#...after i sleep though... unless i can't sleep..

You tried to play it off.

"My car is in the shop."

"I owed him coffee."

"My place is on the way and we have the same shift."

You couldn't lie for shit and everyone made sure to remind you of that. But after a few months the novelty of you two hooking up had passed and nobody batted an eye at the way his hand always guided you towards his car at the end of your shift. But just because it was something everyone knew about didn't mean you had any idea what exactly you were doing.

You were sleeping in each others beds. Your belongings had made their way into his apartment. He even had a designated spot in your dresser.

There were no labels because it was supposed to be easy. You guys were just having fun but sometimes it's hard to have fun when your mind keeps asking questions. You couldn't exactly ask Jack what you were without rocking the boat so for months you went with the flow. You picked up when he called, you went out for drinks when he suggested, and you stayed the night when he told you to. You were agreeable.

The only thing wrong with being agreeable is that sometimes you can get walked all over. And when you entered central 8 only to see him shirtless with Samira next to him you figured that was exactly what was happening.

"What are you doing here?" Samira asked, smile on her face. "I thought you had off."

She was right. It was your first real day off in weeks and if you were called for any other reason you would have sent the call to voicemail. You were supposed to be taking it easy, kicking up your feet, maybe drinking a glass of wine. Instead, you were at your place of employment with hair covered by a baseball cap and random pieces of clothing tossed on.

"You're looking at the reason," you said motioning to Jack. "I got a call from Dana telling me he was in a shooting."

A pin could've dropped against the tiled floors and everyone would have heard it. Nobody ever confirmed that there was something going on between you two. Up until then it was all hearsay but you just made it clear as day that, regardless of what, there was something going on between you and Jack Abbot. And it whatever it was, was enough to make you speed over to the hospital in fear.

Samira was quick to step back after cleaning up his wound before offering you a more comforting look. She might have been on the day shift but she knew that, label or no label, you belonged to Jack. You just couldn't quite tell if he belonged to you.

"I'll leave you to it," she muttered before leaving and shutting the door behind her.

You continued to stare at him, secretly inspecting his body for any other injuries. Him being a SWAT medic wasn't new. He had been volunteering with them for months, hopping on to calls whenever necessary. You had asked him if he thought there was any risk involved but he shook his head, saying that bad things could happen anywhere. You just really didn't like the idea of bad things happening to him.

“Dana shouldn’t have called you."

You weren't sure what you expect him to say but it wasn't that. You figured maybe an 'im okay' would be the first thing out of his mouth but instead you got attitude.

You shoved your hands into your pockets to keep from getting worked up and talking with them. It was a habit you were trying to break but as your feelings began to bubble up you couldn't help but motion around in frustration. “I’m sorry. You get shot and I’m supposed to not bat an eye?"

He rolled his eyes and he lifted his shirt. “She shouldn’t have called you because—," he paused, his sentance lingering between you both.

“Because we’re not together," you said, filling in the gap. “Right, well next time the guy I’m fucking gets shot at I’ll keep that in mind.”

“That’s not what I said."

He was eerily calm and that only made you angrier. It was like he was throwing water on an oil fire.

"No but you meant it." You looked up for a moment, trying to push your frustrated tears back into your eyes. "I'll go get Samira and we can forget that I came down here in the middle of my nap on my day off for your ungrateful ass."

You didn't bother sticking around to hear him explain his actions or defend himself. You were sleep deprived, emotional, and short on forgiveness.

"Is he all right?" Dana asked as you stormed past the nurses station.

"Oh he's just dandy." You rolled your lips together as you chose your next words carefully. "Next time he turns into a patient please remind everyone that we are not dating and that I do not wish to be informed."

Your words carried and caught the attention of a few coworkers, mainly the interns and residents that were addicted to whatever gossip hit their ears. You couldn't even blame them. You served them up a delicious plate of drama that not only involved an attending but also a charge nurse.

You were a grown woman. You did casual hookups for years, none of which ever felt how your situation with Jack felt. You never felt like lines were blurred and if they ever became blurred you called it quits. With Jack, you simply just let every single line become invisible.

Oh you want me to stay over? Sure.

You want me to be your date to that fundraiser? Of course.

You want to take care of me when the flu knocks me on my ass? The keys under the mat.

All of that for him to throw it in your face that you two were nothing. You were someone who didn't deserve a call after he was injured. You were someone he didn't want around after he was hurt.

But Samira was. And the worst part about that was that she was incredibly likable. You couldn't find it in you to hate her even when every bone in your body told you to despise her for being someone he allowed to help him. You couldn't even really find it in you to be mad at him. That was a lie. You were furious at him, but you were more so just mad at yourself for allowing boundaries to be crossed and for letting yourself get taken advantage of.

And for hooking up with your coworker.

How could you have been so dumb. That was rule number one. Don't fuck your boss. And what did you do? You fucked your boss. Repeatedly.

You thought about how to approach your future shifts, but nothing was ideal. You just had to go in and do what you did best which was run the ER. That approach worked on your first day back since he was off, but when he returned it was awkward. You stayed out of his way and when you spoke, you kept your eyes anywhere but his.

Eventually he cracked. "We can't keep doing this."

"There's an incoming trauma that needs your attention Dr. Abbot," you said, holding the landline to your ear. "Male, teens, degloving after riding an ATV."

He clapped his hand down on the counter. "We're gonna talk about this."

"We're not dating and we're no longer hooking up, so were done," you said, finally ditching your previous approach of faking formality. "Jack there's nothing to talk about."

He shook his head. "Well we can't keep working like this."

"Agreed."

The night shift was your baby. You worked your way up to your position over ten years and you cherished it. But you cherished your sanity more and so you decided to switch to a few day shifts. It started as a refresh from the tension but then it became a way to avoid seeing Jack.

Days were different and your body struggled to make the adjustment but it was Jack who took the shift change the hardest. He was used to you. He knew how you organized rooms, how you oversaw residents and patient discharges. He was used to you.

It was bad enough that his pre-shift routine was sullied by the fact that he no longer rode to work with you beside him, but now he had a charge nurse who didn't speak his language or understand his neurosis.

"Dana we gotta get her back on nights," he begged as he stood at a high top table at the nearby bar. "They're going to shit without her."

She clicked her tongue. "Uh, uh, I don't get involved in domestic disputes."

"Dana."

"Whatever you said to her that day was enough to make little miss sunshine snap so I think you're the only person who can solve that problem."

"I didn't say anything," he argued. "She assumed what I was going to say."

Dana tipped her bottle towards him. "Well she's a smart girl, so I'm guessing she assumed right."

He wanted to argue but he couldn't because while he didn't say that you guys weren't together he did nothing to say you were. He could have tried and blamed it on heightened emotions or adrenaline but even if that made up for his actions in the moment, he didn't chase after you or call or text. He let you sit in sadness for far too long.

So even if you returned to the night shift things were never going to return to the way they were. You no longer looked at him the same way. You now looked at him the way that you looked at your exes.

"When are you coming back?" Parker asked you as you stood next to the lockers. "The shifts ass without you."

"The shift would be worse with me and Jack in a mexican standoff over our quasi-relationship."

"It's been a month. Can't you two kiss and make up?"

"I made a bad judgement call when I mixed my personal life with my professional life and this is the best solution for everyone."

"But its not." She reached her arm towards your locker and blocked your path. "We're swamped and we need you back steering the ship."

You sighed. "If I come back things aren't gonna be the same."

"The same for me or for Abbot?"

"I didn't leave my shift for him," you said while sliding past her. "I left it for me and if I return it'll be out of pity for all of you sad, sad attendings and residents who can't function without me."

When you returned to the night shift it was most certainly out of pity. You couldn't take the begging and you hated having to rationalize your actions to others when they always knew you were lying. They knew you left nights to avoid Jack even if you said it was because of your desire to stop being nocturnal.

"It's good to have you back," Shen smiled as he passed by you. "Wasn't the same without you."

"It's good to be back."

It wasn't a complete lie. You loved working nights. You were used to the midnight crazies and the way things got eerily quiet right before a trauma came in. Most of all you were used to being in charge.

"You're here."

You didn't need to turn away from the board to know who was behind you. "In the flesh."

You kept every interaction short. No more than a sentence was spoken at a time and if you caught yourself wanting to tell him more you just shoved your face down into your work.

"It was good having you back. We missed you," he said as you packed up your stuff for the day. With Dana already at the desk you were ready to leave. You just had to have one last awkward conversation.

"So I heard," you joked as you tossed your bag over your shoulder and started to make your way towards the doors to the ambulance bay.

"I know this isn't the time, but this isn't right. This isn't how we work."

You turned around, finally coming face to face with him once you were both outside and away from prying eyes. "Jack, I got a little too comfortable playing house and I forgot that you were my coworker and I can't do that again, so actually this is right."

He shook his head. "No, you didn't do anything wrong."

"If I'm not mistaken you made it clear that I was wrong when I showed up to check on you that day."

"I wasn't upset that you were there to check on me. I was upset that I was being looked at like a patient."

He took a step closer to you and it took everything in you to not take a step back.

"The last time someone walked into my room after I was injured it was my wife and I was down a leg," he admitted. "Seeing you storm in like that was a blast from the past and it had nothing to do with you."

You had known Jack for nearly three years. When you first started working you took notice of the ring but then a year past and it disappeared from his hand. You never questioned it or pried into his life but you knew his past and you knew it well enough to feel like you received a kick to the gut when you finally processed what he was saying.

"And Samira being there was okay?" you asked as you tried to deflect from the embarrassment of being wrong.

"Yeah," he said, "because I don't love Samira."

"You can't say stuff like that."

"Why not?"

"Because we're not together," you said, fumbling with your words. You were fresh off a long shift and your mind was running a million miles a minute.

Jack's hands reached fo your waist, urging you to come closer.

"We were just having some casual fling," you added as you tried to wrap your head around what was happening.

His laughter caught you off guard but his smile made your feet feel like bricks, keeping you in place. Of course he had loved you. He knew you more than anyone else. He knew that you needed the AC blasting in the car and how you couldn't stand horror movies. He knew you took your coffee in whatever form it came in and he knew you well enough to know that you weren't gonna believe his words the first time around.

There are very few things out there that Jake can't figure out. The universe runs on rules, after all, and he'd spent his whole life studying them. From theoretical mathematics to quantum physics, there was never a problem he couldn't solve, never an equation that failed to make sense.

So, it kind of throws him off completely when you—all pretty, soft-looking, and sweet-smelling—plant yourself right next to him on the first day of his thermodynamics lecture. One, because how has he never seen you before? Two, because girls like you don't talk to him. Or smile at him. Or ask for his name while leaning in that close like you actually care to know it.

He tries to look straight ahead, holding his breath, hanging onto every word that leaves the professor's mouth as if he doesn't have the entire textbook memorized already. All that, just to distract himself from you. It doesn't work, though, the messy chalk writing blurring in his vision as his mind drifts.

Sure, it's a bit strange that you sat next to him when other seats were clearly open... but you probably only sat there because it's the spot with the clearest view of the board, right? That's why he chose it, anyway.

Then, you're tapping his shoulder, two fingers pressing into the fabric of his hoodie ever so lightly. He nearly jumps out of his skin as his eyes snap to you, seeing you lean in close enough to make his heart skip a beat.

"Hey," your voice is just above a whisper, and with the quirk of your brow, you ask him, "Do you understand, like, anything he's saying right now?"

Of course, he understands. He knows this subject like the back of his hand. He could probably explain it in his sleep. And yet when he tries to speak... nothing.

His mouth hangs open for half a second, eyes fleeting from you, back to the board, back to you again, then down—eyes up, Jake—then up. He blinks, and finally he manages something.

"Yeah, uh—it's just the second law stuff. Entropy increasing over time," he drags a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the mop of messy brown strands that refused to stay put.

Now he wishes he'd spent more than thirty seconds getting ready this morning instead of rolling out of bed in his old high school mathletes hoodie.

"It's basically like... systems move toward disorder unless you put energy into keeping them organized, so—"

You laugh, a small teasing smile on your lips.

"You sure know your stuff, huh?"

"I just looked over the textbook during the winter break," he replies, a little less distressed this time. "Tried to get a head start. Don't wanna fall behind or anything."

Slowly, he feels less guarded, seeing how you don't scoff at him or roll your eyes or do any of the things he'd expect you to. Instead, you watch him—and not the passive kind that some people do when they're bored and have nothing else to do, but like, you're really watching like you're kind of, maybe, possibly... impressed? That's new. The thought alone has a warmth blooming in his chest.

"You studied before the class even started?" Your smile grows wider, amused, but not mean.

She's not being mean.

He lets out a laugh, half-relieved, though still half-embarrassed at how you're realizing that he's checking every stereotype in the box.

"Yeah, I get it, I'm a nerd," he waves it off, looking away self-consciously, "or a loser, or whatever you wanna call—"

"You're adorable, actually," you cut him off. Your knee brushes his under the desk, lingering just a moment before you're tucking your legs back in. Still, he feels the ghost of your touch, his ears turning red. "Guess I'm pretty lucky that I sat down next to you, aren't I?"

The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall usually make everyone look cold and stale. But to him, you're something else entirely—a star collapsing inward, and he's already slipping into orbit. Even if he knew how to calculate the escape velocity, he isn’t sure that he wants to.

You don't make sense. Though he thinks even if he tried to pull you apart and figure you out, his logic would slip somewhere along the way. How could anyone be expected to form a cohesive thought when lost between the sound of your voice and your pretty eyes which follow him like he's the most interesting thing in the room?

You: heyy :) You: did you finish the thermo assignment yet?

It's late on a Sunday evening when you first message him, phone buzzing on his nightstand just when he's about to turn off his lamp and cozy up in the sheets of his twin-sized bed.

He stares at the notification for a good second, heart skipping a beat as he reaches for his glasses. He reads it a second time and pauses. He waits five minutes—long enough to seem like he's not desperate (but he is) yet short enough to show he's not ignoring you. At least, that's what Heeseung does when he texts girls, and he's at least moderately successful.

Jake: finished last week

I-T... W-A-S... E-A-S-Y...

He starts typing, deletes. Then retypes.

Jake: wasn't too bad Jake: you? You: wow ok smarty pants

He smiles, a blush creeping to his cheeks.

You: [sent an image] You: im struggling so bad You: worried i wont finish on time :(

He swallows hard when he opens the image.

A selfie, your zip-up hoodie slipping down one shoulder, your tank top strap exposed, your textbook open in front of you. Your pouty face is highlighted by the blue light of your laptop, the rest of your room dimly lit.

Respectfully, as if you were in the room watching over him, he feels the urge to avert his gaze away from your face, and the skin you're revealing, instead looking to the background.

In the dim light, he spots an array of polaroid pictures on your wall—you with other girls at what looks like a party, you laughing with people he doesn't recognize. You're cool. Socially competent, clearly. You have a life. Yet you're here, texting him on a weekend night, sending him pictures.

He then returns to you, the subject of the image, and whatever respect he had been mentally trying to maintain only seconds ago is suddenly lost on him. His eyes drag over every sliver of exposed skin, however slight, practically drooling as he follows where the shadow dips just above the neckline of your top.

You look pretty. Tired, a little frustrated, and very, very, painfully pretty. Like, his head is going to explode kind of pretty. And from scribbles in your notebook, you don't appear to be anywhere close to finished. His heart thumps in his chest, followed by an ache.

That assignment is due tonight. There's no way you could finish it all now, even if you rushed for it. Unless...

Jake: [sent Assignment_1.pdf] Jake: here Jake: just change the answers a bit :) You: omg youre actually the best!! You: idk what id do without you You: tysm jake <3

He literally has to resist the urge to kick his feet and giggle, grinning like the biggest idiot as your messages come through.

Jake: it’s nothing haha Jake: happy to help You: youre actually so smart it's kind of unfair You: wish i had you in all my classes lol You: literally my hero <3

He's blushing to himself, biting his lip, and he rolls over onto his back, head against the pillow. His fingers tremble over the screen for a second before scrolling up. He rereads the exchange. Reflects. Analyzes.

Those emojis mean something, right? You didn't have to add a heart, but you did. Then there's the way you smile at him and touch him in class—that has to mean something. Girls don't go around just touching anyone, especially not him, but you do. You sat next to him. You're nice to him. And you asked him for help. You chose him.

With a newfound confidence, he's typing out his next message and clicking 'send' before he can give himself the chance to second-guess it.

The worst she can say is "no," right?

Jake: i could help you study for your other classes? Jake: if you want sent 3 weeks ago Jake: or not haha Jake: no pressure sent 2 weeks ago Jake: sorry if that was weird... sent 1 week ago Jake: hey! Jake: noticed you haven't been to class for a while Jake: you ok?

Three weeks go by like that. Every time his phone buzzes, his hand is on it before he even realizes he's moved, only to find what he already knows: that it isn't you. It never is. He starts keeping it face up on his desk when he studies. Sleeps with it on his pillow some nights, just in case.

It's stupid. It's embarrassing. He knows it is.

Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. You probably get messages like that all the time—from guys like him who think a smile means more than what it is. You're probably used to it. Of course, you'd think he's a weirdo. Or a creep. Or both. Probably both.

"Seriously, Jake, just move on already," Sunghoon says, not even looking at him, thumbs mashing into the buttons of his controller. He then slumps back in defeat when Jay is crowned winner for the third Smash Bros game in a row, "Fuck!"

Jake shifts on the couch, controller untouched at his side, phone in his hand instead.

He lounges in the living room along with his other three roommates, two empty boxes of pizza on the floor because they insist they'll eventually buy a coffee table for their "living room". Though it's been almost a year since they signed the lease and the room was still empty save for the couch and TV.

"When did you get so dogshit at this game?" Heeseung snorts at Sunghoon as he aims to throw his pizza crust in the empty box. It narrowly misses, rolling onto the floor instead. He dusts the crumbs off his hands, then turns to Jake, "But yeah, man. He's right. Rejection hurts, but it happens."

"You would know all about rejection, wouldn't you?" Jay mutters, about to take a sip of his drink, before he ducks his head, dodging the empty can Heeseung tries to throw at his face.

"She didn't even reject me though," Jake tries, quieter this time, "She just disappeared—"

"Which means she doesn't want you," Sunghoon says all too quickly, almost impatient. He nudges Jay, lowering his voice, "Can you believe this guy has a 4.0 GPA and still can't understand women?"

Jay laughs under his breath, and the two start to snicker.

Jake swallows, scrolling up to stare at the selfie you shared with him all those weeks ago. He thinks back on your laugh. Your smile. The way you used to sit with him in class. He misses your face, your voice.... He misses you.

"Listen, man. You put yourself out there, and I'm proud of you. We all are, right?" Heeseung starts, and Sunghoon and Jay nod their heads along mindlessly, only half listening as they argue over what map to choose next. He then brings a hand to his back, patting it a couple of times, and Jake winces from the impact, "But she's definitely not texting you back. Like. Ever."

Jake takes one final look at his screen before sighing.

"Guess not."

He closes the phone, eyes turning back to the game on the TV, not quite ready to accept what he thinks is the truth: that you were just being friendly and he misinterpreted the whole thing and ruined something good, but he knows there's no point in dwelling on it any longer.

"Aw, come on. Look on the bright side," Heeseung continues, "At least you got a cute picture out of it. Can never go wrong with good fap material, right?"

Before Jake can scoff it off and pretend like he definitely hasn't thought about that, his phone pings. And just like that, all eyes stop to turn to him, and where his phone lies face up in his lap.

Jay and Heeseung scoot closer on the couch, and Sunghoon nearly trips over one of the pizza boxes, stumbling over himself just to glance over Jake's shoulder.

You: heyy You: sorry i didnt reply i was super busy :( You: have you started assignment 2 yet? read at 9:13pm

"Oh."

"Oh, my god."

"Oh, hell no," Sunghoon gapes, "This bitch is evil."

"She's using you for schoolwork," Jay scoffs, "That's even worse than the friendzone, holy shit."

"You've been calculator-zoned," Heeseung shakes his head, "Absolutely brutal."

Jake's thumb hovers over the keyboard. The room feels too small, the weight of his three roommates' judgmental gaze almost suffocating as they lean over him—the smell of someone who definitely forgot to wear deodorant also suffocating, but he's not about to play detective to figure out which one of them it is.

"What are you gonna say?" Sunghoon demands, jabbing a finger toward the screen. "Tell her to fuck off."

"No, don't do that," Jay interjects, "Just ignore her. Leave her on read for, like, a month. Make her feel what you felt."

"Jakey, my man. Don't give in," Heeseung shakes his head, "To her, you’re just a warm body with a brain and enough desperation to do her work for free."

But Jake isn't listening. He's looking at the three little dots that appear, then vanish, then appear again at the bottom of the chat window. You're typing, and the thought alone sends a jolt through him, a stupid, pathetic little flutter that overrides his rationality. He wants to know what you're going to say. He needs to know.

You: helloooo? :( You: [sent an image] read at 9:22pm

Jake opens the image, another selfie. Seems like you're really trying to impress him more this time, seeing how the angle reveals just a little bit more, your pen pressed to your lower lip, looking so kissable and soft and everything he yearns for. But he knows better. It's not enough to entice him.

It is enough to make him screenshot it, though.

"Bro, seriously?" Sunghoon deadpans, as if he isn't also staring.

"Just safekeeping," Jake mutters, avoiding his glare, "She's hot, okay?"

"Shit. I take back what I said. Become her human study guide, and lemme see more of that," Heeseung whistles, trying to take the phone, but Jake yanks it away from his grabby hands, "Come on, I'll do your dishes next week if you share."

"You don't even do your own dishes, dumbass," Jay shoots back, noticing how Jake's thumb hovers over the keyboard.

In an instant, he snatches the device from him, and the three boys groan, outstretched arms trying to reach for it back. He doesn't spare a single glance as he types back.

Jake: yeah i finished it. You: really? You: uhg i wish I had your brain You: i'm so lost :( Jake: oh. Jake: thats too bad. Jake: good luck.

He throws it back into Jake's lap.

"There," Jay declares, crossing his arms. "Dignity. Intact."

"Jay, you fucking idiot," Heeseung groans, "We could've secured way more pics."

"You can find tits online if you're so desperate to jerk off," Jay retorts, slumping back down into the couch, "We're not letting our friend get taken advantage of by some campus slut."

Jake looks at the phone. He knows, deep down, Jay is right. The tiny, rational part of his brain that isn't currently short-circuited by the ghost of your knee against his agrees.

Then, the three dots appear again. And vanish. Then appear again, staying for a long, long time. All of them watch at the edge of their seat.

You: wanna come over and help me? ;)

Jake's breath catches in his throat.

"Oh, she's good," Sunghoon whispers, a grudging respect in his tone. "She's really good."

"Yeah, but she can't get our Jakey," Jay adds, a smugness in his tone, "Sure, he looks a little desperate and pathetic, and like he’s never felt the touch of a woman, but little does she know that he's way too smart for—"

Jake's thumb moves quick.

Jake: sure

The room is dead silent for a moment.

"Dude," Heeseung stares at him, mouth slightly open. "I mean, like—not that I'm one to judge but what the fuck?"

"Don't look at me like that," Jake gulps, already grabbing his hoodie from the arm of the couch, "What do you expect me to do! Say no?"

"Man," Jay laughs dryly, shaking his head. "You have to be shitting me."

Sunghoon falls back against the couch cushions, hands over his face.

"She just wants help this time. Not answers," Jake continues to explain, slipping his arms through the hoodie sleeves. "It'll be different."

"Jake..." Heeseung stands, eyeing his friend. His hands move to his shoulders, staring him dead in the eyes, "You're gonna come back here at two in the morning, heartbroken and blue-balled, and eat the leftover pizza crusts off the floor."

"You don't know that—"

"Bro." Sunghoon glares. "Yes, we do. We all know it. Even the pizza boxes know it."

He should stop. He knows it. You've given him zero reasons to defend you like this, but maybe he's tired of being logical. Maybe, for once, he just wants to feel something.

"You don't know her," he says firmly, "We don't know her. I mean. What if she really was busy, you know?"

Heeseung sighs, long and winded. And though he's shaking his head, he helps zip up his hoodie, like a mother sending off her kid to school. He spares a glance back at Sunghoon and Jay, who seem to share the same look in their eyes: pitying, a little disappointed, but resigned to the inevitable.

He returns his gaze to Jake, a hand coming up to pat his head, ruffling his already messy hair.

"Just… try not to get eaten alive, okay?"

He finds your place easily enough—another student housing unit, like his, with a porch that creaks under his weight, and a railing that's falling apart. Somewhere down the block, someone's partying, the bass a little too loud, and yet it's still not enough to drown out the sound of his heart thumping against his chest as he knocks on your door. He wipes a sweaty palm on his jeans, mentally rehearsing what he'll say. Though his mind goes completely blank when the door swings open.

So yeah. That's how he finds himself in your room, the assignment questions open on his laptop, sitting at the very edge of the bed. Meanwhile, you move about, apologizing for the mess and explaining something about your roommates being gone while picking up piles of clothes from the floor and shoving them into the laundry hamper at the corner of your room.

He swallows hard when the bed dips next to him under your weight, and he finds himself sitting upright, stiffly, like the hammock of plushies in the corner is judging him, watching his every move.

Your legs are bare beside him, wearing shorts that barely cover anything, close enough that if he shifted even a few centimetres, his knee would brush your thigh. Your tank top has one of those necklines that dips when you lean forward, which you're doing right now, peering at his screen.

"So," you say, "Where do we start?"

The fairy lights catch the curve of your shoulder, and he notes how your skin looks warm. Soft. It probably feels that way, too, doesn't it?

It takes a moment to find his words.

"I'll walk you through it," he starts, clearing his throat, "It's not bad once you get it. I swear."

"Okay," you reply with an innocent smile.

He reaches for the notebook in your grasp.

"May I?"

"Mhm," your grip loosens, and he plucks it from your hands, along with the pen. The same pen he remembers being pressed to your lips in that one photo.

Focus, Jake.

"Alright, this part," he gestures to the equation on his screen, flipping for a clean page in your very disorganized, doodle-filled notebook. "It's the same thing from last time. You just—"

His mind goes blank as you angle yourself just a bit closer, squinting your eyes at the page, and he sucks in a breath when your knee presses against his. You don't move it.

"—You just rearrange it like this," he finishes, quickly scribbling it out step by step. "Then plug it back in. Makes sense?"

"Hm," a hum escapes your lips, sounding almost breathy and whiny as you ponder the page, making him think of things he definitely shouldn't, "...I think I get it."

"Try it," he smiles, handing the pen and notebook back.

A second passes, pen tapping your chin slightly as you stare. Then blink. Then furrow your brows together.

"Actually... I don't get it."

"Okay," he nods slowly, determination not yet shaken, "Well, look, it's the same thing, you just have to—"

"Can you show me one more time?" You look at him, wide-eyed. Confused. Helpless. Your tank top strap slips off your shoulder just a bit, and his eyes follow the movement as you reach to adjust it. "Please?"

As if he's on autopilot, he takes the notebook back from you, nodding wordlessly as he writes the question for you.

He tries the same thing with the next question. Writing up a nearly identical example and solution in clear, detailed steps, explaining as best he can. But he freezes when he feels your hand on him, looking over his shoulder.

"Sorry, I just see better this way," you say so casually, like it's nothing, like he isn't losing his goddamn mind. You're then pointing, "Why does that happen?"

"Oh... because of the negative sign. So when you move it over—"

"I'm so bad at this," you sigh, voice close to his ear, "I don't even know what I'm doing."

There’s a tug at his heart.

"You're not bad!" He says almost automatically, "Not at all. Don't say that. You just need more practice."

"You think?" You ask, your hand sliding down his shoulder, until your careful fingers reach the sleeve of his hoodie. Fiddling with it, absentmindedly, you continue, "You're really patient, you know that?"

"I... I mean, I—"

"Most people would've given up by now. But not you," you whisper, "You're good to me, aren't you?"

"I try my best," he stammers out in a nervous laugh, trying not to malfunction. He taps his pen against the notebook, "How about you try the next—"

"Jake," you sigh again, though it sounds more like a whimper in his ear as your chin rests against his shoulder, "Can we just... do this one together?"

He nods, enjoying the feeling of you pressed against him too much to bother passing the notebook back to you anymore.

It's faster this way anyway, right? That's what he tells himself as he does the rest of your assignment. He can always explain it after. You'll get it once it's done.

"Really, you're the best, Jake," you repeat for what must've been the fifth time that night as he clicks the 'submit' button.

For a while now, you've been lying back against your pillows, smiling at your phone while he works, occasionally moving to watch him or leave some kind of commentary, and his roommates' warnings began to echo in his mind. Especially as he's folding up his laptop, shoving it to the side, watching you from the corner of his eye. He can't see your screen, but your hands move like you're texting someone. That thought alone makes him want to crawl into a hole somewhere and die.

"It's nothing..." his voice comes out too quiet.

Your gaze shoots up, expression changing in seconds.

"Oh, but it's not nothing!" you reply, tucking your phone. "I seriously feel like such a jerk for ghosting you! I'm sorry. I'm just so bad at texting."

Before he can process it, you're sitting up, on your knees, scooting a bit closer. Too close.

"Really, it's—"

"And doing all of this for me... You work so hard."

Your hand lands on his shoulder, gentle but firm enough that he doesn't think to resist, and you pull him back. His head hits the mattress softer than he expected.

You come into view, sitting up now, face above his. He doesn't know where to look, your eyes, your lips... definitely not where your tank top hangs low, revealing way more than you probably realize. He opts to stare at the ceiling instead. Then your face. But your face is too pretty to stare at for too long without making him nervous, so he looks anywhere else.

"You must be tired, huh?"

He's not quite sure how to even process what's happening, so he mindlessly nods.

"Poor thing," you coo, and the way you say it, soft and almost sweet, makes his chest ache, a warmth blooming in it. "I'm really happy you showed up. Actually, I was kinda nervous to ask. Thought you might be busy. Or that you'd hate me."

There's another pause as you stare down—waiting, watching with your brows furrowed in worry, lips pulled into a pout.

"Do you hate me, Jake?"

"Hate you? No. No, no, no," He's shaking his head profusely, the words tumbling out too fast. "Life gets in the way sometimes. I get it."

He should have a harder time believing it, given that he's seen you posting on your social media everyday, videos and photos from parties he'd never be invited to in a million years.

Still, how could he ever hate you when you're letting him lie down on your bed like this, looking at him like that? The memories of hurt from weeks of radio silence practically melt away like it was never even there to begin with.

"You can ask me anytime. Always. I'm free whenever."

"Whenever?" You tilt your head, mildly amused.

He swallows, mentally scolding himself as you reach for the strings of his hoodie, toying with the ends of it absentmindedly.

Come on, Jake. At least pretend like you have a life.

"Well. Not always, whenever but, I'm not busy on weekends, unless..." unless I'm playing Smash Bros with my other loser roommates. Yeah, genius. That will really impress her. "Unless I'm... studying or something."

"Is that all you do? Study?"

"I, uh..." he thinks, "I go to the gym. Sometimes."

He looks at you, searching for a reaction.

"Mm." You hum, and he swears he's going to have a heart attack when he feels your hand slide up the sleeve of his arm, firmly grasping his bicep. You barely squeeze, just once, and your hand then quickly slips away. "I can tell."

What the hell.

He gapes.

What the actual hell.

"Your girlfriend must like that."

"Girlfriend?"

"You don't have a girl?" You raise a brow.

"No—I mean—no."

"Oh?" You tilt your head, curiously, "But you talk to girls, right?"

"I'm just... I study a lot so..."

"So I have you all to myself, then?" You smile, "That's good to know."

You hum, blinking at him. Suddenly, you're reaching for his hair. He literally has no idea what the fuck is happening or how it happened, but your fingers are now in his hair, raking through it slowly. And when he feels you gently scratch at his scalp, his eyes almost close, biting down on his lip just to stop himself from making god knows what kind of pathetic noise he would've.

This isn't normal. Girls don't just do this—not to just anyone... right? He has no idea. All he knows is that he's getting embarrassingly flustered, and increasingly worried that he's misinterpreting everything all over again. It all blurs together in a messy, dizzying spiral of infatuation and anxiety.

"Do you talk to guys?"

It sounded more casual in his head. Now, it sounds stupid coming out of his mouth.

"Why?" You tilt your head, grinning, and he gulps, "You trying to see if I have a boyfriend, or something?"

"No! Just you asked, so I thought I'd ask, too. So—"

"Kidding," you sing-song, a soft laugh escaping you, "I don't really take that stuff seriously, you know?"

Jake nods, like he understands what that means. He thinks it means you at least don't have a boyfriend, which is reassuring enough. For now.

Though he can't really think anything at all, actually, because suddenly, he's panicking over a much larger problem than the thought of you talking to other guys. Your fingers, still working at his scalp, slow and deliberate, start to build a familiar heat inside him, and not the innocent kind.

Stop. Think about something else. Thermodynamics. The quadratic formula. Jay’s morning breath. Literally anything—

You graze a particular spot just behind his ear, and his whole body betrays him. He feels it immediately—a rush of need, a tightening in his jeans that he cannot under any circumstances let you notice.

He sits up so fast his vision blurs, back snapping straight.

"You okay?" Your hand hovers in the air where his head used to be.

"Bathroom," he stammers, already scrambling off the bed, nearly tripping over himself, "Um. Where's the bathroom?"

You point him down the hall.

After a good few minutes of splashing his face with cold water and thinking the unsexiest thoughts he could think of, he's calmed down enough that it's unnoticeable.

But unfortunately, when he's out, you're already guiding him to the front door, talking about some eight a.m. lecture tomorrow.

He nods along, trying to focus on tying his sneakers instead of the way you're leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him.

He finishes the second knot after fumbling with it for longer than he should've and stands up, brushing off his jeans.

Alright, Jake, this is it.

"So, um, hey," he starts, hesitantly. "Would you want to hang out sometime? Not for school stuff. Maybe... like... go see a movie, or something?"

He watches you carefully. Holding his breath. Waiting for what feels like forever.

"Sounds fun!" You smile.

The words ring in his ears the whole walk home, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt, so stupidly infatuated and lovestruck by you that he barely registers the cold breeze that cuts through his sweater.

He wastes no time plopping down on his couch to tell his roommates about his new date plans, feeling on top of the world when their concerned expressions shift into grins—cheering him and patting him on the back before quickly devising his next move;

"Ask her what movie," Jay insists.

"What? No. That's way too passive," Sunghoon rolls his eyes, "Tell her what movie. Girls like it when guys are decisive."

"And make it a horror movie," Heeseung adds, nodding in agreement, "She'll get all scared and cling to you. Trust me, man."

"That's such a cliché."

"Cliché, but it works."

His roommates keep arguing—something about jump scares versus psychological thrillers, about whether first dates should even be movies at all, but Jake stops listening. He's staring at his phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Jake: does friday or saturday work?

He waits.

And waits.

And waits...

"I don't get it," Jake frowns, staring at the unread messages on his phone. The screen glows in the dim kitchen light, the last message he sent still hanging there, no reply.

"She said she wanted to hang out again," he continues, more to himself than anyone else. "She said, 'Sounds fun!' She even smiled when she said it."

His roommates are scattered around the kitchen like they normally are post-dinner, with Sunghoon and Jay fighting over whose turn it is to do the dishes. Meanwhile, Heeseung scarfs down his third bowl of cereal, like he hadn't just devoured a full plate of food less than an hour ago.

"No offence, but like... are you really asking that?" Heeseung doesn't even look up. Just raises the bowl to his lips and gulps down the remaining milk, dribbling a little down his chin.

Jake blinks.

"She's playing you," Jay adds, turning off the running water at the sink, sponge in one hand and a plate in the other. From that, Jake gathers he lost the dish war. "And it's working. Clearly."

"But—"

"She ghosted you for three weeks," Sunghoon cuts in, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Hit you up when she needed homework help. Then ghosted you again the second you asked her out. What part of this says 'interested' to you?"

Jake opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking back at his phone, and Sunghoon's already plucking the device from his hands before he can even consider double texting. He closes the phone, laying it face down on the kitchen table, and presses his palm flat against it like he's putting down a verdict.

"Listen, you really wanna give this homework-stealing attention whore even more attention?" He frowns, "She doesn't deserve another word from you."

His words make Jake wince a little, the pathetic urge to defend you still lingering, but he doesn't say anything. He knows what it looks like.

Heeseung sets his empty bowl down with a clink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying Jake.

"Why are you so attached anyway?" He raises his brow, "Like sure, she's hot, but did you even, you know... get any action?"

"I mean."

The kitchen goes quiet, and Jake feels a heat creep up his neck. He looks down at the table, recalling his time with you last week.

"She played with my hair."

There's a pause.

"...the fuck?" Heeseung finally says.

"Like, head scratches. You know?" Jake can feel how stupid it sounds even as he says it, but he keeps explaining, as if it will make it sound any better, "She was saying all these things, and talking, and running her fingers through it. It was nice. It was—"

"Bro," Heeseung cuts him off with a laugh—not a mean one, but something close to it, "She pet you."

"Like a dog." Sunghoon grins.

"Did you start kicking your leg when she scratched behind your ears?" Jay snickers.

"Did she call you a good boy for doing her homework?"

The three of them burst into laughter. Sunghoon has to brace himself against the table, and Jay doubles over, gripping the counter. Heeseung is just shaking his head, grinning, like Jake is the saddest thing he's ever seen.

Jake flushes.

"Guys, come on—"

"Listen, Jakey," Heeseung's voice softens, "You do realize what this is, right? She uses you for your brain, then forgets you exist until she needs you again. And like a stupid, loyal mutt, you keep running back to an owner who doesn't reward you with any treats."

"I know it looks like that, but you weren't there," Jake shrinks in his chair, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands, "She was talking to me. For real. Like. Touching me and—"

"And she didn't text you back," Sunghoon states. There's no bite to it. No malicious intent. Just that. That's what it is, after all.

The truth of it hurts more than he expects, maybe because deep down he knows it already. His throat tightens, and he stares down so that none of them can see how his eyes get glossy.

He just thought that maybe this was it. That maybe, for the first time, someone actually liked him. Is he really so wrong for wanting to believe that?

The kitchen is quiet now. Jay has gone back to washing dishes, but slower, quieter and Sunghoon joins him, pretending to be interested in dishes to avoid addressing the emotional tension in the room.

Heeseung is the only one who still watches Jake.

"Look, man," he starts, softer this time. "We're not trying to be dicks. We just—"

All four of them glance at the device face down on the table. No one moves. The buzz fades. Then another one. Then another.

Jake's hand twitches toward it.

"Don't," Sunghoon warns.

"It could be important."

"It's not."

Jake's hand hovers. What if it's you? What if you're apologizing? What if you have an explanation?

Sunghoon beats him to it, snatching it from the table with dishwater hands.

"Oh? Would you look at that?" he raises a brow, and Jake's heart pathetically flutters, "Let's see what the she-devil wants now."

Jake watches, holding his breath, as Sunghoon swipes open the messages. His face is unreadable for a moment.

"Gee. Shocker." He reads aloud, dripping with sarcasm. "Hey Jake, sorry I've been MIA—And there's a sad face emoji, how sweet—Did you start the next assignment yet?"

"She can't be that shameless," Heeseung states in disbelief.

Jay sets down his sponge and grabs the phone from Sunghoon, scanning the screen himself. His jaw tightens.

"That's it." He turns to Jake, holding the phone up like evidence. "This is an intervention. If you're not getting anything out of this, and I mean anything, then ignore that bitch."

"She's not a—"

"She is." Sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Honestly, it's just sad at this point. You're better than this."

Jake looks between them. His phone is still in Jay's hand, the screen lit up with your message. He can see the little three dots at the bottom of the chat box. You're still typing, probably coming up with another excuse— another reason for him to come running.

"Jake," Heeseung steps forward, blocking Jake's view of the device, "She hurt you. Do not respond. I'm serious this time. You hear me? You hear us? We're looking out for you."

Jake swallows. He wants to say that it'll be different this time—wants to say that they don't know you like he knows you. Wants to believe his feelings are reciprocated, and that your soft touch and sweet words were more than just a cheap manipulation tactic, but they're all watching. And he knows. He knows he has to concede.

Deflated, he nods, promising his friends he won't give in. Even if the memory of your hands in his hair sticks. Even if he swears it was real.

He really does ignore you. He doesn't respond to your messages, doesn't screenshot your selfies—well, he does look at them maybe a couple times, but that's not technically breaking his word. He keeps his phone on the other side of his bedroom when he sleeps. He spends his time with his friends laughing, instead of sulking in the corner over ignored messages.

The inexplicably strong ache he felt in his chest when he thought of you was nowhere near close to disappearing, an ache that couldn't decide between desire and hurt, but he could feel himself slowly, bit by bit, start to return to some semblance of normalcy.

Then you decide to show up to class for the first time in weeks.

Jake notices you the second you walk through the door. How could he not? You're all he can think about still, as terrible as he knows that sounds. How could he possibly bring himself to look away as your eyes scan the room, ultimately landing on him, making your merry way to slip into the seat at his side?

"Hey!" You're smiling, bright and easy, like no time has passed at all.

It's tempting to return the smile. God, he wants to accept your warmth again so badly, and maybe that would've worked on him a few weeks ago, but time has passed for him.

He'd spent all this time second-guessing every smile, every touch and word. Suffered while listening to his roommates call him a dog. He doesn't have it in him to continue hoping for anything more. Even if you look extra pretty today.

"Hey." Jake keeps his eyes on the board.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

Your smile doesn't waver, but something in your gaze is a little different, a little more steady than usual. You lean in close enough that he can smell you, breathing in your sweet, warm, intoxicating scent, close enough that his resolve starts to crumble before he can stop it. That's just what you do to him.

"You look cute today," you say softly. "I like your hair."

"Thanks."

He manages to keep his tone flat and his face neutral, as if he doesn't still dream of your hands in his hair, like you had the last time he saw you, still weak from the mere thought.

Stay strong, Jake. His jaw is tight. His hands are curled into fists under the desk. She hurt you. Don't give in.

Your smile then fades, if only a little.

"Hey... what's up with you?"

He turns to you finally, unable to keep up the act. In a moment of weakness, he lets you see the hurt, the confusion, the resentment.

You seem concerned. A little confused.

She's playing you. She's using you.

"Listen," he inhales, trying to sound firm, but there's a shakiness in his tone that he just can't hide. "I'm not helping you this time, okay? So don't—"

His eyes catch something on the desk that halts his thought process completely.

Your phone is sitting there, face up, dressed in a clear case like always, but with a new set of cute little charms attached—though that's not even the thing he notices first. The screen is covered in cracks, fractures spreading from a point near the top all the way to the bottom, and a chunk of glass is missing from the corner, exposing the dark screen underneath.

"What happened?" he blurts. Whatever he had been planning to say, to finally tell you, vanishes in an instant.

You look down at the phone. Then back at him.

"Oh my god, you have no idea." You're already shaking your head, "Last week, I lost my phone. Like, lost lost. Couldn't find it for days. I tore my whole apartment apart. I filed a lost and found report. I even checked the campus security office."

Jake stares at the cracked screen, your thumb swiping over it.

"Then," you continue, wincing as you recall the story, "my roommate tells me she felt a crunch when she was pulling out of the driveway. Turns out my phone was lying face down there. For three days. And she ran over it."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was. I think it must've fallen out of my pocket in the dark." You pick up the phone, sighing, "It was like this when I found it. But you wanna know the craziest part? It still works."

Jake just blinks, and you laugh a little as you hold up the device to his face, showing off the horribly cracked home screen.

"I guess you thought I was ignoring you again, weren't you?" Your expression falls, "I'm so sorry, Jake. I really didn't mean to."

"It's..." He blinks again, then shakes his head. A laugh escapes him, feeling relieved, almost giddy, and all the emotions he thought he had buried for good come rushing back to him in an instant. Just like that. "I just thought you were, like, using me for homework, or something—"

"What?" You gasp, shock flashing across your face. "Oh my gosh, no, I would never."

A hand lands on his arm. Warmth spreads through him where you touch.

"I guess asking about homework first thing when I got my phone back was pretty stupid of me, wasn't it?" You shake your head, muttering, talking to yourself almost, "I was just so stressed after the whole lost phone situation, and school was the first thing on my mind. I didn't even think about how it would look."

A nervous laugh escapes you, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sweater, glancing at him wide-eyed like you're scared that he hates you for real this time.  Suddenly, his roommates' words are fading to nothing in his head.

"I mean," he says slowly, and then a small smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah. It was a little stupid."

You stare at him for a second. Then you laugh, bright and real and just like he remembered, your whole face lighting up. Relief seems to wash over both of you, and when your hand lightly grazes his shoulder again, he leans into it this time.

"Okay, okay, I deserve that," you say. "But I'll make up for it. I swear."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pull out your phone, squinting at the cracked screen as you pull up a tab in your search engine. "There's this new indie horror thing my friends keep talking about. Apparently, it's super scary, and I'm terrified of watching this kind of stuff alone."

You tilt the screen to him, rambling about different showtimes, explaining bits of the synopsis of the film, and he swears his heart is about to explode. His mind is already conjuring images of you clinging to his arm, burying your head in the crook of his neck at the sight of a jump-scare.

"So?" You finally ask, "You free Friday?"

There's a moment of hesitation as he thinks about his roommates. Their warnings. Their jokes. Their certainty that you were using him. Then he looks at your phone—the cracks, the missing chunk. The undeniable proof that you weren't lying.

Then he thinks about getting to hold your hand in a dark theater, driving you home after. Would you let him kiss you? Would you pull him closer, with your hands at the back of his head, fingers grazing through his hair again? Would you pull away, breathless and smiling, and invite him inside? Probably not that last part, but the thought still makes him blush.

"I'll check my schedule."

"Okay," Your smile turns almost shy, but your determination doesn't waver, "Well, no pressure, but you better say yes."

Jake spends the entire lecture trying not to smile back, thankful that all the pain he had felt, all the hurt, had been nothing more than his own imagination.

He's already knows he's going to say yes.

Jake is halfway to the door when Sunghoon's voice stops him cold.

"Where are you going?"

Jake winces, hand hovering just above the doorknob. His keys are already in his other hand, jingling softly. He doesn't turn around, certain that the look on his face will give him away, and to be honest, he's tired of being looked at like a lost cause when it comes to you.

"Out."

"Out," Sunghoon repeats slowly. "Out where, exactly?"

With a shaky breath, he turns finally. His eyes land on Jay and Sunghoon sprawled on the couch—same as always, controllers in hand, paused mid-game. Heeseung pokes his head out of his bedroom door down the hall, drawn by the sound of an argument brewing.

Jake allows himself a small, hopefully convincing enough smile.

"To study."

Like a cruel joke, a small foil square slips out of his jacket pocket and flutters to the floor—revealing the condom he'd stolen from the box Heeseung keeps at his bedside.

They all watch wordlessly, staring for a beat.

Jake's face flushes, bending down to snatch the condom off the floor, and he tucks it back into his pocket.

"Uh-huh. Study." Jay deadpans, setting down his controller. "Studying what, human anatomy?"

"It's a study date," Jake says too quickly, waving it off, "With uh... that one girl I was lab partners with last semester. You guys remember?"

"The girl you said you weren't into?"

"Well, I changed my mind."

He can feel the weight of their stare. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

"You think you're gonna get laid." Heeseung gestures vaguely to him. "And you didn't try to tell any of us about it?"

"It's just in case," he replies, still a little embarrassed, "Besides, why should I tell any of you? It's none of your business."

Heeseung tilts his head, studying him. The other two exchange knowing glances.

"It's not that you have to," He says, "But you would've. Which means you're hiding something."

"You're running back to your master, aren't you?" Sunghoon cuts to the chase with a grin, "Did she throw you a bone again?"

"No."

"Aw, I can see his tail wagging," Jay teases, "He's so excited. Thinks he's gonna finally get his dick wet this time if he plays fetch."

"Shut up."

"Jake, man," Heeseung almost groans, "You can't seriously think she wants you for real this time, right?"

"What's the score now? Campus slut: three, Jake: zero? You're losing pretty badly," Sunghoon whistles, shaking his head, "Just don't come crying to us about it after."

His fingers tighten around his keys, metal biting into the palm of his hand. He wants to tell them tonight will be different—and he's sure it will. It has to be. But he's done explaining himself, and he's done trying to explain you.

"I'm going on a study date with my old lab partner," he lies through gritted teeth, "And while you sit your lazy asses on a dirty fucking couch, marinating in your own filth, I'm going to actually be talking to a girl. So fuck you."

He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns, yanking the front door open and slamming it behind hard enough to rattle the frame just a bit.

The boys don't say anything. They just stare at the door, watching the frame shake in silence until it goes still.

"Well," Sunghoon pauses, "He kinda got us there, didn't he?"

He pulls up to your place, eyeing the same rickety-looking porch and broken railing he remembers, noting how the light above the front door flickers. And though it's anything but perfect, he still feels like he's in a scene from a movie as he walks up your steps—the kind where the guy finally gets the girl and sweeps her off her feet.

His heart is pounding as he knocks on the door and stops the moment it swings open, smiling as soon as he sees you, expression dropping when his brain catches up to realize you're... not dressed for a date. At all.

You look at him wide-eyed, almost shocked, a pencil tucked behind your ear, wearing an old hoodie and those little shorts he remembers from last time. And there, in your hand, is your thermodynamics textbook.

"Oh, Jake..." you say, blinking at him like you'd forgotten he was coming. "I totally lost track of time."

You're already turning away, leaving the door open for him to follow. Already walking back into the place, socked feet padding against the hardwood, muttering to yourself.

"This is due on Monday, and I haven't even started and— gosh, I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."

Jake stands still in the doorway of your bedroom, watching you plop down on the bed, looking up at him with a silent plea.

"I really thought I'd have this done by tonight. I mean, I could spend the rest of the weekend doing it, but I have all these plans and other things I have to do..." You continue to ramble, but he stops listening.

You're doing it again.

He watches you for a long, silent moment. You're already flipping through the textbook, muttering to yourself about equations and deadlines, completely absorbed.

Any butterflies he'd felt were gone, replaced with... nothing. He felt absolutely nothing, just hollow and empty and utterly deflated because he's been here before. He knows the script. He knows what happens next.

Somewhere in his mind, he can hear his roommates laughing. Hell, he's sure those stupid plushies in the corner of your room are probably laughing at him, too.

"I was thinking maybe if I could just get the first few problems, I think I could figure out the rest. But I don't even know where to start."

You look up at him, and there's that look again. The same look you gave him the first day of class. The same look that made him want to solve all your problems.

Just like that, he's doing it again, too.

She needs me, he starts to think.

People get stressed, don't they? People lose track of time. You're just one of those people. It's not on purpose. It's not malicious. It's just you.

You're tugging at his sleeve, then slipping past it just to grasp around his wrist.

"I know I'm asking for a lot, but you'll help me, won't you?" You pout, "Please, Jake?"

That almost gets him. It shouldn't, but it almost does.

"But the movie—"

"I promise we'll see it another time," you cut in, "Pinky swear, on my life, we will."

Jake can feel his hands trembling at his sides. All he wanted was a date with you. Just one night. No textbooks. No equations.

He'll be damned if he lets your poor time-management skills and terrible studying habits be the reason his night is ruined.

"What if I just... send you the answers later?"

He manages a broken smile, and you blink.

"Really?" You gape, "Oh, Jake, I'd feel terrible—"

"We can't let our movie tickets go to waste, right?" He shrugs like its nothing, like he's nonchalant or something, but there is absolutely nothing chalant about the way he needs to go out with you tonight. "I don't mind. Really. Don't worry about it, okay?"

You beam at him, and with a squeal, you're jumping off the bed faster than he can process. Your arms are around him, hugging him tight, so much that he can feel every part of you pressed against him. Suddenly, he's light as a feather again. Drifting. Weightless.

"Thank you so much!" You pull away all too quickly, shoving him out your bedroom door, "Just give me a few minutes, 'kay? I won't leave you waiting too long."

Jake can barely focus on the screen, eyes drifting from the atmospheric shots of a creepy house in the middle of nowhere, towards you instead.

He's hyper-aware of you sitting there, next to him. He can't help the way he watches you, how the light flickers across your face, catching the curve of your cheek, and your gloss-covered lips. He also can't help the way he's falling apart from just the feeling of your arm brushing against his in the dark, soft, accidental, and electric all at once.

The scent of your perfume mixes with the smell of buttery popcorn, neither of you had touched yet. He can't bring himself to eat it. Actually, he can't bring himself to do anything when he can barely manage breathing in your presence.

His heart is doing that stupid stuttering thing again, the one that makes him feel like he's a teenager taking his school crush to prom, as his hand twitches restlessly at his side.

He wants to hold your hand. He's wanted to since the moment you slipped into the passenger seat of his car, wearing that sundress, but he knew he had to wait. He rehearses the motion in his head, a slow, deliberate slide of his palm against the armrest until it touches yours. He even tries, for a second, his hand slowly drifting until his pinky barely brushes yours, enough to feel the warmth of your skin.

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine what it would feel like to do it—to take your hand in one smooth, confident stride and feel your fingers interlace with his. The thought alone is exhilarating... and far, far more terrifying than the movie's been so far.

Before he knows it, he's chickening out, hand drawing back to his lap when the screen flashes.

A face appears, a shrieking sound erupting through the theatre speakers, and he swears his soul fucking leaves his body. He jumps, a full body flinch, arm nearly knocking over the popcorn bucket as his heart slams against his ribs.

And almost immediately, he glances at you, mortified at the thought of you witnessing him actually get scared at a jump scare. But you had jumped too, hands flying to his arm, fingers digging into his sleeve. It only registers in his mind after the fact that you're clinging to him, your smaller hands curled against him, just like he had imagined. Just like he had hoped.

"Sorry," you whisper, still holding him.

"It's okay," he whispers back, silently praying that you'll continue to.

You do, and he doesn't dare move a single muscle for the remainder of the film. Even as there's more blood, more screaming and horrifying faces that genuinely make him want to sprint out of that theater crying like a baby, he stays put, trembling at the thought of the nightmares he'll have for the next few days and enjoying every second of you burying your face into his shoulder, clinging to him like he's the safest thing you've ever known.

Sometime halfway through the film, your hand finds his, fingers intertwining with his, still leaning into his shoulder. In that moment, he thinks all the missed texts, all the hurt and confusion, all of it was worth it just to feel this.

"That was so good," you rave on the car ride home, smiling from the passenger's seat, "Honestly, way too many jump scares, but the cinematography... wow."

Jake's hands grip the steering wheel just a little tighter than usual, still nervous. More nervous, actually, because he's still trying to figure out what he's going to say to you when he gets back to your place. But he knows he's overthinking it; tonight had reassured him of that.

Relax, he thinks, glancing at you from the side.

"The cinematography?" Jake teases lightly, "You were hiding in my shoulder for half of it."

"Because it was scary," you swat his arm, rolling your eyes at him, "You're supposed to protect me. Not make fun of me."

"I'm just saying..."

"You're saying nothing," you shake your head, grinning, "Don't think I didn't see you flinch a few times, too."

"You got me," he winces a little, then it's his turn to grin, "But at least I didn't scream out loud at the part with the axe, unlike someone—"

"Stop, that was so embarrassing!" You groan, bringing a hand to your face. "I'm pretty sure the entire row in front of us turned around to look. I can never go back there again!"

Jake just laughs, and you're hiding your face further in the palms of your hands as you plead with him not to tease you any further.

It's nice. Easy. He only wishes the night didn't need to end. But, alas, he's pulling up just outside your place, putting the car into park, feeling a little foolish now for having slipped that condom into his pocket at all. As if tonight could have ended any other way. But he shakes the thought away. That's not what he's here for. He's just glad that he even got to hold your hand.

"Well," he starts a little shyly, "If you're too embarrassed to go back, we can do something else next time?

He looks at you. Eyes shining. Hopeful.

"Jake..." you smile, "I had a great time tonight."

His heart swells, warm and fragile, like a balloon stretched too thin.

"But..." you continue, and he feels himself start to deflate. You look down, fidgeting with the hem of your dress, "I probably can't hang out like this for a while. You know how I am. Busy with school and all my other classes."

There's a silence, the engine still humming in the background.

"I'll help you," he then says. It's too eager sounding, the words just tumbling out of him as he goes on, "Whatever it is. Whatever class. I can do it."

"Really?" You look at him wide-eyed, seeing him nod enthusiastically, "You'd do that for me?"

"I'll do anything," he continues to nod without a second thought, "It's nothing to me, if it means—"

You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, and he feels himself turn bright red, butterflies exploding in his chest. He's breathing heavy as he watches you pull away, your lips against his skin forever burned into his memory.

"You're the best, Jake."

"You don't mean that," he waves it off bashfully, smiling like an idiot now.

"No, I do," you smile right back, tilting your head to the side. "You're just the sweetest thing, you know?"

He looks at you, eyes dropping to your lips.

This is the part where he's supposed to kiss you, right?

He'd pictured it so many times in his head that he couldn't even believe it might be happening. It's too surreal. Feels too far removed from anything within the realm of possibilities, and yet here he is. With you in his car. Sitting in silence.

He's not sure how it's supposed to work. Or when the right moment is, but he feels like it has to be now.

Swallowing his nerves and his fears and everything else, he starts to lean in, his eyes about to fall shut when—

"You're a really great friend."

His stomach drops.

"You're just so easy to talk to, you know?" You continue, as if his entire world isn't crumbling around him.

He pulls back. Watching you. Confused. Hurt. It doesn't hit him all at once, dizzy and disoriented from the whiplash you've just hit him with.

"Any girl would be lucky to have—"

"Friend?" The word escapes him like a sharp, ugly hiss, tasting bitter on the tip of his tongue.

"What?"

You blink innocently—or, with what he would've convinced himself was innocence only moments ago, had you not decided to rip his heart and squash it beneath your feet like it means nothing to you. Like he means nothing.

"I did your assignments for you. I took you out, paid for everything," His voice is shaking now. He can hear it, can hear how pathetic he sounds, but he can't stop. "And you think I'm trying to be friends?"

"I don't understand—?"

"I like you. You know that I like you and you still..." Shaken, he trails off, looking back at the steering wheel. He can't look at you anymore. Actually, he thinks he'll literally die if he has to spend any longer in your presence, playing whatever game it is that you've been playing with him. "Forget about the schoolwork. I'm done with you."

"Jake—"

"Get out of my car." He manages, "Please, just leave me alone."

He's blinking away tears that threaten him, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

You don't move, but something in you shifts. He can't quite place it, but it's like the air around you grows colder, distant. The softness drains from your face, replaced by something else entirely.

"Seriously?" You scoff, low and annoyed, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Jake's eyes snap back to you, arms folded over your chest as you scowl. Not pouting. Not looking concerned or helpless or confused like you usually do.

"You're the most annoying nerd I've ever had to deal with. You know that?" You continue, venom dripping with every word, "Every other loser folds with a bit of flirting and a couple selfies, but you? You realize how much time and energy I've spent on you? God, I'm way too deep in thermodynamics hell to find a new pathetic little thing to deal with, but you can bet your ass that as soon as this semester ends, I'm never, ever going near you again."

Jake's jaw falls slack, and you take a deep breath.

"And I'm literally so nice to you. I had you over in my house, on my bed. I pretended not to notice your boner—which you're terrible at hiding, by the way. I even went on a fucking date with you and clung to your arm for, like, an hour," you huff, exasperated, like you've just been dying to get it all off your chest. "What else could you possibly want from me?"

He doesn't react. He doesn't know how to.

"You were pretending." His voice is timid. Weak. Everything he tried so hard pretending not to be all night. "Everything you said, playing with my hair, going out with me, holding my hand..."

"You're just making it sound bad," you sigh, "You liked all those things, didn't you?"

"I liked them because I thought they were real."

"What difference does it make?" You snap.

Jake swallows the lump in his throat. He always knew he was a loser. Always knew he was a bit of a pathetic simp. But he never truly thought he could ever be this blind—this stupid.

"Your phone," he recalls the cracks, "That was fake, too?"

"A real convenient coincidence, wasn't it? I thought for sure I'd lost you. Luckily—or unluckily—the universe gave me a real excuse," you wave it off, looking at him, "So. What is it you want, hm? I have an assignment due in a few days, and the clock is ticking. Let's get this over with."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Come on. Everyone has something," you groan, "You could show me off to your other nerd friends. Is that what you want? Or are you gonna be one of those perverts who asks for my used panties or something?"

"You've traded your panties for grades?" His eyes go wide. The image is ugly and nothing like the fantasy he'd built up of you in his head. "How far have you gone for—?"

"I'm not a prostitute." You snap, "No touching."

Right. You've done this to other guys before. Not only was he tricked, but he's not even special. He's just the latest unfortunate soul in a long line of desperate idiots who line up to worship the ground you walk on.

Campus slut, Sunghoon had called you. Jake had scoffed at the time. Wanted to defend you. Convinced himself his roommates didn't know you like he knows you. This might even be worse than any of them could've ever imagined.

That's the sad part, too. He could sit here and ask for your used panties, but he didn't even want that. He never did. Sure, he'd gotten hard over things he probably shouldn't have. Had wet dreams about you that he should probably never repeat out loud. But talking to you was never about just wanting to get laid— even if he'd thought of it countless times. All he really wanted was to be wanted.

You start to get impatient with his silence.

"Look. I didn't want to be so brutally honest, but you were starting to act like I was your girlfriend, and I panicked." You take in a breath, still watching him. "But... I could've been a little nicer, so I'm sorry, okay? Does that make you feel a little better?"

He is just looking at his hands, the hands you held in the theatre. Which apparently now meant absolutely nothing.

"Alright, fine. Maybe this time I can make an exception," your voice is a little softer this time. "What about second base? Is that enough for you?"

"I already said I don't want anything."

"Jake," you start, your hand landing at his knee, thumb stroking in slow circles. "You're a virgin, right?"

"I'm—"

"Shh..." you press a finger to his lips, your other hand now sliding up his knee to his thigh, "I know you are, it's okay. You've never touched a girl, either, have you?"

He shakes his head.

"Then I'll ask again." Your hand trails high enough that it's just barely grazing the tent in his jeans, but still somehow earning a sound from him.

You look up at him through your lashes, like you've finally caught him, and take his hand. He watches, wide-eyed, as you lead his hand closer to you, hovering just above the swell of your breasts. His hand is so close he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, almost touching.

"Is second base enough for—?"

"No."

He draws his hand back, and your expression falls... and so does something else. Both of your eyes land on the condom- the one in his jacket pocket, which had decided to choose that exact moment to fall to the floor.

His face burns with humiliation. How stupidly hopeful he'd been just hours ago, stealing it from Heeseung's bedside like it was a talisman that could make him into someone you might actually want.

He scrambles to pick it up, but you beat him to it, holding it between your fingers with an amused expression. You're grinning like you're trying to hold back a laugh, and he thinks that kind of reaction might be worse than disgust.

"No?" you echo him, reaching to tuck the little foil back into his pocket for him. You give it a few pats before drawing back your hand. "Don't get too greedy, Jake. You know I won't do that."

"I wasn't—I was just—" he shakes his head, collecting himself, "I'm not gonna ask to feel your tits in exchange for homework answers. That's just weird," He says weakly, like it hurts him. Honestly, it does, a bit, because he's about to turn down the opportunity to feel you up in exchange for something far more pathetic sounding. "But..."

"But...?"

He looks at you, thinking of how pretty you look in the dim light—how romantic this would feel if the circumstances were different. It's just not fair how badly he aches for something he knows now, for certain, that he'll never have; something real. But he thinks that if, even for a moment, he could feel the same way he had in the theatre, when you'd taken his hand and held it, that maybe he could settle for just pretending that it's real. Maybe he could go home tonight and not feel entirely awful.

"Would you kiss me?"

You blink.

"Just a kiss?"

"Yeah," he can feel his ears turning red, "But you have to kiss me like you want me. Like we're actually on a date."

Your eyes flicker over him for a good few seconds, expression unreadable. Not upset, not weirded out, just... thinking.

"One kiss, and you promise to do my work for the rest of the semester?"

"One kiss to cover the debt you owe from the past three assignments," His voice is firmer now, though his hands are still shaking, "Then we can negotiate the rest."

"Seriously?"

"You need my help more than I need your stupid kiss," he shrugs, eyes flickering to your lips. "You asked for my price. This is the cost of my labour. Take it or leave it."

"Fine." You inhale, "One kiss—"

"With tongue."

"...With tongue," you deadpan.

You sigh, reaching up to take his glasses off. Your fingers brush his temples, gentle despite everything, and you fold the glasses carefully, setting them in the cupholder.

In this light, he looks different. Not that anything about him has changed. Rather, you're acknowledging things about him that you hadn't thought too much of before. Unlike a lot of other nerds you've led on, Jake actually showers. His skin is clear, and his smile is bright. You suppose he's also a lot kinder than the rest, too, if that counts for anything. And now that you're looking at him up close, without his glasses, you're thinking that maybe he's actually kind of cute.

Still. That's not enough to make your heart race, or something. He's pathetic enough to ask for a kiss in exchange for doing your work. That says all you need to know about him.

You lean forward and press a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. Slow, tentative, expecting a nervous response from him, so you're a little bit taken aback by the way he returns the kiss so eagerly. He's needy, not exactly rough, but too worked up to be gentle, and his hand comes up to your jaw a little too fast, fingers pressing in just enough to keep you there, like he's afraid you'll tear away all too soon.

He's messy with it. All tongue and desperate whimpers, not trying to hide how badly he clearly wants you— like he's been thinking about this for weeks and doesn't give a shit about hiding it anymore. It's not the most coordinated of kisses, but it certainly makes you feel something.

You start to forget that you're supposed to be pretending to enjoy it— not actually enjoying it. So much that you don't notice right away how his hands reach for your waist.

"Closer?" He practically whines against your mouth, "Please, can you...?"

You're sighing as you concede, not fully understanding why you choose to. You tell yourself it's to make him content enough so that he won't complain later when you ask for help again, but you're sliding into his lap so easily, dress riding up, suppressing your own noises as his hands roam your body so freely. It's only when you feel his hand slide up, feeling your chest, that you're coming to your senses.

You break the kiss, panting, hands on his shoulders to push yourself away. He lets you, but not without a string of saliva connecting your mouths. He's breathing heavily, lips swollen, and eyes wide with an emotion you can't quite read.

"The deal was a kiss," you say, trying to sound firm, but your voice comes across shakier than intended.

He just stares at you, chest heaving, like he's trying to process what just happened. His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, then down to where your dress has bunched up around your thighs.

"I know," he says, his voice rough. "I know. I just... got carried away."

You can feel the heat radiating from him, the solid evidence of his desire pressing right up against you. This is dangerous territory. You've always been in control of these situations, leading guys on, getting what you need, and walking away unscathed. But something about Jake's desperation, the raw, unfiltered need in his eyes, has you losing your grip.

"Please, just..." his eyes drop to your heaving chest, "Can I see them? Or like touch them?"

He's like a helpless puppy begging for a scrap of affection. And it's pathetic, really. But also... kind of hot in a weird, sort of sad way. You're not sure what that says about you, but you're there, in his lap already and against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding regardless.

You bite your lip, watching him swallow hard as you slowly pull down the strap of your sundress. You can see the hope in his eyes, the way he's practically holding his breath as the fabric starts to fall, revealing the lace of your bra. Under his gaze, fixed and intense, he reaches behind you, fumbling with the clasp until your bra falls away, and you're bare to him.

He makes a sound, a strangled, restrained sounding gasp that's part surprise, part pure, unadulterated lust. His hands are on you in an instant, not rough, but with a curiosity that sends a shiver down your spine. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you can't help the small sigh that escapes your lips.

"You're beautiful," he breathes.

Oh. Your face heats up, and the throb between your legs suddenly becomes a bit harder to ignore.

You should stop this. You know you should. You've given him what he asked for already with this deal.

His mouth is on your chest. Sucking. And he can't control the way his hips buck up into yours, muttering sweet whispers into your skin. You allow yourself, if only for once, to enjoy it—not daring to allow any of the sounds you desperately wish to make escape you, but closing your eyes and just letting him do his thing. You couldn't even begin to remember the last time you've been touched like this, with this kind of earnestness.

All too soon, his hips stutter, and he's whimpering into your skin. His hands are at your hips, gripping you in place, moving them against his own, almost subconsciously, and you can't even form a single word as you watch him grind up against you, chasing the craps of friction you've offered him until he's coming apart. A string of choked noises leaves him as he rides out his orgasm, and you stare, unblinking, in... shock? Horror? Awe, maybe?

You stare at his pretty, big brown eyes, and his perfectly kissable lips, and the gorgeous expression on his face as he unravels beneath you until he goes still. Breathing. Forehead against your bare chest as he collects himself.

Then, you blink.

"Did you just...?"

He doesn't answer, but he nods against you, and your blood runs cold.

Suddenly, you remember where you are, who you're with, and why you're here. Suddenly, you remember you're right outside your place, in a university student-ridden neighbourhood, on a Friday night. Suddenly, you're just humiliated as he is—if not more—and sick to your stomach at the realization of just how fucking badly you want him right now.

You push him away, not too hard, but enough to make a point. He looks up at you, dazed, his lips slick and swollen.

"Did you actually just cum in your pants right now?"

"Sorry," he stammers, though he does seem like he means it, even if his eyes are glued to your tits now. "Sorry, just—"

"Yeah. You should be sorry. Because what the hell?” You shake your head, all too defensively. "That wasn't a part of the deal, you freak!"

He watches you fumble with your bra strap, watches you smooth down your dress, watches you avoid his eyes. Your movements are sharp, defensive, like you're trying to erase the last five minutes from existence.

For a moment, he had you. Now, all he was left with was the shame of the aftermath; you, looking at him with disgust. Him, humiliated. His pants, ruined, sticky and uncomfortable.

"I can't believe I let a loser like you touch me," you continue, muttering more to yourself in disbelief than anything else, "That was so... just... ew!"

Your words are like a slap in the face, only instead of knocking him down, they make him snap back to reality, like he'd suddenly just decided to ask himself the question he should've been asking all along: what the actual fuck is he doing?

He can't make you like him. He can't even make you respect him. Clearly, you can't even pretend to either, even with your grades on the line.

He feels different, like something about jizzing in his pants reset his brain and brought him back to normal again. Maybe that's just the post-nut clarity talking, but regardless, he's seeing you now. Not that fake fantasy version of you in his head, but you.

You need him. You need him far more than he needs you. Without him, you fail thermodynamics—you'll sit there, in your room all alone, staring at a textbook you don't understand, praying for a miracle.

He's not the pathetic one. You, the one adjusting your dress in the dark, acting all high and mighty, pretending like you don't trade your dignity for easy A's, are the pathetic one.

The hurt isn't close to dissipating, still heavy and aching within him. The slight flutter in his heart that he feels in your presence isn't gone either. But something else lies beneath it all, something that feels a lot like freedom.

"Get out."

"Just give me a sec—"

"Get out," he snaps, flashing a glare at you while you're in the middle of fixing your hair in the side mirror. "Transaction's over. You can leave."

"Okay, jeez!" You scoff.

You get out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you, and he drives away from you faster than he's ever driven away from anything in his life.

"Well, well, well. Look who's back."

Jake doesn't say anything upon his return, hanging his keys and kicking off his shoes. Of course, all three of his roommates are still awake, sitting on that damn couch, waiting for the resident punching bag to return so they can have a good laugh before crawling to bed.

"So," Sunghoon says, a smirk on his face. "How was the big 'study date'?"

He doesn't react. Not really. He just stands there in the doorway, tired expression taking in each of theirs. The silence is abnormally long, and he notices how Sunghoon shifts in discomfort, how Jay sits up straight, how Heeseung's smile fades to concern.

"She asked me to do her homework again," he says, his voice flat, "Asked me to help with the rest of the semester too."

To his surprise, there's no 'I told you so'. For once, there's no laughing or mocking. Just silence.

Jake doesn't want to admit how much that means to him.

"So it was her." Jay says in a low voice, finally.

"The she-devil strikes again," Heeseung lightly jokes, but his tone remains sympathetic. "She really doesn't beat around the bush, does she?"

"You told her no, right?" Sunghoon blurts before Jake can respond, "Right?"

"I said yes."

The three of them sigh almost in unison. Jay has his face in his hands, and Heeseung shakes his head like a disappointed father, and Sunghoon just glares like he can't actually believe what he's hearing.

"Then I got to feel her up."

The chorus of disappointment stops, and they watch as a grin spreads across Jake's face. Not the dopey sort of puppy-love grin he used to wear when he thought of you. It's broken, revealing the hint of something cruel beneath it.

"She said I could touch her if I send her the answers, so I did, but..." He pauses, laughing to himself under his breath, "I'm not gonna send her shit."

The room goes quiet.

Heeseung is the first to move. He stands up slowly, like he's processing. He crosses the room, footsteps heavy on the hardwood, and stops in front of Jake.

For a second, he just looks at him. Then he places a hand on Jake's shoulder. Squeezes. Then grins wide.

"That's my boy."

Sunghoon recovers first. He grins, getting up to clap him on the back, and holds up a hand for a high-five. "Respect, man. Actual respect."

Jake leaves him hanging.

"No fucking way," Jay is also beaming like a proud father, "No way you actually did?"

"I did. And I'm not doing shit for her anymore," Jake says with a timid sort of smugness, "I'm done. I saw her tits, and I'm out. I'm serious this time."

"You guys hear that?" Heeseung shakes him, "Our little Jakey's all grown up."

"I'm not little."

"Your dick is little."

"Shut up, Sunghoon."

"He's just jealous," Jay rolls his eyes, moving to pick up his gaming controller. "He's never even seen tits in real life."

"I've seen plenty of tits!"

Sunghoon moves to try and wrestle Jay on the couch, their bickering falling on deaf ears as Heeseung returns his attention to Jake. He lowers his voice just a bit this time, his gaze softening.

"For real though. You're good? Like... actually good?"

Jake thinks about it. The drive home. The way his heart sank when you called him a friend. The way your voice sounded when you called him a loser.

Then, he offers his friend a smile.

"I'm good."

Heeseung smiles back before gesturing for him to join them for the next game, and Jake then seats himself on the couch. Laughing. Enjoying the rest of his night. Trying to ease the sting of your words.

He's not good. Not right now. But he'll feel better soon.

It's only a matter of time before you come crawling back.

The assignment deadline looms, a ticking clock in the back of your mind. It follows you everywhere—to class, to the dining hall, to bed at night when you should be sleeping.

Jake still hasn’t texted you the answers, even though you let him cross way too many boundaries just to secure it. You’re stewing in your own frustration. Never in all the times you’ve traded your attention for the academic labour of sad, lonely boys had you come across someone who asked for so much.

You kissed him. You let him grope your chest. You even made him cum in his pants. How on earth was that not enough to make him happy?

But. You kinda broke his poor little heart, didn’t you?

You sigh, and you realize, sitting alone in your bedroom with your textbook open to a page you've been staring at for at least forty-five minutes now, that maybe you were harsh.

You called him a loser. You called him gross for finishing in his pants—something you'd never seen happen before, something you should feel disgusted by, and yet something that you can't stop thinking about.

The thought should make you roll your eyes. It should make you shrug and reach for your phone to find the next desperate nerd willing to do your work. That's what you always do. That's what you've always done.

But Jake is different.

Unlike the other creatures you've put up with in the past—the ones who ask for nudes or used panties or god forbid feet pics—Jake was so stupidly, sickeningly sweet.

He blushed when you touched his arm. He held your hand like it was something precious. He asked you for a kiss when you offered him more. He called you beautiful.

You shift in your seat, pushing the memory away.

What an idiot.

There’s an inexplicable heaviness that sits in your chest that you’re still trying to decode. It's not guilt. You don't do guilt. Guilt is for people who care about things like morals and consequences and other people's feelings. But there's something else there that feels a lot like guilt if you squint.

You didn't need to cuss him off. Or belittle him. Or call him a gross loser for coming in his pants—the look on his face after, now forever burned into your mind. Not angry, not defensive, just hurt. Like you'd confirmed something he already believed about himself.

And underneath that disgustingly new achy feeling that you refused to name, there was a desire far worse:

You want him to text back.

You want him to want to text you back.

You want him to want you.

The thought is so foreign, so uncomfortable, that you shove it away immediately. You don't need his admiration. You don't need anyone's admiration. You're fine on your own.

Then, you look down at your textbook and sigh.

The assignment is due tonight. You haven't started. And Jake still hasn't texted back.

So you do what any normal person would do.

You find where he lives.

Not in a creepy way. You just... have connections. Your roommate happens to have a friend who has a friend who knows a girl who went out with his roommate once. Sure, you had to do a little digging, but desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

You make sure to arrive dolled up, pretty as ever, hoping that when he opens that door, he'll fall to his knees and bark for you like the good mutt you know he can be. And when he answers it, he's definitely looking, but not with the same kind of desperation as before. Rather, he looks at you like he has the right to.

His eyes are entitled to wander every inch of your body freely without complaint. And to be fair, you realize that in order to get his help again, you might just have to let him. So you let him. You even give him a little smile.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his tone flat. He doesn't invite you in, only opening the door enough to block it with his frame. He glances a moment, back inside, distracted for a second until he turns back. "Wait, how did you even find where I live—?"

"The assignment is due," you state, plainly, "I'm collecting my end of the deal."

"Are you, now?" He scoffs, "Pretty sure that deal was broken when you started calling me a gross loser to my face."

Your eyes narrow at him, realizing he’d actually grown a semblance of a spine. How inconvenient.

"Come on, Jake, you got to take my bra off and hump me. That's way more than you bargained for."

"It's not," he says firmly, and before you can even protest that, or demand what it means, he continues, "And I'm not making deals with you anymore."

"Jake," you plead, "I'm going to fail."

"Good."

He tries to close the door on you, but you hold your arm out to keep it open.

"No. Not good," you snap, "Stop being a dick and just tell me what you want!"

"What I want, huh? Well, it's gonna take a lot more than some used panties or a pair of tits, I can tell you that much," He mocks you, a grin you've never seen him wear before spreading across his face, "What exactly are you willing to-"

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, dragging his face down to meet yours at eye level. Those big brown eyes of his blink at you, and that's how you know. You know he's still in there. The Jake who looks at you like you're the sun, and he's the planet perpetually stuck in your orbit. Not the new “Jake” who ignores your texts and acts like he doesn't want your attention.

"Anything," you seethe, sounding a little more desperate than you would hope to, but that is what you are. You still need his help. You still need to know that he wants you. "I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

He blinks, his twisted smile returning in an instant.

"You want a blowjob or something, you perv?" You roll your eyes at his expression, "You'll finish in five seconds, but I'll be nice and offer a round two if you send me the answers first."

You let go of his shirt, and he stumbles back as he begins to laugh, foot kicking the door. Distant laughter joins him, and the door opens just enough to reveal his three roommates sitting there on the couch, looking real amused by the scene that just played out.

"Shit, you hear that, Jake?" Heeseung calls out, "Buy one, get one free. That's a steal."

"Didn't know blowjobs were on sale this season," Jay snorts, "What's next, handjobs for half off?"

"Is swallowing included, or is that a part of the premium package?" Sunghoon grins, eyes meeting your murderous glare, "What? I'm just trying to understand the business model."

You feel your face flush with humiliation, and Jake just watches.

"Jake," you step closer, voice just above a whisper, a quiet plea, "You want something. Everyone does. Don't act like-"

He grabs you by the wrist, pulling you inside. And you both ignore the shock and teasing that escapes his roommates as he practically pushes you inside his room, firmly shutting the door behind him.

It's a small, cluttered space, but it's clean. A desk with his gaming PC, his twin bed in the corner with a rumpled comforter, and some nerdy-looking posters on the wall. It's exactly what you expected.

You open your mouth to speak again, but he cuts you off.

"I don't want a blowjob." The words cut you off, flat and final. He's already pulling out his phone, thumb swiping across the screen. He doesn't look at you. "I want something else."

He opens his roommates' group chat. Scrolls. Taps. Then, he's holding up his screen for you. A video loads, sent only a few minutes ago—blurry, shot from inside the apartment, the frame slightly obstructed by what you think is a couch pillow or someone's pocket. Though your voice is unmistakable.

"I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Jake can be heard too, but his voice is a little lower, and with his back turned to the camera, he's not easily identifiable. It could be any dark-haired guy at your school.

"You want a blowjob or something, you perv? You'll finish in five seconds, but I'll be nice and offer a round two if you send me the answers first."  

Your face is clearly revealed in the final frame just as the door cracks open, and just before the camera falls into the couch cushions. The video then cuts off.

You blink at what you'd just been shown, your stomach dropping, then you blink at the man before you.

"What I want is for you to promise you'll never do this to anyone ever again." His voice is steady. He locks the screen and tucks the phone into his back pocket. "Otherwise, this is getting sent straight to the university's confessions page."

You twitch, and your fingers curl at your sides.

"Jake." You let the old sweetness drip back into your voice—the one that used to make him blush, the one that used to work. "Are you really trying to blackmail me?"

"I'm not trying to." He holds your gaze. "I am."

You gape.

"My roommates want to leak it right away." He shrugs, moving away to lean back against his desk, arms crossed. "But I thought you at least deserved a chance to redeem yourself."

He lets the words hang. Lets you imagine the comments. The screenshots. The whispers in the hallway.

"You know what this would mean for you." His voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. "Social suicide. No one will talk to you. No one will want to associate with you. You'll be..." He pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, what do you call it again? Right. A loser."

The word lands like a slap.

"Aw, don't look so down," he coos, "You'll always have me, right?"

You scoff, narrowing your gaze.

"You can't do this to me."

"Oh, please." He pushes off the desk and takes a step toward you. "You started this. It isn't even a big ask. Just stop flaunting yourself around and open your textbook for once."

You glare at him.

It isn't a big ask. But it's not about what he's asking you to do. It's the fact that he's holding this over your head, thinking he has the right to control you, acting like he's above your little con—all for what, revenge? Vengeance?

Boys are usually easy. You're not sure how you got stuck making deals with the most difficult of them all. But a boy is still a boy. And Jake is still Jake. And currently Jake is, you notice as your eyes drop, obviously hard in his pants.

His sweatpants do nothing to hide it. You watch his eyes drag over you—your lips, your chest, the curve of your waist—against his better judgment. He swallows, and you smile to yourself. He's still in there.

"It kills you, doesn't it?" You step closer, voice like silk. "Having a girl in your bedroom for the first time. Offering to let you do anything you want with her. And turning it down just to pretend like you're a hero."

His jaw tightens.

"Are you hoping to be applauded?" You tilt your head. "For saving all those poor innocent guys from the terrible fate of a pretty girl flirting with them?"

"It's more than that."

"Jake." You laugh, "All the other losers on campus aren't going to thank you. The only thing you'll get out of this is a pat on the back from your little friends. But if you make a deal with me..."

You reach out, trailing a finger down his chest, then let your palm slide over it instead. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your touch, his chest heaving as you look up at him through his lashes.

"I can make it more than worth your while."

You drop to your knees, ignoring how they dig into the cold, hard floor. The look on his face is priceless, seeing him slowly unravel in your grasp.

"You're upset, aren't you?" Your hand trails up and down his thigh, and your eyes shift back and forth from him to the desire in his pants, "I've been feeling down, too. I miss the little thing we had going on. It was easy, don't you think? You and me. Helping each other out."

"I helped you." His voice is strained. "And then you hurt me."

"I was so mean to you last time, wasn't I?" Your hand rests above cock this time, and he winces at the feeling of your palm engulfing him, even if through the barrier of fabric. You lean forward enough to nuzzle him, lips brushing over his crotch, "I'm sorry... But I can make up for it."

You tease him—slow, deliberate, mouth half parted over him.

"Just forget about the video." You purr, finally pressing your palm against him—just enough pressure to make him gasp. A strangled whine escapes his throat. "And just send me the assignment, Jake. I'll let you have your way with me. I'll scream loud enough to make your roommates wish they were you. You just have to click send."

You look up, and you know that look. It's the same one that folded for you when you brushed his shoulder at your house, ultimately convincing him to do your work. It's the same one he had in the car when you offered him second base. It's the look of someone who wants something so bad that they can't possibly deny themselves any longer.

"You said anything?"

"Anything."

He looks at you, pained. Helpless. Brows furrowed together, then he nods.

Your eyes glimmer.

He pulls out his phone. His thumb moves across the screen, and you wait somewhat impatiently. It feels like it takes longer than it should, you think, before your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

You immediately move to open it, ignoring the other notifications.

Jake: [sent Assignment_3.pdf]

He reaches out immediately, his fingers tangle in your hair. It's not gentle. It's a warning. Your phone tumbles from your grasp, landing with an ungraceful thud to the floor.

"You better act like you enjoy it."

You don't flinch; instead, you lock eyes with him, letting a sly smile curve your lips before your fingers hook around the waistband of his pants. His length springs free from its confines, baring him to you for the first time, and admittedly, you stare.

"That's a nice surprise," you coo, sounding genuinely impressed, rather than the act you had planned on, as you wrap your hand around his cock, thumb collecting the precum at his tip and spreading it down the length of him. You look up, seeing how he watches in complete adoration and awe, biting down his lip. He's barely holding himself together already, and you're already grinning at the thought. "You're big. You've really been keeping this thing hidden away?"

Your lips part around the head of his cock. Your tongue darts out , lapping up every drop of precum you can taste—salty, warm, proof that you've already got him. He whines, fingers curling tighter in your scalp.

"Ah- fuck," You hear him hiss. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You moan around him, low and appreciative, the vibration buzzing straight through his shaft as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your mouth stretching to accommodate his thickness, taking him like your damn life depends on it- and well, your social life now does depend on it. Your tongue presses flat against the underside to trace every ridge and vein, and you can't look away from him. You're just beaming, knowing that he's struggling so hard not to lose himself this soon, when you've only just started.

His thighs tremble, muscles jumping under your hands as you grip them for leverage, nails digging in just enough to heighten the sensation. A whine slips from him, high and needy, when you take him down your throat, relaxing to let him nudge the back. You gag softly on purpose, eyes watering but never breaking contact.

"Fuck... you're really working for it, huh?" he stammers, almost in disbelief, "Maybe if you'd done this at the start, I would've done your work- shit."

His hips are stuttering into your mouth, throwing you off, and his words are laced with a mix of mockery and raw hunger, even as his body betrays him with those trembling jerks. You keep taking him anyway.

"B-but you chose to lead me on. Let me hope," He grabs your hair this time, pulling you closer despite the whines escaping him, "You're such a bitch."

Strangely, his words send a sharp pain through you, and his sounds, which grow more desperate as you work your mouth on him, start to sound less like a whimper and more like a cry, like a wounded animal. You knew you had hurt him. You just never placed yourself in a position where you had to confront that reality. But here, on your knees for him, you were forced to.

He finishes with no warning, unravelling completely in your devoted mouth, and you swallow every last drop, up until the moment he's dragging your head off of him and staring down at you. He's starry-eyed, a little distant-looking, laced with a foreign sort of desire that you don’t quite understand.

"Jake—?"

You're not sure how it happens, but you're being pushed to the bed, lips clashing into yours, tugging your clothes off your body until you're bare. You only pull him closer, removing his shirt too, and he kicks his pants to the side. He wastes no time dipping his head between your thighs, marvelling first at just how wet you were for him, then letting a shaky finger drag through the folds.

"Wanna taste you." The words escape him almost involuntarily, before he's diving right in, lapping at your folds with an eagerness that makes you gasp.

There's no teasing. His tongue laps at your folds, sloppy and unsure. There's no technique, just raw, desperate need, and yet somehow, it has you gasping for air like you've forgotten how to breathe. Your hips jerk involuntarily as he grabs you, pressing his face further into you.

You shouldn't love this nearly as much as you do. You shouldn't be showing him your cries of pleasure- you should be having to fake them. But your body betrays you. You want this. You want him so fucking badly.

Jake doesn't stop to think or second-guess; he just devours you with single-minded focus, eyes shining in wonder every time they flicker up to note your reaction, and you're losing yourself. Your fingers twist into his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and yet it only makes him moan against your skin, adding fuel to his burning desire. Clumsy or not, it's too much, too intense, and your back arches off the bed, legs threatening to thrash around, though he keeps your thighs steady.

"Jake—ah, Jake!" The name rips from your throat, not only loud enough for everyone in the house to hear, but you'd be surprised if the neighbours didn't hear it, too. Your breaths come in sharp, uneven pants, body coiling tight.

"Come for me," he mutters into you, and you swear you feel his stupid grin between your legs. "Come for the disgusting loser you hate."

You come with a cry, trembling all over, soaking his chin as your thighs clamp around his head. But he doesn't stop. His hands lock onto your thighs, fingers digging in to hold them wide, keeping you pinned as his tongue keeps working—lapping up your release, circling your oversensitive clit with that same relentless hunger.

"Jake—ah—Too much," You sob it out, voice breaking into higher pitches, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

He just keeps going, humming against you, coaxing his name from your mouth until you're a whimpering mess.

When he finally pulls away, crawls back up to cup your face, staring at you.

"You let me do that," he breathes, "And you liked it."

It's not a question. It's a fact. He knows it. You know it. You both know it. If screaming his name like that wasn't proof of it, the stickiness between your legs and all over his chin certainly served as evidence enough.

You can fake flirt with him. You can fake a pitiful, sorry-eyed gaze that makes him weak in the knees. But you can't fake the way your body reacts from his touch. That, alone, seems to make him malfunction all over again, his face flushed, and his eyes dropping to your lips again.

And though you only just finished coming down from your high, you're pulling him down to kiss you, hungry and wet and needy and... slow. He kisses you slow this time, breathing you in, letting his mouth learn the shape of yours. You feel the length of him against your thigh, hard again, and against all common sense, you let yourself say the one thing you never thought you'd be saying to him, of all people, so easily.

"Fuck me."

He pulls away, but he blinks from the fog in his glasses. Quickly, he removes them, fumbling around as he scrambles to hover back over you. His arms brace himself on either side of the bed, and you look up. You could take back your words. But you don't. You don't want to.

"...What?"

"Fuck me," you repeat, a little slower this time like you're spelling it out for him, "I want you to fuck me, Jake."

He looks at you, and for a moment, you see a flicker of hesitation, a flicker of the Jake you'd known that first week of class, the one who was so desperate for your affection.

"Okay," he nods, a little dazed, "Okay, lemme just..."

His hand fumbles around at his bedside, half-blindly for the little foil he'd had yet to use, but you beat him to it. You tear it open, rolling it down his cock yourself. And, a little clumsily, he positions himself, though he turns to you uncertain, his eyes meeting yours.

"You know, when I said 'you better act like you enjoy it' I didn't mean like you have to. I was just kinda saying stuff," his voice is soft, sounding almost conflicted. His hands are at your waist, thumbs moving in slow circles, and though he's achingly hard against you, he hesitates, "So if you don't want this—"

"I want this," you affirm him, and you sort of raise your brow, "Do you want this?"

He smiles, then practically scoffs in disbelief at your question.

"Do I?" He laughs, a slight shakiness to it, "I've dreamed of this."

He presses his hips forward, and you both gasp at the sudden intrusion. He's big, but it's more than you expected, and the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, filling you, is overwhelming. A whine escapes him as he pushes just a little further, until he's buried all the way in. Then, he takes a moment to steady his breathing, like he's trying not to cum on the spot.

"F-fuck, I thought about this every day for weeks." The confession is ripped out of him, hands digging just a little harder into your waist at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, "You're so tight, holy shit."

He starts to move, slow, like if he dared to move any faster, it might end all too soon, though you're thankful he does, considering you feel every movement all the way in your guts. You're a mess yourself, hands digging into his shoulders for support.

"Thought about your face," he keeps going, his mouth running like he doesn't know how to stop it. His hand moves to your jaw, taking in your glossy-eyed gaze and parted lips. "Thought about you saying my name-"

"Jake," you involuntarily squeak, his hips starting to pick up the pace just a bit.

"Just like that," he half-laughs, half-moans, looking down at your chest. He brings his hand to it, "Thought about these. Thought about all the pretty noises you'd make."

You're arching your back, meeting his thrusts, your nails digging into his shoulders, urging him on. He leans down, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicks over the sensitive peak. His free hand slides down your side, gripping your hip to angle you better, driving deeper into your slick heat. You can feel every inch of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building that delicious pressure low in your belly.

"You like this, don't you?" He breathes. Though he's bringing a hand to your face, forcing you to look at him, "You like being fucked by the nerd you used."

You can't answer, can't form a coherent thought. All you can do is feel, feel the way he's filling you, the way he's making you feel alive in a way you haven't in a long, long time. You nod mindlessly, uncaring.

One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your neck. He presses open-mouthed kisses there, sucking into your skin like he wants to claim every part of you.

"If I'm such a gross loser, what does that make you?" His breath is at your neck, then at your ear. "Campus slut, right? That's what they'll call you."

You cry out his name, a raw, desperate sound, as his cock presses right against the right spot inside you, and he's already following you over the edge. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucks you through your climax, riding out his own release you until you've both gone still.

He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the crook of your neck. For a moment, you just lie there, tangled together, the smell of sweat and sex thick in the air. It's dizzying, trapping you in a post-climactic haze, so much that you cannot suppress the way your chest swells as he nuzzles into you. You look down at his peaceful form and instinctively, your hand reaches for his head, brushing through the mop of hair on his head. The gesture draws a groan from his throat, making you smile.

"You like it when I do that, right?" You ask softly.

He hums approval into you, arms wrapped tighter around you, all sweetly like he hadn't just fucked your brains out moments ago. It's nice. It's easy.

His breathing evens out, and for a second, you think he might have fallen asleep. So you just stroke his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. You’ve always thought his hair is soft. The kind of soft that makes you want to bury your face in it and never come up for air.

"Jake?" You whisper.

"Mm?"

Your words get caught in your throat for a moment, your heart beating faster than you're used to. It makes you want to laugh at yourself.

"I liked holding your hand in the movie theatre," you finally say, with an unintended shakiness to your voice that makes your cheeks grow warmer, "and I liked kissing you in the car after."

He tilts his head at you, smiling. Wordless. Unreadable. You're not sure why it makes you nervous. You're not really sure what kind of response you had been hoping for, either.

"Just... thought I should let you know."

You scratch a particular spot close to his ear, and he lets out another happy grunt.

Your phone pings the floor, discarded somewhere along with your clothes, but you ignore it, deciding Jake's arms are too warm, and his bed is too comfy. But then it pings another time. Then another. Then his head turns to you.

"Not gonna check that?"

"Should I?" you raise a brow, and he shrugs.

You sigh, begrudgingly pushing yourself from the bed. It's probably your roommates texting about someone's dirty dishes, or your friends blowing up the group chat. But when you dig your phone up, you're blinking at the notifications.

Crawling back into the bed, you swipe through them as they filter in. Tags, messages, reactions, and your stomach drops at the one that stands out most—a mention in the university confessions page.

It's the video. From outside his door. Your voice, your face, your words: "You want a blowjob or something, you perv? "

There are already hundreds of comments, the video having been posted sometime an hour ago.

He sent it an hour ago.

You scroll in a panicked haze, skin crawling where his arms move to hold you again.

Laughing emojis. Jokes about your "business model." People you've never met are calling you a dumb whore, a desperate bitch. Campus slut. People you have met are calling you that, too. Your 'friends' have already unfollowed you, posting gossip to their stories, reposting memes.

Your social life is over. You could say goodbye to parties, to the circle of popularity you'd clawed your way into, to the image of perfection you'd upheld for years.

Pathetic. That's what you were, and that's all you'd ever be known for on campus from now until graduation, maybe even after.

The phone trembles in your grasp as you turn to him. You don't have the strength to ask how or when or why, though you suppose you already know why.

"Don't worry. I'll still help you with school," his voice is steady as he reaches over, taking his glasses from the nightstand and putting them on. "But that was my price."

✰.ᐟ read the epilogue Irreversible Process

word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Squatting, medical inaccuracies, age gap (reader is 34 and Jack is 49), reader helps Jack with his leg, kissing, licking of food off of skin, pet names used (sweetheart, baby, honey), protective!Jack, choking (with bicep), prone boning, oral (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), masturbation (Jack)

a/n: I can't get this out of my mind, so I'm putting it on Tumblr....

"I gotta bedroom. Let's go." Were not the words you were expecting to hear out of Dr. Jack Abbot's mouth, to be frank.

You had been staying in a somewhat unused (albeit abandoned) part of the hospital where not even security bothered to check at night. You and Dennis were unwilling neighbors as he had the same idea. You knew Dennis before he started his Residency at the ED from the awkward, darkened hallway interactions. You were going to bed while he was going to work, and you were going to work as he was going to sleep.

Both of you were broke medical school students, but while he was only 26, still figuring his life out, you were 34 and should've already figured out how to pay bills to an apartment while also paying off your medical school debt.

But Dennis soon left you to your own devices when he moved in with Trinity. She said she would've offered you a room if she had one. Unless you wanted to sleep on the living room couch. You declined, obviously, as you had a perfectly fine bed that felt more like cardboard than an actual mattress.

You had warm water for your showers, cold water for brushing your teeth, and the hospital was close to several restaurants and fast food places, as well as having free wifi. So really, you were completely set for however long it takes for you to actually move into an apartment.

As good as it seemed, though, you really didn't want the people you worked with knowing you slept in the same hospital you worked in. So....when some intern let it slip to another that you were living in the same area you help patients in, (even if it was a few floors above the Emergency Department), you were beyond pissed off. Pissed off and embarrassed.

And then it seemed like everyone knew by lunch.

And by everyone, you mean everyone. It was like a spider-web. One person tells another and tells another and another until everyone knows, and you're in the middle, watching the others spin stories about you. Because gossip spreads in this hospital like its own kind of virus.

Unfortunately, that also meant that it landed in Jack Abbot's lap as well.

He's halfway through looking over some of Robby's notes that he left for him when a pair of residents started whispering too loudly at the workstation behind him.

"...I'm just saying, I don't think Josh would lie about something like that."

"Dude, he literally showed me where. Like, the old west wing y'know? Past those sealed doors."

Jack's finger stills for a moment, but he doesn't ask them yet. Years of practice have taught him that if you wait five seconds longer than you want to, people will tell you everything without being prompted.

"...she's been there for years, apparently. Like, living there."

Aaannnnddddd now he's interested. Jack turns in his chair, fixing both of them with a look that lands somewhere between exhausted by intern gossip and debating whether or not to let the intern gossip go on. "Who," he asked eventually, "is living where?"

The resident's both freeze. One of them opens his mouth, then shuts it again like he's reconsidering getting fired or not. "It's, uh, n-nothing, Dr. Abbot, sir."

Jack doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. "I was here for the whole conversation. Don't lie to an attending."

The two interns look to one another, and one of them shoves the other's shoulder for him to ultimately spill. "It's-" the other resident swallows, "-it's one of the night doctors. Uhhh, her." He points, and he's pointing to you.

Jack's brow furrows. He knows you. You're reliable, you'r sharp, you've never complained (well, at least not to him), and you've never made any mistake twice. So why are you the topic of today's undeserved gossip? "Living where?" he repeats.

"...the abandoned west wing."

Jack leans back slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Who told you that?"

"...One of the other interns. He sa-saw her this morning."

"Don't either of you have cases you could jump on?" He asks, silently shooing them away.

"Oh, yeah. Right away, sir." They answer, and Jack watches as both their Adam's apples bob nervously before they scurry away like scared mice.

He finds the other intern, Josh, an hour later, near the vending machines, halfway through a bag of chips, and entirely unaware or unbothered by the hearsay he's apparently unleashed.

"Tell me you didn't start a rumor about one of my doctors squatting in a condemned part of the hospital."

The intern doesn't even blink. "Can I speak freely, sir?"

"It's why I'm here." He sighs.

It's not a rumor."

Jack stares at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious," he says, brushing crumbs off his hands. "I've seen it."

Jack exhales through his nose, already feeling the headache of paperwork forming. "You went into an abandoned, dangerous part of the hospital to...what exactly?"

"With all due respect, sir, the door's barely sealed. Nurse Lena had requested an extra bed for a patient and I knew from one of my other Residency's that that part of the Trauma center had free beds. So...I went to retreive one and...she was there." He shrugs. "And she's got it all set up. It's actually a really nice place. Just...sad."

"...How long?"

The boy shrugs. "Couple years, I think."

His face turns contemplative. He's getting a headache from thsi conversation alone, actually. "A couple-" he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his face. "And no one thought to mention this to me?"

The intern gives him a look. "You're not exactly approachable, Dr. Abbot."

Josh isn't wrong. Jack is not approachable in any way, shape, or form. But he thought he had at least made the effort to smile at you a few times for you to think otherwise. He's told you many times before that he has an extra bedroom that needs filling. He had been mentining it for years now,, hoping you would take up the offer, as you made him believe the apartment you were staying in was inhabitable.

"Stop spreading rumors about the people you work for. You won't get very far in this department. I'll make sure of it." He tells the kid before deciding to find you.

You were positive that someone would call the cops and get you arrested for squatting. So the whole night, you were on edge. Every touch to your shoulder or every call of your name piled more anxiety on top of you. You felt like you were going crazy, checking over your shoulder every time the doors to the ambulance bay opened.

By your lunch break, you were utterly exhausted. You had to drink at least two cups of coffee back to back (which is probably not good for you) to even keep your eyes open. You couldn't wait to crawl into your bed of plywood, after everyone from the morning shift clocked in, and let your eyes drift shut.

But your plans are squandered when you close your locker door.

Because Jack Abbot is standing there, arms crossed over his chest, looking at you with that familair, permanant disapproving look on his face. Oh god. Did he hear the drama too? The rumors? Did he call the cops already? Are...are they waiting for you outside? Oh my god, you have to run, right? Like right now? Push him out of the way and-

"Why are you sleeping in an abandoned wing of the hospital?" He asks. His voice is gruff, horase from yelling orders all night.

"Um, I don't-" You decide to play dumb, which is the worst possible action because Jack can sniff out a lie like a bloodhound, and he definitely will call you out on it if he chooses.

"You could've asked. I've told you before I have an unoccupied bedroom." He cocks his head for you to follow him.

"Woah, woah, wait." You say, holding out a hand to grab for him, but he turns around instantly at the sound of your voice. "Jack, I can't just-"

"Yes, you can. Come on."

"I don't have money to pay you rent and I-"

"I didn't ask if you had money for rent." He shakes his head, looking at you. "Did I?"

You sigh, your head looking up to the ceiling for a second. "No, I guess you didn't." You respond. "But I'm not freeloading off my boss, Jack."

"How long?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long have you been staying there." He clarifies.

Your head falls in defeat. "...About three years."

He rubs the scruff on his jaw. "Three years," he repeats. "You've been living in an abandoned part of this hospital for three years?"

You cross your arms, suddenly defensive. "It's not that bad-"

"It's condemned for-"

"It's unused," you correct him. "There's a big difference."

"It's unsafe."

"I've managed this far, obviously."

"That's not the point."

You sigh. "Look, I didn't exactly have a lot of options, okay? Rent's insane around here, med school loans don't exactly pay themselves, and I work nights anyway, so rarely anyone goes up there. It made sense."

Jack's jaw tightens. "So your solution was to sleep in a building that has diseases everywhere running rampant?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"It is bad." That has you looking away from him and for a long moment, neither of you says anything. Then Jack's voice is quiet as he asks, "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

You let our a humorless huff. "And say what? 'Hey, I can keep people alive for twelve hours straight but can't afford a studio apartment'? Yeah, that would've gone over great."

"That's not-"

"It's fine, Abbot," you cut in. "I'm fine. Just don't, y'know, rat me out to the cops, please?"

Jack watches you for a long moment. Then, he huckles a little, and you sort of take it at your defense, "No, no, I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you."

You stare at him. "But you are!"

"Okay, yes, I am." He holds up a hand, but you start walking away with a bruise on your chest. "Hey, no." he grabs your arm, making you stop, turn back around, and give him a sigh. "Don't give me that. Look, I'm not going to rat you out to the fucking cops. Do I really seem that mean?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Okay." He nods. "There are squatter's rights for a reason, y'know? But for my sake, I need to know that you're safe. You were there when some of those unhoused people broke in and occupied the other unused floor, right?"

"Yeah, of course." You shrug.

"Okay. So please, I'm begging you, so I don't die early, come live with me."

You shake your head. "I can't just move into your house. That's-there are boundaries, and-"

Jack says your name and it stops you. His voice is calm but still firm. "If Santos can have Whitaker move in, I assure you it's no different right now. This is me telling you that your current situation is unsafe, and I'm offering you a solution you won't take."

You meet his eyes, searching for any hint that this is pity, but you thankfully don't find it. It's just a deep concern for your well-being. "...I don't want to owe you," you admit quietly.

Jack exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "You won't," he says. "You show up. You do your job. You keep this place running, more than half the people here. If anything, I'm behind."

"That's not-"

"Just take the compliment." he exhales through his nose. "It's a room. That's it. No rent. Free wifi, hot water. You wouldn't have to sruvive on just fast food, which fyi, is not healthy and you should know that, so I am begging you here. I gotta bedroom. Let's go."

You should say no. You want to say no. But the image of that cold, empty wing. The flickering lights, the thin mattress, the alarms that go off, the code blues that ring out over the intercoms, etc. "....Just until I figure something else out," you say finally.

Jack nods once. "Fine."

You let out a breath as you look at him. "Thank you."

He shrugs it off, already turning back towards the chaos of the hospital. "Don't thank me yet," he mutters. "You haven't seen my guest room."

Which makes you smile.

You don't realize how much you've accumulated until you have to move it.

You suppose that goes for everyone who moves. Not that you have a lot. You have no furniture to move, no pictures to pack away, not a lot of clothes to put in boxes, but when it's all laid out in the dim, flickering lights of the abandoned floor, you realize you could probably throw out half of this shit.

Which is sort of, somehow, more embarrassing as Jack stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed at first, taking it all in without saying anything.

Your "room" (if it can even be called that) is sectioned off with an old privacy curtain you definitely weren't supposed to have. A thin mattress on a raised cot. A small stack of folded clothes. A battered duffel bag. A crate with books, a kettle, and a few mismatched mugs.

It's not much, but with all the little trinkets spread out around the four walls, it's your life.

"...You weren't kidding," he says finally.

You don't look at him. "Told you it wasn't that bad."

"That's not what I meant. I mean..." He picks up one of your shirts from the neatly folded pile. "When you said you only three shirts, after Emery asked why you keep wearing the same ones every time we go out...I thought you were kidding."

"Hey!' You've had enough of his sarcastic comments and observations. You huff quietly and crouch down, zipping up your bag a little harder than necessary. "You don't have to stay, you know. I can handle bringing down my things to your car."

Jack ignores that completely. "What's going?" he asks.

"Well, I mean...all of it?"

"Alright." His hands are on his hips, his eyes roaming over every area.

You shoot him a look. "You don't have to sound so enthusiastic about me uprooting where I've been staying for the past few years."

"I'm enthusiastic about you not sleeping next to exposed writing," he replies dryly, crouching down near the crate. He picks up one of your books, glances at the cover, then sets it back with surprising care. "You should've said something."

You busy yourself with folding a hoodie that absolutely does not need folding. "We've been over this."

"Doesn't mean I agree with it."

"Well, that's unfortunate for you."

"This all fits in one trip?"

You glance around, doing a quick mental inventory. "...Yeah. I think so."

"That's it?" There's something in his tone- disbelief, maybe.

You shrug. "I mean just be glad there's no furniture you have to lug out."

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but doesn't push. Instead, he starts grabing crates and boxes before you can stop him.

"Hey-" you start.

"I've got it."

"It's not that heavy that you have to do-"

His mouth falls open at your subtle dig, and you have to keep from laughing. "Maybe you shouldn't come live with me," he says, already standing.

"No! That's not what I-"

"I implore you to take a joke sometimes." He begs you.

You shoot him a look as you sling your duffel over your shoulder and grab the smaller bag with your toiletries. It feels strange, stepping out from behind that curtain with everything you own in your hands.

And the walk through the hospital is surreal. You've done these halls a thousand times, but it feels weird carrying everything through them. A few people glance over as you and Jack pass, eyes flicking to the bags, the crates, the boxes, but they don't ask any questions. He just looks like a nice attending who's helping a fellow doctor carry her things to her car.

But there is the threat of another rumor. So you keep your gaze forward, but Jack, as usual, looks like he couldn't care less who's watching.

It was good after a few months. You liked that you didn't have to check for stares or passing looks as you came down from the west wing, and you didn't worry about your clothes smelling like dust or old basement.

Jack's house was nice. It's a little bit out of the city, which you love. It's quiet, and there's no constant honking of cars or shouting of angry people waking you up. It sort of looked like the house belonged on the coast. It had nice big windows to look out of, an arched front door, anda beautiful back patio with a small greenhouse in the backyard.

For the first few weeks, you thought it was all a dream. Jack made both of you coffee every morning. He used to make coffee runs before work, so he remembers how you take your coffee. Sometimes, he'll be really nice and even make pancakes or waffles.

However, you're still harboring this big, undeniable crush on him that doesn't seem to go away, no matter how hard you try. You're divorced, so it's even harder for you to date without mentioning your age.

You would get yourself off to images of Jack in your head, as much as you are embarrassed to say that. Because for one, he's your boss, and for two, he's older than you. 15 years older than you at that. Most importantly, though, is the fact that he's your boss. It's that which keeps you from acting on it.

Not that you could even act on it if that wasn't the problem. You're so shy when it comes to things like that, even at your age, that you couldn't do anything even if he asked you.

And then one day, you shared a coffee before his night shift, and you knew everything had changed.

You had just gotten dressed. You weren't working today, thank god, because you were utterly exhausted from a double trauma intake last night. Your hair was still a little damp from your everything shower as you made your way down to the kitchen. As usual, Jack was already there. He looks like he's been awake for hours, which knowing him, he probably has. He probably didn't even go to sleep.

After months of living here, you qucikly learned it's very hard for this man to fall asleep. He's often up, roaming around early hours of the day, while you're actually trying to get some shut-eye. You could get mad, you could, but you could hear his footsteps, you could hear him trying to be quiet for your sake.

You had offered him melatonin, but he said he had already tried that years ago and it never worked. You had offered him sleeping pills, but he said he had also tried those as well. So, you had no other choice but to let him walk around, knowing it helps him to calm down. It was also, y'know, his house, and he could do whatever he wanted.

There's a mug in his hand, steam curling lazily upward, and he glances over as you walk in. "Morning," he says, voice rough in that low, not-quite-awake way.

"Morning," you echo, heading straight for the cabinet.

You open it, but pause immediately, seeing you don't have a mug, and frown. And it suddenly comes back to you that yesterday you had completely forgotten to do the dishes. "....Okay, don't be mad..."

"Why would I be mad at you, hun?"

You know he doesn't mean the petname he calls you. However, you still shiver a little at it. You glance over your shoulder at him. "I forgot to do the dishes."

He takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of the mug. "That explains why every mug in the house is currently in the sink."

"I was tired," you defend, even though it sounds weak to your own ears. "We had that double trauma intake, and then-"

"I was there," he replies dryly.

"Right. Yeah. So you get it."

You close the cabinet with a quiet thud, then glance toward the sink like maybe a clean mug will magically appear if you stare hard enough. But after a few seconds, nothing appears and you can just see the same dried coffee stains that were there last night.

You could wash one. But you wanted to use your favorite mug, and you had used it yesterday to make a mug cake you didn't even finish (because it tasted like straight up flour), and now the stuff was caked onto the inside of it.

And you weren't going to wash a mug you were going to take a sip from for about two minutes before you ultimately forgot about it, letting it get cold, and then dumping it out in the sink.

You sigh. "Guess I'll have to wait on my caffeine fix. Or drink the last Red Bull in the fridge." You're grabbing your phone, already starting to try and find a coffee shop within a 20-minute radius that isn't closing soon. "But I kind of wanted to save that for tomorrow."

Jack doesn't even hesitate as he holds his mug out toward you. "Here."

You look at him, than the cup, and point towards it. "That's yours."

"Yeah, obviously."

"...And you want me to, just-" You gesture vaguely. "Drink from it?"

He lifts a shoulder. "Unless you'd prefer to start scrubbing dishes right now or run to find an open coffee shop?"

You hesitate, hovering in the middle of the kitchen as your brain's buffering. It's not a big deal. It's just coffee. People share drinks all the time. But sharing a mug, especially with your boss, felt...weirdly intimate. Your brain had immediately short-circuted at the idea of placing your mouth where his had been.

And...he's Jack. Your attending. Your favorite attending. The man you've been trying ver hard not to think about too much while living in his house for the past three months.

"Are you sure?" You ask, quieter now.

His eyes flick to yours, steady and unconcerned. "I wouldn't offer if I wasn't. No offense, but you're making this a bigger deal than it is right now."

So, you step closer before you can overthink it. Your fingers brush his for half a second as you take the mug, and it's ridiculous how much you feel the brief contact. His hands are warm. Or maybe that's just the mug.

You look down at the coffee, but it's not the typical black. Which is exactly how Jack takes it. Instead, it obviouslt has cream in it.

"Hey, this is-"

"How you like it. Yeah."

"But you-"

"Just drink it. I need to head out."

He remembered how you like your coffee. With cream and honey instead of sugar. It sort of makes you feel hot, so you turn slightly away, so he won't see your face, and bring the mug to your lips.

You're very aware of where he'd been drinking from, and deliberately chose the same side. You take a sip, then another, trying to act normal for him as you two make eye contact through the whole thing.

"...Thanks." You murmur, handing it back.

Jack takes it, his fingers settling right where yours were. He takes a sip without a second thought, the fact that your Chapstick mark is still faintly visible on the rim doesn't register at all. But it definitely registers for you.

He looks at you, making a face as you watch him regretfully try to swallow the drink. "I don't know how you can drink that shit. Okay, I gotta get going. Traffic's gonna be a bitch soon."

"Right." You say, pushing off the counter. "Yeah." You start toward the hallway, but stop, turning back. He's watching you again. "Have a good shift!"

There's the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I'll try not to go to the roof this time."

You disappear down the hall before you can respond properly, and in the kitchen, Jack stands there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the mug in his hand. Then he exhales quietly...and takes another sip.

Cleaning is fun when someone isn't in your ear telling you to do it. And you love that the neighborhood is quiet. No honking cars and no one shouting. There's music playing from your phone as you work. Obviously, not loud enough to disturb the few people still sleeping at 4 in the morning.

Somewhere between the scrubbing the last mug (there are so many mugs) and wiping down the counters, you lose track of time.

You move to the living room, and then laundry, which then turns into dusting. The kind of deep clean that only comes with Spring, or that only happens when you've been putting it off for enough weeks, you suddenly have the energy to fix everything at once.

By the time you make it to the bedroom, you're hot. Overly warm in your sweatpants and plain white t-shirt. But actually, it's not just warm. It's also muggy as hell. You knew this summer was going to be sticky, and have the sort of air that lingers on your skin and makes it seem as though you're trying to maneuver your way through thick molasses.

You tug the hem of your shirt, already regretting your choice of attire. "Why is this hot at four in the morning?" You mumble to yourself.

You make a half-hearted attempt to keep cleaning, but five minutes later, you eventually give up. You step into Jack's room with the vague intention of grabbing something a little lighter-maybe one of your own shirts from the laundry pile you abandoned earlier.

Instead, you stop in front of his closet. Maybe Jack has a few shirts he hasn't worn in a while and is willing to share? You weren't going to snoop, and you would take it off before he was due to be back home, so he couldn't tell anyway.

You shrug and open the closet doors, and immediately, it's...very Jack Abbot. It's definitely organized, but not obsessively. Work clothes are up at the front along with his TEMS uniform. And then you spot a few older things pushed toward the back. There, half-hidden behind a row of jackets, are button-ups you've never seen him grace your eyes with.

You get a wicked idea in your head, which is most probably a bad one. However, it's also just a shirt. He literally told you to make yourself at home the first day you moved in. You reach out before you can overthink it, sliding it off the hanger. The fabric is soft. Lightweight. Definitely better than what you're wearing.

"Okay, Jack, I'm just borrowing this to clean," you mutter, as he can somehow hear you. "And then I'll take it off after, and you won't even know it was gone."

By the time you're completely done cleaning, huffing and hawing at the energy it took from you, the house actually looks...amazing. The counters sparkled. The sink was finally empty for once. The laundry was sorted into whites, colors, hang, and dry, etc.

You're standing in the kitchen again, hands on your hips, taking it all in. Jack's shirt hangs loose on you, with the sleeves rolled, a couple of buttons undone at the top. It's big enough to feel like youre wrapped up in it rather than simply wearing it.

You eventually decide that you've more than earned some ice cream and make your way to the nice, clean kitchen. Digging into the freezer, you find a pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk, and pop off the top, grabbing a spoon and hauling yourself up onto the kitchen counter.

Your legs hang off the side of it as you wait a few minutes for it to thaw out, scrolling on your phone. A few text messages from Trinity asking if you want to come over the next time you have a night off, Robby asking i you would pull a double (which, fuck no), and Dana telling you she hopes you enjoy yourself.

You smile to yourself, reading all of it and responding before sliding your spoon through the somewhat now melted desert and you definitely didn't think about what time it was because the sound of the front door opening makes you freeze like a deer in headlights.

Your heart immediately decides to kick up into high gear.

It's 7:30 am, and you knew that, and you should've remembered that Jack is now off his shift. It's not like you can sprint up the stairs because you would have to pass by him to put the shirt back, and at that point, what if he sees you, comes looking for you, hears you running though the house into his room, and he eventually finds you with no shirt on...?

Keys hit the small table by the door. Shoes scuff against the floor, and then...

"Hey," Jack's voice calls, a little tired sounding, a little rough from the end of a long shift. "Are you up?"

You swallow. "Uh-yeah."

There's a brief pause from him, like he doesn't believe you because, really, your voice did sound a little meek, and you hear his footsteps move further inside the house.

You have approximately half a second to decide whether to run, hide, or pretend this is an everyday thing. But you're someone who believes in the divine, and so you decide to stay where you are and hope for the best. Maybe he just won't see you and will decide to just go to bed.

But Jack Abbot likes to pace around, so that's completely out of the situation.

He rounds the corner into the kitchen and completely stops dead in his tracks. For a moment, neither of you says anything. Jack looks like he always does after a shift, the sleeves of his scrubs are pushed up, his hands rubbing together trying to get the years of roughness out of them, and there's so much exhaustion sitting just beneath the surface of his demeanor as he winces from his leg.

But the second his eyes land on you, you watch his gaze flick, quick, trying to take in the whole picture before he can stop his eyes. Because Jack is a good man. A really good man. He would never look at you like that. He would never think of you like that.

Or maybe he would? Bare legs, socks on the tile, his shirt buttoned up, revealing the tops of your breasts.

"...Hi," you say, mouth full of melted ice cream, because the silence between you two is defeaning to a point you swear he can hear you swallow the saliva in your mouth along with the desert.

He blinks, like he's resetting his brain. "Hi."

You gesture vaguely around the kitchen. "I, uh...cleaned."

"Yeah," he says, slowly, still looking at you. "I can see that."

You shift your weight, suddenly very aware of everything. You're very aware of how the shirt falls, how much it doesn't cover, how good it feels because it's his.

"It was kinf od a disaster," you add quickly. "Figured I'd do something useful instead of lying around all day."

"You're always useful."

"I know," you cut in. "But I wanted to be more useful."

He nods once, glancing around properly now. At the counters, the sink, everything. "Looks nice." he says.

"Thank you."

His eyes soon drift back to you, though. You cross your arms without thinking- them immediately realize that just makes it worse, so you stop that and pick the carton of ice cream back up again.

"Oh, sorry." You blurt out. "I'm sorry, I uh...stole your shirt."

Jack's gaze drops briefly to the fabric, like he's confirming what he already knows and can see for himself, then back to your face. "...keep it." he says, quieter.

"No it's okay. It was just really hot," you rush on. "And I didn't want to, like, sweat through my own clothes, and this one looked like you never wear it, so I figured it wouldn't-"

"Is that my ice cream?"

You stop talking and look down at the picture on the pint. "WWhhhaatt? Noooo." You say. You hold the carton out slightly. "You want some?"

He smiles a little. "Yeah." he says.

You smile, scooping up a bite and holding the spoon out toward him without thinking. "Here." You could've handed him the spoon, or, y'know, his ice cream, but you didn't.

His eyes dropped to the spoon, but then traveled back to your face. His hand comes up- not to take the spoon, but to steady your wrist. However, that goes south very soon when the spoon slips, or maybe your fingers let go. Either way, the spoon falls from your grip and you're shouting out a curse as it lands on both the shirt and your thighs before clattering to the floor.

"Shit! Come on!" You say, moving to get up, but he stops you.

"It's not a big deal," he says, picking up the spoon and wiping the residue on the kitchen ground with his shirt.

"No, I just cleaned this- ugh, look at me." He's sort of right; it's no big deal. But you hate being messy, especially when messy things can turn sticky quickly, but he won't let you move. "Jack, please. I need to clean-"

"I'll clean you."

That almost makes you throw up. Because what? What did he just say? Surely he means using a towel, or- your thoughts are strictly cut off when he puts his warm hands on your knees, pushing your legs apart.

"What are you doing?" You have the confidence to ask. Your hands grip the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles are white, but if they weren't holding something, they'd be shaking.

'Helping you clean up."

"But Jack," you start, trying to think of any and all excuses that could stop this. Not that you don't want it, you do. You really, really do. But the position, and Jack's leg, you know, hurt him a lot. And he's probably just feeling the adrenaline wearing off, which diverges into this somewhat desire for you. It's probably not real. "y-your leg-"

"Don't worry about me, honey," he whispers it so gruffly against your skin as the scruff of his five o'clock shadow brushed right up against the inside of your thighs. "Need to clean up this mess before it dries, don't I?"

"Ye-yeah." You nod, stuttering due to the fact that your greatest dream is coming true. Of course, this isn't really how you pictured it. Jack getting on his knees for you. You more or less pictured him fucking you in his car after a tough shift or something like that.

But this was just as good, if not better.

"Do you want me to? I can still get a towel instead."

He's giving you an out, and you should take it, because it's finally registered in your brain that your boss is kneeling between your legs. However...you're more horny than a teeanger right now. And it's not as if you haven't had sex before. You were married. You definitely have. You're not some 34-year-old virgin. It's simply the fact that Jack Abbot is Jack Abbot, and he looks too fucking good right now. It's been so long since you've gotten properly laid, too.

"Yes. I want you to."

And that's all the invitation he needs. He wiggles your shorts down carefully so as not to have the fabric touch the drying ice cream still on your thighs. You forgot you weren't wearing any underwear underneath your shorts, but that's something you couldn't care less about.

He settles between your thighd like he's got nowhere else to be, and you are thoroughly transifxed as his tongue comes out to lick the ice cream off your skin.

"Holy shit," you gasp, your chest already heaving and barely anything has happened. His warm tongue moves from your right leg to your left, slowly making his way up to where you really want him.

He keeps his eyes on yours the whole time, which makes your skin heat up. One of your hands goes to his hair, tugging on the silver locks, and he grunts against you in response. You're leaning on your other hand, the position getting harder to maintain the longer this goes on.

He leaves no trace of ice cream behind before he pulls you to the edge of the counter, your ass almost hanging off of it completely, as he finally flattens his tongue and licks broadly up your cunt. He starts slow with big, languid strokes that make your toes curl. He knows better than to rush it, but you eventually have to retreat to lying on your back.

"Jesus Christ, Jack." You say, your back arching and simultaneously making your hips roll into his mouth.

He pulls away for a moment to say, "Eyes on me, honey," but you don't think you can lift yourself up to keep watching him. He keeps the same pressure, the same pace, the same consistency as he works your clit in slow circles over and over again until your hips are actively rolling against his lips.

But you try anyway, using your arms to push yourself up. You nod, letting him know you will, placing your eyes on his before he slides two fingers inside you in time with his tongue, angled just right, curling up slowly, making sure to work into you, and watching your stomach try and suck in a breath while it simultaneously feels like all the oxygen in your body is being pushed out.

"Shitshitshitshitshit," You moan, exasperated, before lying back on the counter. His hand pushes the shirt up your body a little before settling on your stomach to hold you still when you start to squirm. He groans again against your cunt when you pull on his hair. His grip tightens on your thigh, and you pull on his locks again because he clearly loves it. "Jesus fuck, Jack! Oh my god, please-"

"Please what, honey?" he pulls back enough to say it, muth wet with your arousal, eyes glazed over, his thumb still rubbing those slow circles against your clit while he waits for an answer. "Tell me what you want."

He mouths at your clit softly and slowly while you twitch and gasp and weaky try to push his head away. But he's completely unbothered by your protest and presses your thighs back open.

You already know he's nowhere near done. His free hand leaves your thigh and you push yourself back up again t look at what he's going to do. You look down, watching as he works himself along with you. He make grunts and sounds like he's the one being solely taken care of. His hips rut into his hand, getting visibly and embarrassingly worked up just from this alone.

The whole scene works you up so much that you feel the pleasure build up inside you. "Jack, I'm gonna cum." You tell him, pulling on his hair again. Your chest is heaving as his fingers pick up the pace, moans flow from your mouth as you try to keep your eyes on his, before it all comes crashing over you at once.

It's like the damn breaks inside of you, and you're holding his head against you as your back arches, whining his name to the kitchen ceiling. The heat starts from your shoulders and stops at your toes, but he keeps it going as he still licks as your clit before you're tapping the top of his curls to make him pull away.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead as he helps you back up after a little bit. he slides you off the counter and onto your feet. Your head drops to his shoulder, and his arms come around you to hold you to him. He begins to peel the button-up shirt that's still on your body off your shoulders.

"Holy shit, Jack. That was good." You mumble, looking up at him.

"Yeah? That tire you out?" He asks, and you nod, smiling at him. He gives you a small smile in reply before turning you around, your back up against his front. "Good. That's good, baby." He whispers before placing his lips on your skin. "Then let's get to bed, hm?"

"Okay." You agree, as his hands settle on your waist and begin to walk you forward, upstairs into his bedroom. You've never really noticed the smell before. It smells different in here than the rest of the house. Cool air hits your skin. The mugginess of last night's summer has broken, ad it has changed into a brisk, almost spring day.

But in these four walls, it smells linen and cinnamon.

He sets you down on his bed, and his grey sheets crumple where you land. It all smells like him. Dark wood, expensive cologne, and something so inherently him. He joins you on the bed, his back up against the pillows and headboard, his legs kicking out on either side of you.

You turn, lying down on your stomach. You're now just in your bra as you look up at him, face planted on his thigh. He runs his hand over your face, looking down at you. You want to suck him off so bad, and you know he wants you to. So when his fingers hook under the band of his scrub pants and lower them down, your mouth begins to water in anticipation.

He lifts his hips, and you help him drag the pants down his waist and his thighs, careful of his leg, before you throw them somewhere on his floor. He leaves his shirt on, but you don't care about seeing him fully yet.

You do the same with his boxers, sliding the down his body and having them join the pants on the ground as you look at him, swallowing. "Can I?" You ask, and he nods.

"Yeah, baby. Of course you can. You want me to hold your hair?" One of his hands is coming up to gather all of it into a fist.

"Yeah." You reply, before you wrap your lips around him. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him towards the back of your throat.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he curses.

You begin kissing his tip and darting your tongue out to lick along the vein that runs from base to tip. You watch as his head tips back, his eyes closing shut. You reach your hand up to squeeze his cock while the other moves lower to grip his balls.

That makes his eyes snap open wide, and he's looking at you again. You pop off of him, spitting before saying, "Eyes on me."

He does as he's told, maintaining eye contact with you as you take him into your mouth once more. He winces, throwing his head back, the deeper you go. He soon hits the back of your throat, and your free hand moves from his balls to wrap around the few inches of his cock left over.

The saliva dripping from your mouth coats him completely, and it allows your hand to move easily, lifting your mouth off of him for a moment to breathe. He thrusts his hips into your hand as you direct his length back into your mouth.

"Shit, you're so fucking pretty like this, y'know that?" he whispers, and you have to rub your thighs together to try and take care of the ache between them. "Yeah, just like that. You're doing do good, baby. Making me feel so good."

Your tongue flicks against his tip, making him arch a little. Being a doctor, having to learn anything and everything about, well, everything, you remember the head of a penis is just as sensitive as the clit. So you make it your job to stay on it while also, of course, giving attention to the rest of him.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum. You're gonna make me cum, sweetheart." He tells you, and you know by the way his stomach is starting to tense up. "Stop, stopstopstop." He's mumbling, lifting your head off of him.

You're able to gasp in a few breaths, finally. There's a string of spit connecting you to him, and he's wiping it away with his pointer finger before lifting it to his own mouth. You watch in awe as his tongue licks it up.

"You don't want to cum?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Not in your mouth." He breathes out, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He grabs you, pulling you up into his lap, before wincing and letting out a groan of pain.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, looking at his face. But he's looking away from you. So you gran his jaw, making him look. "Hey, tell me what's wrong."

"It's just my leg." He laughs. It's not because he finds the situation amusing; it's more of a pitying sound.

Of course the position would feel uncomfortable for him, and you're mentally cursing yourself that you hadn't though of removing his leg before this whole thing. You told him he would hurt himself more bending down like that, but you also know Jack likes to sometimes prove himself wrong.

You instantly move off of him, placing yourself between his two legs. "Can I help you?" You ask, looking down at his prosthesis. It has to be rubbing him raw by this point. "Do you need to take it off?"

"Yeah, that'd be great." He grunts, leaning over to begin taking it off, but you place a hand on his chest.

"Let me do it." You ask gently. You move to his leg, your fingers turning the knob of the suspension system that tightens in to his leg, before gently manuvering it off of him. He audibly sighs in relief as you place it softly on the carpet. "Better?"

"So much better," he exhales, grabbing your hips. He turns you around, your back to his chest again, before he's pushing you forward. Your new position is on your stomach on the sheets, your face at the end of his bed.

“Jack, what're you-" You're cut off when he hikes your ass up, inching himself inside you, using one of his hands to support himself along with his good leg. It knocks the wind out of you, and you fall forward onto your hands. He's quick to follow, his entire weight pressing down onto you. You let out a meek moan of his name as he snaps his hips forward.

He lets out a groan of your name in response, pulling out of you and then pushing right back inside. His pelvic bone is right up against your ass, his cock reaching somewhere deep inside you.

“Jack," you manage to squeak out before he uses his arm and good leg to push himself off. You suck in a deep breath that you so badly needed before he wraps his other arm around you, his bicep coming right underneath your chin.

"Shhhh," he whispers into your hair. "Shhhh, baby. 'M'gonna take good care of you. I promise. Brought you here in the first place to do just that, didn't I? Gotta live up to it."

You whine in response. "Jack."

"Been so long, huh? Since you've been treated like this? Fucked like this?"

You can't answer; everything is so overwhelming to you right now. But that soon ends when he collapses back on top of you, somewhat as he grips your hair in his fist. It's not tight, it doesn't hurt, Jack could never hurt you in any way. It's just to keep everything out of your face and to angle your head so he can see your face. "Answer me, baby."

"Yes, Jack, fuck. Yes. So fucking long." You grunt as he picks up the pace. It's getting harder to hold on, and the familiar pressure is building in your lower belly again. He's barely done anything, and you're so worked up that it's embarrassing.

His bicep is still hugging your neck, and you feel yourself reaching that peak. "I'm gonna cum again." You tell him, albeit it's muffled and the words are somewhat mushed together with the angle your head is at, but he knows what you said as he's pulling out slowly, making you clench around him as he leaves.

You suck in a gasp of breath, your body curling in on itself before he's moving you around again. He makes it so you're still on the bottom, but your head is reting on his pillows. "You okay, sweetheart?" He asks you, kissing your skin.

You nod, grabbing onto his arms before he asks you to lift your hips. He places a pillow beneath them and makes sure you're completely comfortable. "Do we need to stop?" He asks you, and you shake your head.

"It's okay, Jack. I'm okay." You reassure him. "Keep going."

He nods, his eyes on yours, before moving his hips closer. You guide him back into you, and he's groaning. His head falls forward, and your hand tangles into his curls as your other hand goes to the back of his neck. "You can put your weight on me, I don't care." You tell him. "I can take it. I can take it, Jack, please."

He's inches above you, panting softly, so close that his forehead bumps into yours. He runs hot. His skin feels like it's on fire and, in turn, sears your skin where his touches. Which is all over. You dig your fingers into his arms.

Your scrabbling at his arms, shoulders, back of his neck, urging him deeper, faster. But he takes his time, because for once, since this whole arragement had started, he has it. The angle of your hips on the pillow has him hitting that spot again. His hands slide down to tilt you up even more as he leans into you.

"Jack, fuck," you breathe. "Fuck."

He murmurs something into your skin, but you can't hear it. He pulls all the way out- slow- and you both gasp. Your breath catches on your lips. And then he thrusts back in: fills you again, and your head rolls against the pillows.

He lifts one hand to your throat and tips your chin with his thumb. "hey," he breathes, and the sound of his voice makes you whine. It's broken and hoarse. "C'mon, sweetheart. Eyes on me. Wanna, fuck, wanna watch you."

You look at him through hooded eyes and he rewards you with an expert roll of his hips. His cock catches that spot, and your hands fly to his forearms, digging marks in his biceps. "Fuck," you yelp. "Jack-"

He finds a pace he likes and can keep up with and sets it. Slow at first, gentle, but after a while, he can't help himself. Either that or it's because your begging finally gets to him. He snaps his hips into yours with a grunt, pulls all the way out, and thrusts back in, over and over until you can't cry his name anymore.

But you look at him, because he told you to. You keep your eyes on his, and your head goes fuzzy. He sees the effort. How desperately you're trying to do as he asked. His cock kisses your g-spot, again and again and again- and his voice goes straight to your cunt.

"Doin' good, sweetheart," he breathes. "Real good, baby."

"Don't stop, Jack. Right there, please. Feel so fucking good-"

"Fuck," he groans. He speeds up what he can, pounds into you faster, and the sound of his skin on yours makes your head spin. Sunlight seeps through the window and splashes on his skin. Makes him burn even hotter. Birds are singing outside, and a nice breeze rolls over the two of you. "S'okay. C'mon, please. Let me fucking'- ugh- let me-"

That's all it takes. Just his ramblings, and the dam breaks. You cum for him, letting out a broken moan of his name. He fucks you through it with deep, steady thrusts, until the noises you're making undo him as well.

His thrusts are more erratic now. He drops his head to your neck, his hands come under your back and hold onto your shoulders, his left hand digging into your right one and vice versa, as he bottosm out and his cock pulses deep inside you. "Shit- so good-" he groans, but his voice breaks it up.

He cums inside you with a moan that sounds like your name, and your nails dig into his own freckled shoulders. Your legs lock around his waist, pressing him into you, and listening to his heartbeat echo over yours. He lets out small grunts as both of you just stay like that. For a long time.

There's no urgency to get up. He stays buried inside you, draped on top of you like ablanket. His nose is nuzzled right up against the side of your neck as you listen to the birdsong floating through the open window. People are starting to wake, car doors are opening and shutting before driving to work, kids get on school buses, and dogs bark at the squirrels running by on the freshly mowed lawns.

You listen and don't say anything until the white-hot bliss starts to ebb, and you actually realize how fucking heavy this man is.

"Jack," you mumble. he grunts, his nose nudging at your neck. You push at his arm, and he flops back down. "off," you whine. "Can't breathe.

'if you can talk, you can breathe. You're a doctor, you know this." He hums sleepily.

You roll your eyes. A smile plays at your lips, though, nestled under his shoulder. "Get off," you say, trying to wiggle free, but he's all weight and muscle. "Jesus Christ, how heavy are you? You have to weight like...ten thousand pounds."

he finally relents with a huff. He rolls off of you, cock slipping free, and you gasp at the loss. He flips onto his back and sprawls beside you on the sheets. "Happy?" he sounds offended, but he offers a tired smile.

You'd honestly take suffocating underneath him any day, but you don't tell him that. You give him a contented sigh instead, before rolling over on your side, propping up on your elbow, and kissing his cheek. "yeah, you say. "Very happy."

But his eyes are closed, and Jack Abbot is finally sleeping in peace.

Steve doesn't know why this matters, but he tries to help anyway.

So far, you have:

10 pm: go out with group

1 am: robin basically dead, vickie takes her back to the hotel; jonathan and nancy go too

1:30 am: we leave current bar?

2 am: no idea how we got to the next bar - we do shots, i think we dance, i'm pretty sure there's karaoke too?

2:45 am: another club???? dancing on bar????

sometime between then and the time we find a chapel and get married?????

7 am: wake up in motel bathroom, i throw up, steve has a panic attack

"Do you remember anything else?" you sigh, leaning your head back against the ugly, floral wallpaper of the bathroom. "Anything about the place we would've gone?"

You can't even utter the words chapel or married out loud. They feel ridiculous and obscene.

With his eyes still screwed shut, he shakes his head, but not before clutching his temples in pain.

"I really don't, I'm sorry," he mumbles, "Listen, why don't we just ask everyone else if they remember anything? Maybe someone saw something?"

Your eyes widen. "Oh, we are not telling anyone about this. Are you insane? We need to get this taken care of, like, now."

He peaks his eyes open and looks at the frantic urgency on your face.

"They're our friends. They might be able to help."

"Unless one of them magically got a law degree last night, I don't think they can do anything."

Steve snorts. "I hate to break it to you, but it's Saturday, sweetheart. No lawyer is gonna see us to get a stupid Vegas marriage annulled."

It's silent as your eyes narrow at him. "It's Vegas. There has to be a lawyer that, like, does this shit for a living."

"Divorces drunken couples?"

"We're not a couple, Steve," you mutter, tossing the notepad on the ground. Groaning, you rise to your feet, refusing to acknowledge your appearance in the mirror. You already know you look as gross as you feel, thanks to all of the alcohol you consumed. "Is there a phonebook somewhere? I'll start looking for lawyers to call."

Steve shrugs, "Check the bedroom."

He's not treating this whole thing half as urgently as he needs to be, and you can't figure out why. With a noisy sigh, you open the bathroom door, prepared to start your search for a phonebook but instead, your stomach drops at the sight of Robin, Vickie, Jonathan, and Nancy already awake.

And they're staring at something.

And you already know it can't be good.

Nancy's the first to sense your presence. Her eyebrows fly to her forehead, but not before her petite hands go to cover whatever they're looking at on the coffee table. Wordlessly, you march towards them, a loud groan falling from your lips when you see it.

Polaroid pictures of your... wedding.

"What the hell happened last night?" Robin breathes, picking one up and thumbing it between her fingers. It's of you in a headband veil, a bouquet of fake flowers in your grip. You're grinning and standing in front of a banner that says Happily Married!

"Oh my god," you mutter, grabbing it from her.

"Rob, we said we wouldn't do this—"

"Is this real?" she asks, cutting off Nancy's attempt at niceties, "Did you guys for real get married last night? Tell me it's real, holy fuck—"

Suddenly, Steve appears at your side, all messy hair and tired, squinty eyes. He's still in the outfit he woke up in — his faded Levi's, a suede brown jacket, and no shirt. You roll your eyes.

"We woke up to a marriage certificate taped to the bathroom mirror," he says flatly, "And princess here needs a phonebook so she can start looking for a lawyer to divorce us."

"Oh my god, this is insane—"

"I saw one in our room," Jonathan says quickly, ignoring Robin's impending freakout — which, for some reason, is reading positive — and standing to his feet, "But I'm not sure if you'll find one with business hours today—"

"I don't care!" you exclaim, the shrill sound of your own voice sending a throb of pain straight to your temples. "We blacked out, we got married, and I need it gone, okay?"

No one talks. Jonathan gets up to walk to his and Nancy's adjoining room to look for the phonebook.

And then: "Well don't you at least wanna look at our wedding photos?"

You spend at least two hours crawling through all of the lawyers listed in Las Vegas.

You get the voicemail for every single one.

You're grateful for the help offered by Nancy and Jonathan, but there's nothing they can really do. Robin pulled Steve into the bathroom around the time you started dialing numbers, but he's been back, flopped across the length of the couch, for awhile now. You insist that everyone else should go out and enjoy the rest of the day, but they all stay behind for moral support.

By the time you slam the phone down, hanging up on lawyer number whatever-the-fuck's office, you think Steve may actually be right: Lawyers don't work on the weekends.

You sigh. "Does anyone know any lawyers in Hawkins that could handle this? I can delay my flight back to school by a day if it means we can get it fixed on Monday."

"Absolutely fuckin' not," Steve interjects, scrambling from his seat on the couch. "My parents will find out. They're friends with, like, a ton of lawyers, and they'll disown me."

"Well you getting disowned is a lot better than us staying married, Steve—"

"It's not happening," he says, crossing his arms over his chest like a stubborn toddler. "You don't know them, they'll seriously kill me."

"What, with their fancy oyster knives?" Robin snickers from the bed and Steve shoots her a dirty look.

"Your parents are barely around, Steve. My uncle's a paralegal for this small little office that's like 20 minutes from Hawkins. I bet you could go there."

For the first time this morning, there's a glimmer of hope for your future.

"Could you call him?" you ask excitedly, "See if we could come in on Monday morning?"

Robin shrugs, "Yeah, I'll try. Hand me the phone."

Clumsily, you stand up from the carpeted floor and bring the wired landline over to Robin and Vickie's bed. Jonathan and Nancy continuing playing a game of Go Fish as you plop down next to Steve on the couch.

"Why are you being so difficult about this?" you ask lowly, trying not to interfere with Robin's phone call.

"I'm not," Steve retorts stubbornly. After everyone looked through the array of Polaroids taken at the chapel, he'd taken to cleaning them up and forming them in a neat stack. He thumbs over the top one of you two; his arms around you, hugging you from behind, you both smiling cheekily — and drunkenly.

"You are," you insist. "You shoot down every idea I have. You haven't helped at all. Do you hate me that much?"

You don't mean it when it comes out, but the words tumble from your mouth regardless. Steve looks at you for the first time in the past few hours, his eyebrows knitted together. His lips part before glancing down at the picture in his hand.

"I don't hate you at all," he says. His tone is gentle, soft, and not because Robin's currently catching up with her uncle. "Why would you think that?"

You shrug your shoulders, bringing your knees to your chest as you settle back against the tattered couch.

"We're two of Robin's best friends and it just feels like you've always kinda ignored me," you explain, nibbling on your bottom lip. "I mean, I know we don't have to be best friends or anything, but I just feel like we've never really gotten to know each other. I don't know anything about you besides... well, besides what everyone says, I guess."

"Then you know none of that shit is true, right?" he asks, a slight edge to his voice. "It hasn't been true in years, not since I graduated high school."

You blink at him.

You'd never really considered that.

"I think it's stupid that you ever even thought I hated you," Steve continues. He stands from the couch and shoves the pictures in his pocket. "'cos that really couldn't be farther from the truth."

In hindsight, Steve regrets throwing a temper tantrum.

As he lays in the cold porcelain of the bathtub, gangly limbs covered in denim, he flips his lighter open and closed, over and over again, as if it'll magically take back the stupid shit he said.

He's throwing himself a pity party. He knows that.

With his hangover headache still clawing at his temples, he wishes he could just sink into ceramic, never to be found again.

Unsurprisingly, it's Robin who eventually throws open the bathroom door, an unamused expression on her face.

"What the hell are you doing, dingus?"

Steve glares at her.

"You yelled at her," she continues, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why did you yell at her? She hasn't done anything wrong."

"I know that."

He flips the metallic Zippo closed. Then open.

"So why'd you do it?"

Flips it closed.

Opens it again.

"I'm gonna throw that thing at your head."

Steve sighs and closes it, then stuffs the lighter in his pocket.

"You're gonna think I'm being, like, beyond stupid."

"Stupider than the time you punched a scary Russian soldier?" Robin tilts her head, "Stupider than when you told said scary Russian soldiers Dustin's full name? Stupider than the time—"

"Okay, Robs, I get it," he mutters, folding his knees to sit up straighter. "I kind of... Ihaveacrushonher."

"Huh?" Robin's face wrinkles, and she kneels down to get eye level with him. "What'd you say?"

"IsaidIhaveacrushonher."

"You need to speak louder, dickhead, you're mumbling—"

"I like her!" Steve whisper-yells, "And don't say anything, okay?!"

For a moment, Robin's silent. A rare sight.

And then— she's laughing.

Full and loud, in that classic Robin way where Steve knows he's being an idiot, and it makes him want to crumple in on himself even more. He groans and goes to lay back in the tub, head leaning back against the uncomfortable porcelain lip.

"Oh my god—" she utters through boisterous giggles, "You would accidentally marry the girl you like!... Oh my god, it was a mistake, right? You didn't, like, do some weird psychopath shit and get her drunk and—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Steve exclaims, "Do you think that little of me?! Of course it was a mistake! This is, like, effectively ruining my chances with her, and can you keep your fucking voice down?"

Robin's laughter finally comes to an end, her hand clutching her stomach from her mirthy fit. Steve's not surprised that it came at his expense.

"So, what? You're offended that she wants to pretend the whole thing never happened? You can't take that personally, Steve, you guys did it when you were beyond fucked up."

He shrugs. "I know that. I just... I don't know. Thought I'd be further along in life by now."

Robin's eyebrows furrow. "What d'you mean?"

He sighs. His best friend is no stranger to his lifelong dream of settling down with a nice girl and starting a family. And surely, no one could have predicted the way they'd spent the past few years — saving the world from ending, and all — but Steve simply assumed that... well, maybe he'd have someone by his side by now. Someone to come home to, someone to care for, someone to call his.

"Oh... oh, Steve."

When it clicks for Robin, she regards him with the kind of softness she only reserves for a few instances — like when he worked himself up to ask Marisa Boysen out the next time she came into Family Video, only for her to tell him that she's dating one of Steve's old basketball teammates. She reaches out and gently squeezes his shoulder. Steve sort of hates when she gets like this, all genuine and real, because it makes him feel a little pathetic.

"It's fine," he mumbles, resisting the urge to shrug her hand away. He doesn't want to take his complicated emotions out of Robin, especially when she's trying to make him feel better.

"You just... I don't know what you're expecting here, Steve," she says it softly, like she's the one who's gently rejecting him.

"I don't know, either," he mutters, scrubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I know I can't, like... we can't stay married. She doesn't even like me. But my parents would maybe, like, be happy for once? And it would just be nice to get started on that part of my life, I think."

Robin gives him a sympathetic look, but it doesn't last as long as either of them would like.

Because, in typical, fumbly, Robin-like style, she accidentally left the bathroom door open.

And now, you're standing in the doorway, jaw clenched, nostrils flared.

For a moment, it's so silent you think you could hear a pin drop.

Then: "You want to stay married?"

You storm out before Steve gets a chance to explain himself, both his and Robin's mouths dropped open in shock. He hears the sound of the door slamming, signaling that you left the motel room.

Robin blinks, then whips her head to you. "What the hell are you waiting for, idiot? Go fix it!"

"Fix it?!" Steve exclaims, though he's still clamoring out of the bathtub, "What am I supposed to do?"

"Explain that you're not a total creep who's trying to bamboozle into marriage!" she shrieks, pushing him towards the doorway. "Tell her what you just told me, just— fix it, dumbass!"

part three