, his rough fingers sliding easily against the supple, wet skin, arousal you'd made in the time from your first kiss to now coating his digits. You grabbed at his shoulders harder, letting him nip and kiss at your jaw, the sharp pricks of stubble tickling your sensitive skin. His fingers moved slowly at first, just sliding back and forth as he cursed under his breath.

"Gonna let me take care of this?" he asked, though his voice was thin and hoarse.

You nodded, gnawing at your bottom lip as you jerked against his touch. He kissed you again while his fingers worked between your legs, slower than you wanted—seemingly on purpose—with teasing circles that had your breath stuttering into his mouth. Jack seemed to enjoy every little reaction out of you, every jerk of your hips, every soft noise you failed to swallow down. You could feel him smiling faintly against your lips each time.

"You make the prettiest sounds, baby," he said. "Wonder what you'd sound like with my cock in you."

"Oh, please please please," you whimpered, dropping your forehead to the broad crest of his shoulder.

“Gotta get you ready first,” he tsked softly, the pads of two fingers sliding from your pulsing clit down to your entrance, making you shudder.

He pushed both in at once, the stretch making you wince. You lifted your head to look down at him, and saw his brows pulled together in a little cooing face.

"Ohhh, I know. But if you can't take my fingers, how will you ever take my cock in this tight little pussy, huh?"

Jesus fucking Christ he was going to kill you with that mouth of his.

You whined as he pushed deeper, knuckle-deep now, and just as you settled against his palm, your clit rubbing against the meat of his hand, he crooked his fingers inside you and your eyes nearly rolled back.

"Oh fuck!"

“That’s it,” he coaxed again. “S’alright, c’mon baby, ride my fingers.”

You whined, petulant, unable to help it. He had you like putty in his hands, fingers hitting that perfect spot inside you that only left you wanting more and more and more. You started lifting yourself off his hand only to sink back down again, your breasts bouncing softly in front of his face. It was so good, just the right amount of stretch and friction, each drop down making your clit swell and brush against his hand.

"Jaaaackkk—" you whined as your impending orgasm came rolling towards you quicker than you expected.

He must’ve felt you tightening around him because suddenly he held you still, stopping your hips before easing you back against the bench seat, crowding over you.

“Hey!” you squealed, the orgasm nearly there before he snatched it away. You watched as he sucked on his fingers before looking back down at you.

“You’re not coming unless it’s on my cock right now,” he growled, kissing at your neck while fumbling with his cargo pants, shoving them down enough to free himself.

You managed to smile, breathless albeit, and snake your hand down between the two of you.

His cock was thick—that was the first thought, girthy and like velvet in your hand. He hissed in a breath as you wrapped your hand around him, and you watched as his eyes rolled back.

"How long has it been, Jack, since you were with anyone?"

His heavy lidded gaze dropped back to you. “Long, long time, baby.”

"Since—?"

He nodded once. “Just me, myself, and my best friend Righty here,” he said with a rough little laugh, wiggling his hand between you.

You laughed with him softly. “Cornball.”

He smiled crookedly down at you before wrapping his hand around himself again, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. Your back bent up in euphoric bliss as sensitive skin touched sensitive skin, both of you moaning at the contact.

"Tell me again," he said, "I need to make sure you're—you're— oh shit—"

"I'm sure, please for the love of god, fuck me."

"Now who's bossy?" he chided, and then notched his cock at your center, and both of you hitched a breath. Your hands flew to his biceps, toes curling.

“Need you to breathe, sweetheart." he said, though his voice was tight with restraint, "Let me in.”

You looked at him suddenly wide eyed, worry pinching between your brows. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t think you’re gonna—”

"Fit?" he teased with an eyebrow cocked, and pushed another inch.

"Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod—"

He laid himself over you then, elbows braced on either side of your head so he could cup the back of your skull, kissing you slowly. “Breathe, sweet girl. Tried to tell you I had to get you ready, didn’t I?”

You nodded against his mouth and forced yourself to exhale. The second you did, Jack pushed fully into you until he was buried to the hilt, his balls pressing softly against you.

"Ohhhhhh…" you moaned, head craning back as your eyes disappeared behind your lids.

He kissed you again, letting you adjust, "Jesus, you feel so fucking good." His mouth dropped into the crook of your neck, suckling the skin there as he groaned. He pulled out barely an inch, and you clung to him immediately, arms looped tight around his neck, ankles crossing behind his back.

"No-no—need—need a second,"

“I know, I know, just a little,” he soothed, kissing your ear. “Fuck, this is not gonna last long.”

He pushed himself up just enough to slip his hand between your bodies again, one hand still holding the back of your neck. The second his fingers brushed over your clit, your whole body jolted.

"Ohmygod—"

"How's that feel, pretty girl?"

"So—so good. S'like you're splitting me in half, you're so big, Jack, oh—god—"

He chuckled, kissing your chin before fully kissing you on the mouth, breathing you in, and he began to move.

You whined and moaned and gasped for breath as he slowly began to saw his hips, until you were boneless beneath him, fully adjusted, and he finally began to fuck you in earnest.

His fingers still pressed back and forth over your clit, and he went between watching your face and kissing you, as if he couldn't decide which he liked more.

"Oh fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good," he groaned, jerking his hips up into you "can't believe I waited so fucking long to do this—ah, ah—"

All you could do was moan, as if every word you'd ever learned had melted from your brain. You were molten beneath him, moans and lewd mewling of pleasure spilling from your mouth, his cock pushing deep inside, stretching you open. His breath was heavy, moaning along with you, not a care in the world. Somewhere in the haze, you noticed the truck windows had fogged over completely, the concrete walls of the parking garage barely visible beyond the glass.

"Fuck, fuck fuck, please tell me you're close—can feel her tightening up on me, I'm gonna come, please, oh fuck fuck fuck fuck—"

"Yes, Jack, please, come for me, I'm gonna—me too—" The words finally came back to you just enough to urge him on, your hips lifting to meet every thrust until he hiked your leg higher around his waist and drove deep enough to make your spine bow off the seat.

White burst across your vision at the new angle, making you cry out as the pressure finally tipped you over the edge. His fingers never left your clit while you came around him, gushing and tightening hard, every pulse of your body dragging him right after you as his own finally snapped tight.

His head bent back onto his neck, mouth open, a guttural sort of noise leaving him. You felt the shudder that went through him before he finally let himself collapse into you fully, broad body heavy against yours, his forehead tucked against your neck while both of you fought for air.

The truck felt stifling now, windows completely fogged over, the air thick with heat and sweat and sex.

You stayed like that for a while, your fingers tracing the freckles of his shoulders, the large planes of his back. Eventually his breath evened out and he lifted his head enough to look at you.

“Hell of a first date.”

You stared back at him with a flat expression, though a smug little smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Get off, old man,” you teased, giving his shoulder a playful slap.

He laughed under his breath and finally peeled himself off you, both of you damp where sweat had gathered between your skin, though in your hazy state you could barely bring yourself to care. Getting dressed felt strangely intimate. Every now and then one of you would catch the other staring, and when you pulled your bra on his hands were already on you, straightening a twisted strap.

By the time you both climbed back into the front seat, the truck didn't smell so sweaty as Jack cracked the windows briefly, letting late morning air pour in while he started the engine.

The drive back to your place was quiet, but not in any awkward way. You let Jack turn the police scanner back up, static crackling between dispatch calls while he translated bits and pieces for you as they came through.

He’d asked if you had any lunch or dinner waiting for you at the house, and you told him you did, that you’d probably spend the rest of the day reading or trying one of those YouTube Yoga routines you always saved but never did.

One of his hands stayed loose on the wheel while the other rested on your thigh almost the entire time, thumb dragging back and forth absentmindedly over your leg whenever he stopped at a light. And before you knew it, you were turning down the street into your neighborhood—Robby's neighborhood—and Jack was idling at the driveway.

“You gonna talk to him?”

You exhaled slowly through your nose and nodded once. You knew who he was talking about. “Yeah.”

“Tonight?”

Your fingers twisted together in your lap for a second before you forced them still. “I said I would.”

Jack was quiet, but you saw him nodding out of the corner of your eye.

"Have a good day, Jack." you said gently, hand already at the door handle.

"Hey—hang on."

Your fingers loosened against the door handle as you turned back toward him, nerves fluttering low in your stomach all over again.

“Just wanted to say…” He rubbed at the back of his neck briefly before looking at you again. “I understand. What you meant earlier.”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“About being casual,” he clarified quietly. “I’m gonna try.”

You nodded, gnawing at your lip a bit, "Good. But...if it's too much, we don't have to do anything you don't want to. I like being your friend."

He smiled, but didn't answer that. Instead, he said: "I appreciate you letting me in. About—everything."

Your eyes settled on him, softening. "Same to you." you said quietly.

He held your gaze for a long moment after that, a small smile pulling at his mouth, almost…a little sad. Like the both of you knew something, but weren't saying it out loud.

“Go to bed, Jack,” you murmured, breaking eye contact first as you pushed the truck door open. “I’ll see you soon.”

There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.

Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.

You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.

“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”

Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.

“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

But Robby doesn’t look away from you.

You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.

“…Right,” he says, slower now.

Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”

“Shame,” Robby says flatly.

You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.

Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”

“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.

“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.

You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.

“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.

Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”

You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”

There’s a long beat.

Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.

“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”

“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.

“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say, dry.

His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”

Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”

Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.

“…You’re serious,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.

“Jesus Christ.”

You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.

“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.

“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.

Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”

Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.

“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.

Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.

“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.

You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.

Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.

You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”

You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”

You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.

“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.

He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.

You don’t linger. You head out.

The door swings shut behind you.

Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.

Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.

“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”

Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”

Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”

Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”

“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.

“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”

“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”

“Hard pass.”

Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”

“And you landed on me,” Robby says.

“Yeah.”

Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”

“Both of us.”

That lands differently.

Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.

“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”

Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”

A beat.

“And I trust you,” he adds.

it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”

“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.

Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.

“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.

“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”

Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”

Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.

Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”

Robby nods once, slow. Then—

“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.

“That’s not a fair question.”

Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.

Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

Then he looks back at Jack.

“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.

Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.

“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”

Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”

Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”

Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable. 

“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”

“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”

“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance. 

That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.

“Fair,” he says.

Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”

Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”

Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.

Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.

“What about me?”

Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”

Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.

A pause.

Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.

“…You first,” he mutters.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.

“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”

Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”

“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”

Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”

“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.

Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.

“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”

Jack just nods, like that was fair.

“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”

Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”

Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”

“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”

Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.

“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”

“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.

Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”

Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.

Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.

Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.

Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.

“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”

Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.

Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”

“Shut up.”

“Flirting now, are we?”

“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.

★★★

2 WEEKS EARLIER

threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm

1: a group of three persons or things : trio

2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately

3: a sexual encounter involving three people

“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.

You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.

“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”

“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”

You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”

Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”

“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”

“I did not sound like that.”

“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”

“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”

“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”

Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”

“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”

He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.

“…Needs longer,” he admits.

“How do you know that?”

“I just did what you said, I—”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”

That slows him down.

Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.

“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”

You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”

You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—

“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”

Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”

Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.

“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.

You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.

“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.

Jack blinks.

Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. 

★★★

The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.

It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.

Robby had never been separate from Jack. 

Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them. 

Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either. 

They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.

They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.

And Robby had always lived in that tension.

He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.

There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding. 

It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.

Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it. 

You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.

And God—there was something about you.

Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.

The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.

And worse—

The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.

He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.

You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.

That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.

But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.

And Jack…

Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.

That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.

And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.

That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.

Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.

Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.

Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.

In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there. 

The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.

Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest. 

“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.

They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.

It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.

Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”

Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”

“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”

Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nope.”

“Bull.”

Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”

Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.

“Four,” he repeated.

“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.

Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”

“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.

There was a beat.

Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.

“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.

He didn’t say anything.

“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”

Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.

“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.

Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”

“Semantics.”

Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.

A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—

“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.

Robby’s jaw shifted.

“She’s… fine,” he said.

Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”

Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself

“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”

Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.

“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.

Jack didn’t move. “For what?”

“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Then—

“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.

Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.

“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.

Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”

Robby laughed at that—short, real.

“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.

Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”

Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second. 

The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.

They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.

“Aw, you two are so cute.”

Jack sat up immediately.

You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there. 

For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”

You just nodded, already moving toward him.

You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.

“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.

“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.

Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.

You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking. 

Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.

You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.

“Mhm.”

You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.

Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.

“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”

“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”

“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.

Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”

“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”

There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.

You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.

Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.

You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.

“…You been talking about me?” you asked.

Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”

“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.

You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”

Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”

His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”

You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.

“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.

Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.

You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.

“Jack.”

He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.

“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”

“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”

“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.

Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.

“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.

Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”

You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.

It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.

Robby looked away. Not fast enough.

You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.

“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.

“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.

A beat.

“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.

You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.

“No promises.”

You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.

“You good?” you asked, softer now.

He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

You nodded like you believed him.

“Night, Michael.”

There was a flicker at that—something small but real.

“Night,” he said.

Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.

“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.

“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.

“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.

You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.

Robby watched you both go.

Didn’t move.

The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.

So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.

It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.

Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?

And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?

It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.

About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.

And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.

★★★

Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.

The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.

“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”

Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”

You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”

Santos lets out a breath.

You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”

“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.

A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.

Robby.

He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.

“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.

“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”

He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.

“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.

“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.

He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”

“No,” you agree. “We never do.”

Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”

You pause slightly.

“A Parisian party?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”

Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.

Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”

“No,” you say.

Robby: “Nope.”

Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”

There’s a beat.

“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”

“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”

“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.

The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.

He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.

“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.

“What?” he says innocently.

You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”

“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.

“Liar.”

That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.

“You think you’ll go?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”

“Right,” he nods.

A beat.

“You?” you ask.

“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”

“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.

Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”

“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”

A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”

He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.

“Have you?” he asks softly.

“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.

He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.

You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.

“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.

“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”

You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”

That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”

You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.

“Was it a yes?”

“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”

That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”

Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”

There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”

You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”

That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.

You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.

“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”

And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.

A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.

Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“What’s with that?” she asks.

“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.