#[i should... stop... answering... with drabbles]

you shake your head. he slightly pushes at you and you get the hint to get off him and get on your knees. he cups your jaw as he unzips his jeans, reaching in and taking his dick out, letting it rest against his stomach.

"gonna talk you through it ok?"

you just nod and he leans back, pulling your head forward as you took him in your hand. lifting your head up slightly, you swallowed thickly before opening your mouth, trying to take as much of him as possible.

"slowly, baby.. not all at once.. shit.."

you gagged as you felt his tip hit the back of your throat, tongue swirling around and licking the part of him that was in your mouth. he pulled you off him and you gasped, saliva trailing from his tip to your mouth.

"want more.. please.."

"so eager to please, baby.."

"always for you.."

"how lucky am i, getting to teach you things your boyfriend won't do.."

he had your mouth back on him now so you couldn't respond, but you quickly started bobbing your head, kitten licking at his tip whenever you could. his hand was fisted in your hair but he wasn't pushing or pulling, he just let you figure out the motions on your own, praising you and encouraging you through it.

"such a filthy mouth.. takin' me so well, honey.. you're so fuckin' good to me.."

you felt his leg slightly twitch and you knew he was close. you squeezed your eyes shut, bobbing your head down and taking him all in your mouth again.

"gonna come.. shit.. fuck.. you gonna be a good girl and swallow it all?"

you nodded, eyes blinking back tears as you held him in your mouth and throat. he hissed and groaned as you felt the hot ropes down your throat, sighing slightly against him before pulling off. you swallowed what was in your mouth, before opening up, tongue out and showing him.

"'atta girl.. c'mere.."

he patted his thighs and you stood up, before sitting back down on his lap, his dick growing soft underneath you.

"you did so good, baby.."

"mmhm?"

"mmhm.. best head i've ever fuckin' had.."

you just giggled and leaned down to kiss his cheek.

"now.. you gave me head.. anyone ever done it to you? like has your boyfriend ever went down on you? head between your legs?"

you shook your head and he just smiled.

As far as Sarah can remember, the screaming had always been there. Those whines of desperation, the cries of agony.

It’s being said that it’s been going on for centuries like this. A house, deep down in the woods, haunted by an evil spirit. The howling would get worse around days of winter, and whenever she’d get closer to the forest, she could feel the heartbreaking misery of those cries. The townspeople call it the wails of the Winter Soldier.

Sarah had never seen the house herself. Never been allowed to approach the deepest parts of the woods, where the ominous omnipresent mist would greet her. Her parents used to say that certain death awaited her there. Sam though, her brother, he had been at the house—multiple times even. He never told her, but she knows.

It took her a while to notice that every now and then Sam would pack some food in a lunchbox and disappear for hours. Hours, during which the faint cries would find a sudden stop. Sam must’ve gotten to the same conclusion she has: nothing capable of such anguish screaming could be of evil nature. These are painful cries of someone suffering and in need of help.

But whenever she asks, Sam evades the question, and Sarah has had enough of it. She is no innocent child anymore in need of protection—it’s been over thirty years and she’s a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. So, on a cold November morning, she packs a lunchbox and heads out.

It’s a reckless action, she’s aware. She’s got two boys waiting for her to come back home, and no husband anymore who could take care of them should something happen. But Sarah is no fool—she wouldn’t do it if she wasn’t positive she’d come back safe and sound. Sam is a fighter, and Sam never looks like he’s been in a fight when he comes back from his trips to the house.

For the first time, Sarah steps foot into the deep ends of the woods and lets the mysterious mist engulf her. With every step she takes, the screaming gets louder, almost bone-crushing, causing shivers to run down her spine and having her hurting more and more for this poor pained soul.

Eventually, she reaches her destination and dares to enter the abandoned house with thrill and a healthy dose of fear pumping through her blood. When she finally gets to the attic, where the cries seem to be coming from, she learns three things right then and there, and none of them are what she expected:

For one, the Wailing Winter Soldier is no ghost or evil spirit. It’s a man. A man, bound to the house for eternal torture, cursed by no one else but the Clan of HYDRA.

For another, it’s not the man who’s screaming, but the house itself—expressing what the man is repressing.

“Look’s like Shark’s favourite pup is in,” Garcia, brows to hairline, hums. She watches you eerily circle the gurney like Park would, shark-like; the same pensive look in your eyes as you zero in on the angry, violaceous mottle swelling right above the patient’s sternum.

“I said please, didn’t I?” you shoot lazily over your shoulder. 

Robby and Garcia share a look. Half-amused, half-stunned. Enough for the bay to shift and click into place: It appears you’ve inherited a bit of Park’s notorious bite since they’ve last seen you down the ED.

“Got pulled out a once-in-a-lifetime procedure for an open scapular fracture all for a…” You straighten up from the bedside expectantly. “X-Ray, please? Thanks.”

You lean towards the machine revealing a—

“Posterior sternoclavicular displacement,” jumps in an obvious gunner, “which, presents rarely at 3% of all shoulder-related dislocations. So, kind of once-in-a-lifetime, too.”

A glacial beat drifts pass.

Beside him, Robby can see Whitaker visibly grimacing; steeling for the familiar, sharp Orthopaedic snap of, I’m not blind, to spear poor Ogilvie through like a hapless carp the same way he’d endured the humiliation from Park the Shark. 

But—

A snort is all you allow; and there ends all acknowledgement of the lanky MS’s existence.

…Arguably worse.

Garcia has to bite back an unnerved laugh. Fills in the chilling silence by presenting the case as you move to palpate the unconscious patient until Robby eventually runs down the list of concerns. 

Head, chest, abdomen clea… nd O2 looks good… irway patent since transport… don’t think it’s pressing up against her tra… Radial pulse has been strong and stea… hoping for a… 

“Closed reduction should be possible,” you conclude, after taking one final look to reckon the dislocation on-screen of the mobile X-Ray. “But I want her sent up to CT before she wakes. It’ll be the only window we can get her flat on her back without any complaints.”

“Alright,” Robby begins—

“Uh,” cuts in Whitaker, before he can stop himself, “Will the Shark be on this, considering it’s an uncommon case?”

You suck in a sharp breath at that, unimpressed. It’s enough to suspend the bay again into quiet stillness.

“There’s always a bigger fish,” comes your curt answer. It’s not hostile at all, but subtly edged enough to feel the nip from a familiar set of jagged, serrated teeth. 

It makes Whitaker wince again. 

“Doctor Park,” you correct, “sent me down personally to consult this case.” You circle back round to the exit in an efficient glide once more, snapping your gloves off pointedly. “If you have a problem with that,” you make a vague, cavalier jerk of your head upwards, “take it up to the Shark.”

The Resident deflates, wide-eyed. “Oh, no, no, I just… he’s my patient— I’m just, concerned—”

“Hey. I get it,” you dismiss, as courteously as you can muster. Try to shed that bracing energy that seems to follow you and have people defer uneasily at your feet. “Go follow her up, then. And make sure the dislocation isn’t agitated into something acute enough that’ll need a signed consent trip to the OR.”

Whitaker looks to Dr. Robby for assent, who shoots an amused nod of consent in return. “Go ahead. Dr. Park sent her down— means he trusts her.”

“Thank you. And you’re welcome, bottom-dwellers,” you mock-flourish, turning on your heel and immediately out the door. 

Then:

“Are all of them like that upstairs?” Ogilvie shudders, once he’s sure you’re out of earshot. 

The bark of laughter Robby lets out is met in unison with Garcia’s.

“Better toughen up, kid,” she scoffs. “She said please, thank you and you’re welcome. That’s the kindest Ortho consult you might ever experience in your entire career yet.”

The next time he’d been caught in an elevator trip up with the one and only fabled Shark of Ortho, Robby couldn’t help but muse aloud, “You sent your finest the other day.”

(If Robby had noticed the way Park visibly perked up at the mention of you, however, he didn’t make it known. Files it away with the other curiosities he’s noticed between you two inside his head.)

“Scared the shit out of my poor juniors,” he continues.

Park simply hums in amusement. “Good.”

You should have gone to bed almost an hour ago.

The rational part of your brain knew that.

Tomorrow was a workday. A real one. Not the kind where you answered emails from bed or spent the afternoon catching up on paperwork. Actual patients. Actual sessions. Actual responsibilities. The kind of day that required you to be awake enough to pretend you had your life together while helping other people sort through theirs.

Instead, you were curled into the far corner of Jeongguk's sectional couch wearing one of his oversized black hoodies, your laptop balanced on your thighs while you finished writing progress notes from the week. The television murmured quietly in the background, some reality show neither of you were actually paying attention to, while rain tapped softly against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seoul.

Curled against your side was the reason you hadn't moved in nearly forty minutes.

The cat was asleep.

Completely asleep.

One paw stretched over your stomach. Tiny pink nose buried into the blanket covering your legs. Dead weight in the most inconvenient way possible.

The little traitor hadn't left your side since dinner. Which was ironic considering Jeongguk had spent the first three months after the adoption acting like the cat was personally responsible for every inconvenience in his life.

"Bam was here first."

"She's staring at me weird."

"Why is she always in my spot?"

"I don't think she likes me."

Now? Now the same man called twice a day asking for cat updates. You had received three separate requests for photos since breakfast. The latest one had arrived thirty minutes ago.

How's my daughter?

Not Bam. The cat.

Your phone buzzed, the familiar ringtone immediately pulling your attention away from the half-finished sentence on your laptop screen.

A video call from Jeongguk lit up your screen.

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. You didn't even hesitate before accepting, already knowing exactly why he was calling. He always called after shows when he could, especially on nights when the adrenaline was still running through him and sleep felt impossible.

The moment the camera connected, however, you immediately regretted answering.

"Jesus Christ."

Jeongguk's face filled the entire screen, far too close to the camera and somehow managing to look both exhausted and wildly energized at the same time. His hair was a complete mess, falling into his eyes in uneven waves. His cheeks were noticeably flushed, and there was a familiar glassiness to his gaze that told you everything you needed to know before he even opened his mouth.

He had been drinking.

A lot.

The unmistakable expression of a man who had spent the evening celebrating with six other singers and the tour staff after the final show in the city.

The noise behind him only confirmed it. You could hear shouting somewhere off-camera, followed by a burst of laughter loud enough to distort through the speaker. Someone yelled something in Korean that you couldn't quite make out, and a second later what sounded suspiciously like Taehyung attempting to sing drifted through the chaos.

It sounded terrible.

Which meant it was probably Taehyung.

"Oh, fuck you," Jeongguk replied immediately, a grin stretching across his face so wide it nearly pushed his eyes shut. Even through the screen you could tell he'd been drinking. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was a complete mess, and there was a looseness to him that only appeared when he was exhausted, happy, and at least a little bit intoxicated. "That's the first thing you say?"

"It is."

"It shouldn't be, I missed you."

"You are hammered, Gguk."

"I'm not hammered."

"You look like you just got discharged from the military again."

His laugh exploded through the speaker, loud and sudden enough that the cat sleeping against your side twitched in protest. One tiny ear flicked before settling again.

"Baby," he whined dramatically, dragging the word out. "That's so mean. I miss you." He said it once again.

For a moment neither of you said anything as you simply looked at him through the screen while he looked back at you smiling softly, there were voices overlapping and someone shouting across the room but his attention remained fixed entirely on you.

You watched his eyes drift lower, taking in the familiar sight of his living room behind you. The couch. The blanket. The corner lamp. The television playing quietly in the background. It wasn't anything special. Just home.

Then his gaze landed on the cat sleeping against your side.

Immediately, his entire face softened.

"Oh my God. Baby."

A laugh escaped your nose.

"She's sleeping." You told him.

"I know." His smile somehow widened.

The camera shifted slightly as he settled deeper into his chair, resting his cheek against one fist while staring at the screen. The expression on his face was ridiculous. Completely gone. Absolutely smitten.

With the cat.

The same cat he'd spent months pretending to dislike.

"She looks so small."

"She is small."

"Mm." Jeongguk nodded immediately, still staring at the screen with the kind of concentration people usually reserved for life-changing revelations. "So tiny. Look at her."

You angled the phone downward slightly despite the fact that he could already see her perfectly fine.

The sight made Jeongguk audibly gasp.

"Aigo."

You rolled your eyes.

"Aigooooo—"

The sound came out softer this time, stretched into a drunken coo that made absolutely no sense to anyone except him. His entire face had transformed.

The idol who had spent the evening performing in front of thousands of screaming fans was gone. In his place sat a slightly drunk twenty-something man in a hotel room making baby noises at a sleeping cat through FaceTime.

"Aigoo, uri agi."

"She's not even listening to you."

"She is."

"She's unconscious."

"No, she's hearing me."

The confidence in his voice almost made you laugh. "Aigoo, look at that face." He tilted his own head as if trying to get a better angle. "Ya. Ya. Why is she sleeping like that? She's melting."

You glanced down. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. At some point the cat had somehow managed to flatten herself into an impossible shape, all limbs loose and heavy against the blanket.

Jeongguk let out another distressed noise. You pressed your lips together.

The cat had somehow migrated upward during the call. At some point while the two of you had been talking, she'd abandoned your stomach entirely and stretched herself across your chest instead, her tiny body draped over you like she paid rent. One paw was tucked beneath her chin, the other dangling lazily against the front of the hoodie. Completely boneless. Completely comfortable. Completely asleep.

The movement only seemed to worsen Jeongguk's condition. His eyes widened.

"No." He suddenly said.

"What?"

"No way."

"What now?"

"Look where she is."

You looked down, then immediately regretted it. The cat was, in fact, sprawled directly across your chest. "She's comfortable." You giggled at seeing the feline's face.

"That's my spot." The words came out so fast you almost choked, a laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Across the screen, Jeongguk looked deeply offended.

"No, seriously." For several seconds he simply stared at the screen with the most betrayed expression imaginable before letting his head fall backward against the hotel headboard.

The movement exposed the column of his throat. His hair fell away from his forehead, the flush in his cheeks had deepened.

Drunk.

Definitely drunk.

His attention had drifted back to you, not the cat this time.

Actually you.

His gaze lingered for a moment before softening. "I really miss you." The teasing disappeared so naturally you almost missed it.

You smiled. "I miss you too."

"No, like..." He rubbed one hand over his face before laughing quietly at himself. "I really miss you."

You watched him shift higher against the pillows, adjusting his phone. The hotel room lighting cast everything in a warm amber glow. His shirt collar hung loose. His eyes looked heavy now.

"I miss being home." His voice had dropped lower. Softer. "I miss the couch."

"You miss your couch?"

"I miss my couch with you on it." You rolled your eyes affectionately, watching him gaze at his phone screen like he was staring into your soul.

For a moment, you simply looked at him. Really looked at him. Past the flushed cheeks and the alcohol-softened smile. Past the messy hair falling into his eyes and the ridiculous complaints about the cat stealing his spot. There was something different about him tonight. Lighter. Happier. The kind of happiness that settled deep beneath the skin and made someone glow from the inside out.

Your smile softened.

"You know..." You adjusted the blanket slightly beneath the sleeping cat, watching his attention immediately return to you. "You're doing such a good job."

Jeongguk blinked, the reaction was instant. Almost shy. "What?"

"You are." Your voice came quieter now, sincere enough that he stopped smiling for a second just to listen. "I've been watching everything."

His eyes visibly brightened. "You have?"

"Of course I have."

A small laugh escaped him. You continued before he could interrupt.

"I can tell how happy you are up there." Your gaze drifted over his face. "And I know you've missed this."

The words landed exactly where you intended them to, you watched it happen. The way his expression softened. The way his shoulders relaxed. The way something almost boyish appeared behind his eyes.

His grin slowly spread across his face. "You think so?" The question came out embarrassingly hopeful, like a little kid asking whether you'd liked the drawing they worked on all afternoon.

Your chest immediately melted. "I know so."

His eyes practically sparkled, a quiet giggle escaped him before he ducked his head for a second, suddenly unable to hide how pleased he looked.

Jeongguk rubbed the back of his neck, that shy, boyish expression lingering as he shifted against the pillows. “You really watched the videos?” he asked softly, his voice dropping with a vulnerable edge that made your heart twist. There was no bravado in it, just pure, hopeful curiosity from a man who poured every ounce of himself into his performances.

You nodded, smiling gently while adjusting the blanket over the sleeping cat. “Of course I did, Gguk. Every single one I could find. You were incredible out there."

His cheeks flushed deeper, but not just from the alcohol this time. He looked down for a moment, biting his lip as a soft, pleased laugh slipped out. The compliment seemed to melt him completely, turning your confident idol boyfriend into someone sweetly bashful.

Jeongguk rubbed at his cheek with the back of his hand, glancing back up at the screen with that shy little smile still playing on his lips. “You always know what to say to me,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, the kind of tone he only used when the rest of the world felt far away. He shifted on the hotel bed, propping the phone against a pillow so he could see both you and the cat better. “Look at her… she’s so peaceful on your chest. My two favorite girls.”

You glanced down at the sleeping cat, its tiny body rising and falling steadily against the oversized hoodie. “She’s been glued to me all night. I think she misses you too, even if she won’t admit it.” A soft chuckle escaped you as you gently stroked her back. “She keeps taking your spot, though. Like she knows you’re not here to claim it.”

He let out a quiet, fond groan, eyes softening even more as he watched the two of you. “I miss that spot. I miss your boobs."

"Freak," you murmured before he laughed out loud.

The laugh that came out of him was immediate. Loud. Completely unashamed. His head tipped back against the headboard and for a second he looked exactly his age instead of the global superstar millions of people saw on stage every night. Just Jeongguk. Drunk. Sleepy. Missing home, missing you.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched you reach down to scratch beneath the cat's chin. The little traitor immediately pushed her face into your hand without even opening her eyes. The movement made something soften visibly in his expression.

For a few moments, neither of you said much. There wasn't really anything left to say. The conversation had already drifted through a dozen different subjects, from the concert to the cat to his very serious concerns regarding the theft of his designated spot on your chest. Now the call had settled into something quieter. More comfortable.

Jeongguk rested his cheek against the pillow behind him, looking at the screen with heavy eyes. The alcohol had finally started losing the fight against exhaustion. The excitement was still there—you could see it every time he smiled—but it sat lower now, softened around the edges by a long day and an even longer night.

"You should sleep," you murmured eventually, watching him struggle through a yawn he clearly hadn't intended to let you see.

Immediately, he shook his head. The denial would've been more convincing if his eyes hadn't watered from the effort.

"You're literally falling asleep."

"'M not. I'm talking to you."

"You can talk to me tomorrow."

Jeongguk frowned at the suggestion, his gaze drifting back toward the cat before returning to your face. The expression lasted only a second before something small and fond replaced it. The kind of look that always appeared when he was tired enough to stop pretending he wasn't sentimental.

For a while, neither of you said anything. There was no need to. The television continued playing quietly somewhere behind you, the rain tapping steadily against the windows while the cat slept through the entire conversation without moving so much as a whisker. On the screen, Jeongguk simply watched. Not in the distracted way people usually watched each other during calls, multitasking and half-listening, but with a sort of quiet attentiveness that always surfaced when he was away for too long. His eyes drifted from your face to the cat, then toward the familiar living room behind you before eventually returning to you again, as if he was mentally cataloguing every detail he was missing.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. Not enough to be called a grin. Just enough to soften his features. The alcohol had taken the sharp edges off him hours ago, leaving behind something gentler. Something boyish. He looked comfortable for the first time all evening, settled into the hotel pillows with his hair falling into his eyes and his cheeks still pink from too many celebratory drinks. It struck you suddenly that this was probably the calmest moment he'd had all day.

Your gaze lingered on him for a second longer. The warm lighting of the hotel room. The rumpled sheets. The exhaustion settling deeper into his features every minute. Thousands of miles away and somehow still occupying the entire couch with his presence alone.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, his eyes began to close.

You bit back a smile.

There was something oddly comforting about seeing him like this. Not performing. Not rehearsing. Not running between schedules. Just tired, happy and safe. The version of Jeongguk that only really existed behind closed doors, when there was nobody around expecting anything from him.

Eventually his gaze found you again, heavy-lidded and warm, and for a moment he simply looked content. The kind of contentment that came from ending a good day and finding home waiting on the other side of a phone screen. Outside, the rain continued falling. Inside, the cat slept peacefully against your chest. And somewhere between the quiet apartment in Seoul and a hotel room halfway across the world, the distance didn't feel quite so large anymore.

author's note — he just texted me saying he missed me guys #trust this is canon.

"The longest." You fall into his embrace, letting him wrap you up in his big arms, resting your head on his chest and sighing deep when you hear the steady rhythm of his heart.

Jack rests his cheek against the top of your head and tightens his arms around you, holding you close. You let out a long-held breath in response when he says, "You hungry?"

"Starving," you answer. He loosens his hold only to lace his hand through yours and tug you forward, up the steps and over the threshold.

He sets your bag down near the sofa and you drape yourself over the back of it, face pressed into the cushions, letting out a groan of frustration.

Jack laughs at your theatrics and smooths a soothing hand over your spine. "Hey," he says, voice soft and comforting. "You're home now, yeah? I've got you. Why don't you go on an' get comfy. Shower if you wanna. An' I'll make you something to eat. How's that sound?"

If his words weren't enough, Jack lifts one of your legs carefully into his hands and pulls off your sneaker. He then follows suit to the next, freeing both of your aching feet, and you get this tickle of adoration in your chest.

He always seems to know just what to do. It's one of the things that drew you to him in the first place. Jack's older and wiser and he seems to like taking care of you even more than you like being taken care of.

Your words are muffled in the fabric of the couch as you say, "I don't deserve you."

Jack just laughs and shakes his head. "Nah. You deserve the world an' I'd give it to you if I could."

He lands a stinging, playful smack to your ass and you squeal and flinch in response.

"Now go on," he says, wrapping a hand around your elbow to pull you back up. "You'll feel better when you get outta these clothes."

You nod and press a kiss to his shoulder before wordlessly obeying. Jack has two drawers cleaned out for you in his bedroom, filled with your favorite pajamas and a few outfits you use on the nights you stay over. Which, lately, has been way more often than not.

But you bypass his dresser entirely, opting instead for one of his old t-shirts in the back of his closet and a clean pair of underwear. They're not a pair you'd bought for yourself, but they're soft and pink and you tell yourself you'll scold him later for buying you things you don't need.

You take your time in the shower. Scrubbing your scalp with your bottle of shampoo that lives in the corner of Jack's tub and massaging the suds from his bar soap into the tight muscles of your arms. The water is hot and falls on your skin like a warm rain, effectively cleansing you of the stress that's clung to you all day.

When you're finished, you lather your skin in your favorite scented lotion and brush the tangles from your hair. And when you finally leave the bathroom, you find Jack plating up pasta in the kitchen.

The air smells like fresh garlic and that tomato-based sauce he hand-makes himself. Your mouth starts to water before he turns around to say, "Sit. Put something on the TV. I'll bring it to you."

It makes your chest pull tight, because you know how much he hates eating in the living room instead of at the table, and you know he prefers dinner with the television off to make room for conversation instead. You'd called him an old man for it, but will fully admit that you enjoy the slow quietness of a meal together.

But he doesn't ask for it tonight, because despite what you know he wants, he does what you need instead.

You don't have to ask for anything with Jack. It's like he always just knows.

There's a YouTube video you've been meaning to get to, so you put that on and settle into the corner of the couch with your legs crossed beneath you. You already feel better, but the moment Jack hands you your pasta and a full wine glass, you could cry from relief.

"It's, uh—that Chianti you were looking at," he says.

"The one from the winery?"

Jack nods as you take both from his hands. He disappears from your sight only long enough to grab his food and a bottle of icy cold water before returning to your side.

He sits beside you, and watches as you take a slow and careful sip of the red wine in your glass. It tastes like sour cherry and plum, sweet and aromatic and somehow everything you'd hoped for and more. A low, satisfied hum leaves your mouth without noticing, and Jack chuckles at the sound.

"Y'like it?"

"It's so good," you answer. "Thank you."

He smiles wide and nods towards your food. "Eat. An' tell me why it was such a bad day."

You start from the very beginning, explaining how you'd set your alarm for the wrong time and showed up to your college campus thirty minutes after your first lecture began. And then you tell him about the pop quiz in your organic chemistry class. "And you know how much I hate Mr. Clark," you add. "He's the actual worst. I'm barely scraping by in that class no matter how much extra credit I do. I swear the man has it out for me."

You then tell him about your shift at the grocery store and how a lady had gotten so upset over an expired coupon that she'd complained to your manager about you and abandoned her entire cart. "And of course Mary had me take care of it, which took almost an hour. And I was nothing but nice to the lady, too. Even after she screamed at me, I still told her that I hoped she had a wonderful day. But really, in the back of my head, I was hoping she stepped in someone's gum on the way out."

That makes Jack laugh. He sits there and listens to you vent about the entire day. He doesn't interrupt or lose interest and he asks questions about your coworkers and if you're enjoying the finance elective you'd just picked up a few weeks ago.

By the time your YouTube video is over, the both of you have finished your food and set the dishes on the coffee table.

Jack spreads his arms open and you crawl into them like it's second nature. Wrapped up in his arms, head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart behind his sternum.

He's warm. He always is. It's one of the things you think you love the most about him—even if you haven't exactly said the word aloud yet.

You're not quite sure what you believe in these days, but you find yourself sending a silent prayer of thanks to whatever or whoever might be listening.

Because you think it's rare to find a man like Jack, who's comforting and kind and warm, who makes you feel valued and loved and cared for in a way you've never experienced before.

He's said to you once that he wishes you'd met earlier. Wishes that he could've known you when he was your age, so that the two of you might have more time together.

But you often find yourself thinking the opposite, grateful for the entire life he'd experienced without you. Grateful that when you did finally find each other, he was exactly the kind of man you needed.

Wise and gentle. The safety net you've been blindly reaching for since you were young. And here he was, waiting for you with open arms and pasta cooking on the stove.

You think you should say it now. Tell him you love him, because you do. And you think you have for a lot longer than you've known. Longer than the time it took to put a name to the feeling.

But this was supposed to be casual.

He'd been honest with you from the very first date that he wasn't interested in a serious relationship. He had just been looking for someone to pass the time with.

He'd experienced the love of his life already and had tragically lost her. It wasn't meant to happen for him a second time, he'd insisted.

Jack had been adamant about it in the beginning. He'd even given your relationship its own set of rules; no staying overnight, no meeting the family or friends, no work-place visits, no social media posting or labels or feelings.

But by the third time he'd had you naked in his bed, it was Jack who'd asked you to stay over.

And it was him who'd asked you to stop by PTMC late one night just so he could set his eyes on you and kiss you one good time out in the ambulance bay.

It was Jack who'd eventually introduced you to Dana and Trinity and Parker.

And when you passed your exams last semester, Jack insisted on taking you out to celebrate. He chose some fancy restaurant and the two of you had gotten all dressed up. He'd worn a suit and you'd worn a new dress he bought for you.

You'd asked to take a photo together and he'd been delighted to do so. You pressed a kiss to his cheek and he'd smiled wide while the shutter clicked.

Afterwards, you texted him the photo. You both looked so happy in it, because you were.

And the following day when you posted on social media, his name popped up in your likes and you'd discovered he'd changed his profile photo to the one you'd taken the night before.

And, now? You had shampoo in his shower and drawers of your own in his dresser and a favorite cereal spoon. Your apartment served as a storage unit more than an actual home because you always slept better in his bed.

Every single rule had been broken, and not by your hand.

But this rule, well…

Jack shifts beneath you, his fingers stroking your hair back and moving to find your chin. He turns your face towards his, looking down his nose at you in that assessing way he always does. "What're you thinking about?"

You shake your head, unable to hide the smile that tugs at your mouth. "Nothing," you say. "Just that I'm…happy. Here, with you."

Jack blinks, running his knuckles down the column of your throat. "Yeah?"

You nod and touch your temple to his. "Yeah, I am. You always do that, you know."

He chuckles and smiles and you think he definitely knows exactly what you mean, but he still asks, "Do what?"

"Make a bad day a good one," you answer. "It's like magic or something."

"Magic, huh?" Jack grins. His hands find your shoulders then, thumbs pressing gently against the tender muscles in the back of your neck.

Your head falls forward, giving him more access, and he nudges you to turn so you're facing away from him, sitting right between his spread thighs while he leans against the back of the couch.

"I wouldn't call it magic," he says. "I just…I know my girl. I like to pay attention to you so on days like today, I know exactly what you need."

My girl.

The name makes your brain feel all fuzzy. It always does.

His fingers massage the tension from your shoulder blades, working the stress out of your body in a physical way.

The words almost slip from your mouth unbidden.

You love him. God, you do.

But is it worth the risk just to say it? To possibly push him away, to lean too close and force his distance?

Jack loved his wife. And you know he has no intentions of loving another. But would it really be so bad if you love him?

You tell yourself it wouldn't matter if he returned the sentiment, that you could never ask it of him. Especially not when he's been so clear about his boundaries regarding that particular word.

But you know yourself. And you know, too, that you're only setting yourself up for heartbreak.

He works his way down your spine slowly. And if it's not Jack that's magic, you think his hands certainly must be. He touches a particularly sore spot at the small of your back and he spends extra time there. His thumbs dig into the muscle tissue until the pain subsides and all that's left is an aching pleasure.

When he's satisfied, Jack pulls you back until your spine is pressed flush against his chest. You melt into him, eyes fluttering closed when he lays his cheek against the top of your head.

His hands work themselves down your arms, massaging your biceps and your forearms and taking extra care with the joints in your hand.

"Is this a physical, Doctor Abbot?"

The sound of his laughter reverberates through his chest and you can feel it in the curve of your spine. "Just relax and let me make you feel good, would you?" His voice holds that teasing edge you love, and you can't hold back your grin.

But you do as he bids without further explanation, letting his hands work their magic. Your head falls back against his shoulder when he reaches for your calves next.

Jack massages them one at a time, thumbs pressing hard, calloused hands leaving behind a warmth only he can ever elicit.

He moves higher next, squeezing the pillowy flesh of your thighs, starting at the top of your knee.

Your whole body starts to feel like liquid, held together in the shape of a girl by his arms alone. When he gets to the inside of your thighs, you squirm just a little from the sensation, brain short circuiting, sending signals of desire despite the fact that he's done nothing to make you believe his intent is anything but pure.

But then his hand slips beneath your oversized t-shirt, and suddenly your breath becomes shallow.

If he notices, Jack doesn't say anything. Just keeps on his tension-relieving pursuit, massaging your hips next.

His thumbs trace the shape of each one of your ribs, and you swear you can feel the love in his hands.

Maybe he doesn't say it. But he takes care of you after a long day and buys you the Chianti you mentioned only once that you wanted to try. He holds your face when he kisses you and unlaces your sneakers when you get home and makes you dinner despite having worked a ten hour shift the night before.

He picks up your favorite shampoo when he goes that way in town and throws your laundry in with his. He encourages you and has faith in your dreams even on the days you yourself don't.

So, yeah. Maybe he doesn't say it.

But the love is there anyway.

His hands drift even further up your chest, massaging the space just below your breasts. His voice is low and tickles the shell of your ear as he asks, "Can I take your shirt off, sweetheart?"

You nod without hesitation, leaning forward only long enough for Jack to take the fabric by the seam and tug it up over your head.

He lays it on the back of the couch, and you feel suddenly cold. Goosebumps prickle your arms and across your belly, but the cool sensation only lasts for a moment.

Because when Jack puts his hands back on you, your blood heats beneath your skin. His fingers find your breasts, massaging almost clinically. But you can feel him harden in his black sweatpants, his bulge steadily growing as it rests against the small of your back.

Jack doesn't pay it any mind, though. He palms your breasts, massaging the swell of them, fingertips ghosting over the hardened peaks of your nipples.

Arousal pools low in your belly, and you can feel the heat gathering between your legs even though he hasn't touched you there yet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers.

It slips your mind that he can see everything from where he sits behind you. Embarrassment threatens, but you push the thought far away. Because he's already seen all of you, and he makes you feel beautiful beneath his reverent touch.

Jack lifts his fingers to your mouth. "Let me in, baby," he says softly.

And you do. Lips parting, tongue immediately finding the pad of his middle finger as he pushes it behind your teeth. You can feel his cock twitch as you swirl your tongue around the digit, drool gathering at the corner of your mouth.

Once he's satisfied, he withdraws his finger and spreads your spit over one of your nipples. The wetness allows for freer movement, but Jack doesn't pick up the pace. He moves leisurely, unhurried, taking far too long to touch you the way you want to be touched.

He moves to your other nipple, spreading your saliva, leaving your pebbled skin all glossy. He circles it slowly, fingers flicking over the peak, his breath hot against the back of your neck.

Your need for him grows teeth, the pinpricks of desire becoming sharper with each moment that passes. By the time his name leaves your mouth, the cotton center of your underwear feels wet and sticky. "Jack."

"Shh," he soothes. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."

You think about begging for more. Crying, maybe. It certainly begins to feel like you could.

But then, blissfully, his hands begin to move again. Sliding down your abdomen, over your curves, settling at the elastic band around your waist. You think—hope, that he'll slide his hands beneath the fabric, but he doesn't.

Jack instead runs his hand down your center over your underwear. But the pressure of it and the warmth of his palm pulls a quiet whimper from your mouth anyway. Your hips twist and lift, chasing the friction.

You can feel his smug smile against your ear. "Greedy girl," he teases. "This not enough for you?"

"God, no. Please Jack I want…" Your face heats.

"What do you want? Tell me. Use your words."

"More," you answer, hips bucking up against the palm of his hand. Your clit throbs with need, desperate to be touched.

Jack doesn't make you suffer. "I know you do," he says. "I'm only messing with you, baby. C'mon. Let's take these off, hm?"

You can't move fast enough, lifting your hips while Jack hooks his thumbs into the elastic and tugs it down your legs. He discards them at the other end of the couch and takes hold of your thighs in a firm grip. He spreads you wide, settling your legs on the outside of his own, exposing you completely.

He pulls you back to his chest and presses a chaste kiss into your hair. "M'gonna need you to relax for me," he tells you. "Getting all worked up like I won't take care of you or somethin'."

"I know you will, I—I just—"

"You want it bad, I know," he answers. "An' I'm gonna give it to you, but you gotta trust me. Yeah? Close your eyes, sweetheart."

You do as he says, eyes fluttering closed, lashes resting against your cheeks. You inhale a long breath, willing yourself to sink back into that floaty feeling he'd put you in only moments ago. When you exhale, your mind goes blank, and your limbs start to grow heavy.

"Yeah, there you go," Jack encourages. His hands stroke gently up and down your thighs, leaving a buzzing feeling behind. He traces the same pattern over and over, and it soothes you so much that you think you might even fall asleep, just like this.

But then his hand finds your center, and every nerve ending flares on edge. With his fingers pressed together, he flattens them over your core, spreading the obscene amount of wetness that's gathered there.

Your clit catches on the heel of his palm and you moan. Jack does it again, leaving no part of you untouched. The thick swells of his knuckles press down harder than the rest of his fingers, and each time he passes over your cunt with a tender hand the pleasure ratchets higher and higher.

He moves so slow. God. It's aching and delicious and intentional. His fingers stroke up and down again and again, unhurried as if he's simply enjoying the show and has no intention of anything else.

"How's that feel?"

"So good," you whine, hips canting upwards, chasing the friction of his palm that's now smothered in your arousal. "Can you…want you inside, Jack. Please."

You can feel his answering smile against the crook of your neck. "Yeah, I think I can do that for you. I mean, since you asked so nicely."

Jack strokes your pussy again, but this time on the down motion he slips his middle finger inside your opening. Just one, God—just one, but it's enough to have you writhing. Enough that your breath gets caught in your lungs.

His palm remains flat against your cunt, repeating the same stroking motion. But it's different now, the tendons in his forearm flexing as he pulls his hand upwards. His middle finger pushes against that sweet spot inside you hard, and you gasp in response.

It somehow feels like too much and not enough all at once. "Oh my God."

"I know, I know. You're okay. I've got you."

His voice is like liquid velvet in your ear. Raspy enough to know the sight of you unraveling in his hands—because of his hands—is affecting him, but warm enough to know that he's not worried about the hardness of his cock.

He's only worried about making you feel good.

Jack finds a steady pace. Slow and torturous in the best way, your desire burns hot like embers in your belly. He strokes you with expert precision, and you think this will be enough. It'll be just enough to get you there, to have you stumbling over the edge of release.

But then Jack adds a second finger, and what once felt like embers now feels like a wildfire. "Oh, fuck. That's so—"

"You like that?"

"Oh, God, yes. Yes." The added pressure inside you is nothing short of heavenly. He keeps up his rhythm, clit pulsing beneath his slick palm with each brush of his hand.

When he curls his fingers, narrowing in on the most delicious place inside you, your vision goes all blurry. You squeeze your eyes closed and the heat between your legs intensifies.

"Can feel you squeezin'," Jack says. "Don't chase it. Won't feel as good if you chase it. Let me give this to you. Just let it happen, baby."

You whimper, the obscenities of his words heightening your pleasure. You give in despite the gnawing desire for release that feels tortuous now, instead letting yourself melt back into the intimacy of the moment he's created all for you.

It builds and builds and builds. His hand moves so fucking perfectly, like he knows your body better than his own. He lays wet, open mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, hand moving steadily between your legs.

"Look at me," he orders, nudging the side of your cheek with his nose. When you do, Jack presses his forehead to yours and kisses you deep. His tongue is soft, licking into your mouth, greedily swallowing the desperate moans that spill from your swollen lips.

When he pulls away, he's breathing just as hard as you are. With his eyes locked on yours, he says, "Cum for me, baby."

It's blinding. Your release tears through you without remorse, body trembling, vision blurring with the tears that spring to the corners of your eyes. His name falls from your mouth between a jumble of half-spoken curses, and then—

"I love you," you cry. "God, Jack. I love you. Fuck, fuck. Feels so—hmm."

You don't even notice that you've said it right away.

And Jack doesn't even flinch. He just fucks you through it, thrusting his fingers hard inside you, the pressure of his palm almost too much to bear on your sensitive clit.

The aftershocks of your orgasm have only barely begun to fizzle out before he turns you to face him, pulling you onto his lap.

He tugs his t-shirt off, tugging at the hem at the back of his neck. Jack surges forward to press a searing kiss against your lips, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You reach for the tie at his waist and he's quick to abide this time, tugging his sweatpants low on his hips, pushing them down until his cock springs free. It's heavy and swollen and leaking at the tip, and as much as you'd love to sink to your knees and lick the salty release, you need him inside of you more.

So you lean forward on your knees while you straddle his hips, and Jack helps to hold you up with his hands on the swell of your ass. You line him up at your achy entrance and sink down in one smooth motion.

You're so wet from your first release that he slides in with ease. His head falls back and his lips part as his cock spreads you open real wide.

"Shit," he hisses. "You feel so good, baby."

You anchor yourself with your arms wrapped around his neck and begin to roll your hips, feeling high on the way he groans beneath you.

It doesn't take long, in truth. You ride him with intent, chasing not your release but his, whimpering as the thickness of his cock splits you apart.

You can feel him throb against your hypersensitive walls and you know he's close when he surges forward and kisses you again.

His mouth is greedy and wanting and his hands slide up your back to pull you into an embrace, pulling you into his heart.

You can feel the organ thumping against your own sternum, steady and in sync. And you think to yourself, how could you not fall in love with him?

How could you ever sit here and let him touch you like this, take care of you like this, love you like this—and not feel…something?

Pressure builds behind your eyes, and Jack must sense the change in you. He cradles your face in his hands and says, "Right here, baby, stay right here with me."

You look up at him through bloodshot eyes and thread your fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. The confession almost slips out again, but you swallow it down and bury it deep.

If this is the last time you'll ever get him like this, you want to enjoy it, to commit every second to memory.

Jack's hands twitch against your spine. You roll your hips a little quicker now, taking him deep inside, and then his breath stutters and his cock pulses between your legs.

"Fuck, you're so perfect. I'm gonna cum, baby. Gonna fill you up," he grits out.

Release takes hold of him only a moment later. Jack's grip on your waist becomes bruising, his mouth parting on a low sound of bliss. He kisses you hard, and you think he must be doing this on purpose, right?

How can it feel like that and not be love?

His cock pulses, filling you with the stickiness of his orgasm, claiming you in a way only he ever has. You think it’s only fitting. Everything you are belongs to him, anyway—your womb, your mouth, your heart.

Everything.

You slow your hips only when his muscles go slack, hands loose against your skin now. Exhausted, you fall forward, burying your too-warm face in the crook of his neck, afraid to see the post-coital look on his face.

Jack strokes his fingertips up and down your spine, cheek resting against your head. His breath slows, and you both just sit there.

You think it's to enjoy the last few seconds you have together.

Tears press against the back of your eyelids.

Because you don't want to lose him or the safety net he casts out for you. You don't want to go back to your shitty apartment or your empty bed or your empty heart.

Because that's what it was before Jack, wasn't it? You'd never noticed it before, would never have said it aloud and would've denied it until you were blue in the face.

But that's what it was. Empty.

No real friends, no real prospects, no real warmth between you and your family. It's always just been you and your goals and a straight line from point A to point B.

Jack forces you to slow down. To appreciate small talk and a good meal together and a pit stop at a coffee shop you always wanted to try but drove past every day.

He taught you softness and grace. He taught you how to love, and you’re just supposed to pretend like you don’t?

"Hey," he says, voice tender. "Why're you crying, sweetheart?"

You think you should lie. Say it was just an in-the-moment lapse of judgment. That you'd had such a long day and it just slipped out by accident.

But it hadn't, and the words have been clanging around in your head for almost a month now.

So you lean back up to look at him. And you're sure your face is ruddy with tears and the fear of loss is reflected in your glassy eyes, but you know you need to say it.

You need to tell him.

"Jack, I…" The words get caught in your throat. As if a filter at the back of your mouth tugs them back into the darkest part of your soul. You try again. "I know we weren't supposed to…to do this. And I'm sorry if it ruins everything, but I…"

He waits patiently while you try to soothe yourself. Breathing in deep, exhaling even slower. Jack's thumbs stroke easy patterns into the spot just below the flare of your ribcage and his brow furrows in curiosity.

"I meant it," you finally choke out. "I…I love you. And it's okay if you don't say it back, you know? I could never ask it of you. You—you love your wife, and I understand. I really do, okay? So please don't feel obligated or guilty or…or anything like that. But I know how I feel and I have to be honest with you."

Jack nods, a small smile on his face. He reaches up with one hand and takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Pretty girl," he muses.

It hurts just to hear it, knowing it'll be the last time.

Your bottom lip trembles and when you squeeze your eyes closed, the tears spill down your cheeks unbidden. "Jack," you warn.

He shakes his head. "Hey, no. Look at me."

At first, you hesitate. But you do as he says, even if tears of embarrassment blur at the edges of your vision.

"I'm so proud of you for being brave, okay? It takes guts to do things you're afraid of. And you did such a good job."

His praise only makes that ache in your chest worsen, because you want to keep it. Want to hear it for the rest of your life, tethered to him so you don't feel the loss of warmth so deeply.

"And I know we made all these rules in the beginning but—baby, I've been in love with you for a very long time."

It feels like the world stops for just a single, record-scratch moment. "What?"

"Haven't you noticed? I've broken every single one of those rules and I did it because I love you."

You try to process it, but your brain feels muddy. "Oh—oh my god. Jack, what? Why didn't you say anything?"

He shrugs like it's some easy confession for him, while this whole time it's been eating at you like an awful secret. "This is your first time falling in love," he explains. "I wanted to move at your pace."

And just like that, all your worries fade to nothing. The tension and stress from the day dissipates, your terrifying thoughts of losing him fade to nothing, and what you're left with is this overwhelming sense of relief.

You curl inwards, pressing your forehead to his chest. "Oh my god."

Jack laughs, and the sound is so full of delight and worship you think to yourself, how could I not have known?

"I love you," he whispers, kissing the top of your head. "I love you." Another kiss, to your shoulder this time. "I love you." Your temple.

His cock twitches inside you, and you can't hold back your blithe giggling. "C'mon, old man," you tell him, carefully shifting off of his lap. "Let's get you to bed."

"Old." Jack snorts, laying a playful smack against your ass when you stand onto shaky legs. "Right. Could run circles around you, little girl."

The two of you make your way to his bedroom, and you climb beneath the sheets while he sits at the edge of the mattress to take off his prosthetic.

"I'm on call tonight," he tells you. "So if you wake up and I've disappeared, that's why."

You nod, and Jack slips into bed beside you. He lifts his arm and you slither right up to his side and rest your head on his bare chest. "I have to be at work by seven, so I might not see you before I leave."

He lets out a long breath. "Do you, uh…you like it there? You know—being a cashier?"

The question makes you laugh. "God no," you say. "I hate that place. The people are rude and half the time the work feels so degrading. And you know how I feel about my boss."

Jack's lips quirk up into a smile. "Ugh. Mary," he teases.

You shake your head and close your eyes, weariness beginning to take hold. "Precisely. But it's temporary, so. You know, I'll survive."

He doesn't speak again for some time. So long in fact, you think he might've fallen asleep. But then Jack says, his tone flat and serious, "You should quit."

"God, I wish."

"I mean it."

"If only my student loans would pay themselves. And I've got apartment fees, too. Not exactly light spending since they upped the electricity bill."

"How would you feel about…I dunno. Staying here?"

You lift your head at that. "What, you mean like move in?"

Jack nods. "Yeah, I mean…you could get outta there. Take your time finding a job you actually wanna keep, not just one that pays the bills. And you can focus on school in the meantime." He pokes you in the ribs. "Fill up that pretty head of yours with all that knowledge."

The offer makes your heart race. "Jack, are you…are you sure? What about my loans? And food and textbooks and—?"

"I'll pay for all of it," he says easily. "Just let me take care of you."

It feels almost too good to be true, like you're asking for too much.

But you're not asking, he's offering.

You silently admit to yourself that it would be nice, though. Knowing he waits for you at home with those magic hands and all those sweet words. Knowing that even on your worst days, he'll take you as you are and love you just a little harder.

Still, it's a big decision to make.

Jack says quietly, almost a little bashful, "You don't have to decide right now or anything, I just love coming home after a shitty shift to see you drooling on my pillow."

"I do not drool."

"How would you know? You're sleeping."

You laugh easily and roll your eyes, settling on a temporary answer. "I'll think about it."

And you promise yourself you will.

But the following day, Mary manages to make a snarky comment about the way you styled your hair before you've even clocked in. And you, of course, respond in kind with your two week notice.

Jack comes to your apartment that weekend to help you pack your things. He's going through your cluttered closet, and stashed in the back he finds a loose stack of old photos.

Some of them include your cousins or your grandma or your childhood best friend. But one of them is a small photo of you, no older than ten years old, dressed up in a surgeon Halloween costume that's a size too big for you.

Jack smiles to himself when he sees it and, for the first time in his life, wonders about fate.

He leans over to poke his head around the corner of the closet door. "Hey."

You look up from where you sit in the center of a pile of your belongings on the living room floor.

Jack holds up the photo. "Can I have this?"

"You actually want that?"

"Of course I do," Jack says, smoothing out the photo's frayed edges and reaching into his back pocket. His heart warms as he sticks it in his wallet, where it'll remain for years to come. "It's my girl."