#dbf

“Your therapist deserves death by lethal injection.” Was what you said to Jack Abbott when you saw him for the first time in three months.

It was six-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday, and you both were at the cemetery. It was your mother’s birthday, and you and Jack made an unspoken pact to only visit her together on two days: Birthday, and Death Day. You visited her on your own, but only if you were in a crisis and wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t talk back.

Jack hummed, leaning against his car as you approached him. “She could only do seven today this week. Did you bring the flowers?”

“I thought you said you’d get them?” Your voice was annoyed, but your heart stilled at the thought.

He brought his phone out, showing you your texts. Of course, two nights ago, you agreed that you would be the one to bring flowers since he did so last time. Sighing heavily, you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I’m sorry; it’s been tough this week.”

Not exactly a lie, but not exactly true.

“It’s alright.” Jack tucked his hands in his pockets. “She never liked getting gifts anyway.”

Your desire to not have a debate outweighed your desire to say something. Nodding, you both treaded through the cemetery until you found your mother’s grave. Maybe it was your fault for not going out of your way to see Jack before this, but you were never that close to him.

“How’s life been for you?” He asked as you walked on the gravel road.

“Not bad.” You responded dryly.

“Job hunting going okay?”

There it is. You sighed to yourself. Where you were distant from him, he was still your stepfather. Pursing your lips, you said. “It’s been going. It’s shit finding a job after graduation.”

“The one at the old folks’ home wasn’t so bad.”

“You didn’t have to work there.” You smiled tightly.

“Seemed pretty tranquil.”

“That’s a big vocab word for you.”

Okay, you were being a bitch; but to be fair, he kind of was too. Also, it was early in the morning and you would have to be reminded that your mother, one of the only people you believed to truly understand you, was dead.

So…maybe not an excuse, but an explanation.

Jack took it in stride, laughing. “I’m not smart, but I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“You’d be surprised how many of them are morons.”

That made you smile; just a little. The two of you finally made it to the grave in silence, standing above it. Your mother was younger than Jack, but not by much. She’d tease him about being a predator, and you both expected him to brush it off, or make a crude joke; but no, those were the only times you’d ever see Jack Abbott blush in embarrassment.

You tried to keep your gaze on her gravestone, as if you could communicate with her by burning your eyes into it. Still, they moved to Jack’s hands beside you, fiddling with his wedding ring. He never took it off, at least never in front of you.

Sometimes, selfishly, you hoped he would. Just so that he would move on, find someone else, and forget about you. It would be easier just to never talk to him again than have to check in once in a while because he still felt some responsibility for you.

But, you didn’t wish that on your mother; for you to be the only one mourning her.

So, you and Jack continued to stand above her grave for a few more minutes, silently conversing with her. When it was over, you both broke with ‘I love you’ to her.

The walk back to your car was more awkward than on the way to the grave. It was quieter, the only sound being the early breeze and the birds starting to sing.

“Listen,” Jack sighed. “I know you hate this, but if you really need work-.”

“I’m good.” You stared ahead.

“It’s been months, and I just want you to-.”

“No.”

He placed his hand on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “Can you let me finish?”

You didn’t say anything.

Jack took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to hate your job, or get burnt out a week into it, but we’re short staffed with social workers at the hospital.”

You bit your tongue. To be fair, it was hell trying to find something in social work. The senior center was boring to you, you didn’t have great experience with children…

The hospital only seemed reasonable, yet…

“I hate handouts, but I’ll think about it.”

“It’s not a handout; it’s using your resources.”

You hummed, giving a smile that said it all: ‘Sure, totally.’

To Jack’s credit, he was a lot like you: wouldn’t let go of shit even when it was probably for the best. “I interned at the same time with one of the day shift attendings at PTMC. Years later, he ends up working there, and I need a job after Iraq. How do you think I got it?”

Sighing, you said. “Point taken, I’m an asshole.”

He shrugged, fighting a smile. “Only sometimes.”

Snickering, you went to your car, calling back. “Have fun at therapy, old man.”

“Hey,” he called your name. “would you want to get breakfast after my session? I’ll buy.”

If you weren’t in a mood, maybe you would’ve said yes. But, alas, you were still somewhat grumpy after the exchange, so you settled on.

“I was gonna meet Kimi at Big Dog, actually.” You said half-heartedly. “She wanted to talk to me about something.”

He hummed. “I get it. How’s she doing?”

You smiled genuinely. “It’s Kimi.”

 “Boyfriend trouble?”

“I mean, she broke up with Trent last week. Let’s see if she takes him back by the end of this one.”

He chuckled. “Can’t wait to hear about it. See you around?”

“See you around.” You waved, getting into your car. You pulled out of the cemetery and onto the road, driving to Big Dog Coffee. Of course, Kimi wasn’t going to meet you there, she probably wasn’t even out of bed yet. You knew it was her day off, so there was no way she’d be up before lunchtime.

When you arrived, you breathed in the sweet air of cappuccino, cinnamon, and a pleasant array of scents. It was always peaceful whenever you walked into the café, even if it was a bit like now. The line, while not outside the door, was long. Still, despite all the two things that happened to you that day, you were patient.

You ordered your favorite hot drink and stood in the designated area where people would pick up their orders.  After spending some time looking at your phone (and quickly regretting it because of seeing two separate engagement posts), the barista called your name.

You picked up your drink with a quick ‘thank you’, and just as you turned over your shoulder, a man ran into your side, causing your drink to fall out of your hand.

“What the hell?!” You gasped, looking up who was dumb enough to crash into you.

A man old enough to be your father shook his head. “I am so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going-.”

“Yeah, no shit.” You huffed. It wasn’t even seven yet, and you already visited your mother’s grave, got into a minor argument with your stepfather you barely saw, and now had your favorite, overpriced drink knocked out of your hand.

All anyone could do in a time like this was try not to laugh because that would be inappropriate.

The man in front of you wore a polite smile, as if trying to feel you out. “I’ll buy you another one-.”

“No.” You answered, sobering up but mirroring his smile. “I’m good.”

He shrugged with an ‘Okay’, and yet, something inside of him possessed him to say. “Well, it doesn’t look like any got on you, so at least you won’t have to remove your shirt and check for burns.”

It should have creeped you out, what he said. Still, you had been around doctors before (your stepfather, other social work cases, and what happened to your mother), and you knew what they sounded like, even in the wild.

So, you laughed; both from what he said, and the look on his face soon after where you thought he was going to die on the spot after realizing what he just uttered.

“I guess.” You shook your head. “It didn’t get on you?”

When he realized you weren’t going to rip him to shreds, he chuckled. “Nope, I’m clean. Really, I’m so sorry.”

You shrugged. “It was an accident; you’re probably running late.”

“Just a bit, you?”

“Not at all. What’d you order?”

You absolutely had no idea why you were trying to make conversation with this man who appeared to be in his early fifties, with a beard that fit his face, and with dark circles under his eyes no amount of concealer could get rid of. No, it wasn’t because you were afraid of him and felt like you had to.

Dare say…you wanted to.

Fortunately, he must’ve felt the same, because he responded. “Coffee, straight black.”

You hummed. “Need to wake up?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Yesterday wasn’t so great and I decided I need a pick-me-up.”

“What was so horrible about yesterday?”

You couldn’t tell if you were still talking to him because you were a nosy bitch, your innate social worker attitude to play pseudo-therapist, or just because you felt something when talking to him.

“I’m an attending physician.” He answered. “It’s doctor who is kinda the-.”

“I know what an attending is.” You smiled tightly.

He mirrored your grin again, more so out of embarrassment. “Sorry.”

You shrugged. “I did an internship at Magee’s, so I kind of got a good idea.”

Hell no were you going to say, ‘My stepdad is an attending too!’ like you were bragging to the other kids at school.

“Pathology?”

You made a face, but not an unpleasant one. “Worse, social work. What made you think pathology?”

“I don’t know,” he settled. “just something about you.”

…Was he meaning to be obvious about hitting on you, or was he doing the thing older men do where he pretends to ‘just be nice’ but he’s hoping to get lucky?

Your superpower, from trauma and your profession, was hyper vigilance, so usually you were good at figuring out what-.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, laughing awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah,” you played it straight. “maybe you shouldn’t stereotype people in your profession.”

His entire face dropped. “I didn’t mean-.”

“I’m messing with you.” You only realized how crazy you probably looked switching up on him. So, you stuck your hand out to try and preserve whatever dignity you had left. You gave him your name.

He smiled, shaking yours. “You shake hands.”

“Usually people tell me their names after that.”

“A black coffee for Michael!” The barista yelled despite him being within earshot.

He hummed, taking his coffee off the counter. “Ask and you shall receive, I guess.”

“I guess.” You chuckled.

He smiled at you, and maybe you were delusional, but you felt like it was longer than it should have been before he straightened himself and said. “Well, it was nice meeting you, but I gotta go.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Thought you said you weren’t running late?” He teased.

Oh yeah…I did. You backpaddled as best you could. “I mean, I’m not. I work at Beatty Point Village so it’s a bit of a drive but…you know.”

And so, the lying began. Except, it was only a lie because you didn’t work there at the time.

He nodded. “Senior center? Sounds exciting.”

You snorted. “I think we might have an Elvis impersonator today. Bet working as an attending is boring.”

“Absolute snooze fest.” He said sarcastically, walking backwards out the door. “Have a nice day!”

Michael didn’t give you time to wish him one before he left. Well…that was an awkward yet nice interaction? Sighing, you went back up to the counter to order your second favorite drink (the one that wasn’t so overpriced).

It was decided then that you would spend the rest of your time in the café on your phone on LinkedIn, looking for a job. If you were going to be doing something agonizing, you might as well do it in a pretty place.

A few hours later, and after clicking ‘Apply’ to several jobs you didn’t even like, you were ready to go home.

Yet, when you stood up, something gleamed in your eye. On the floor, was a little pendant. Bending down, you picked it up.

The Star of David.

A normal person would’ve left it on the ground or given it to the baristas. Then, there was you; you slipped it into your purse without a second thought, and you left.

You still don’t know why you did that.

When you got home, you were greeted by Kimi lying on the couch, scrolling on her phone. She glanced up at you. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.” You snorted.

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Trent kept trying to call me.”

“Why don’t you just block him already?” You asked.

“He always does this.” she explained. “Radio silence the first few days, fills my answering machine the next, and then an apology two weeks later. I’m not gonna take him back though; we’re done. What were you doing today?”

You pursed your lips. “It’s my mom’s birthday.”

That was enough for her to put her phone down and open her arms. You smiled and sat down, letting her pull you into a hug.

“You okay?” She asked.

“I had to see my stepdad,” you sighed. “and I forgot to bring flowers.”

“Damn. When was the last time you saw him?”

“A few months, I think.”

She nodded. “Wanna make mimosas and watch a movie?”

You laughed. “It’s not even noon.”

“Didn’t know you liked watching movies after lunch.” She hit back.

Shaking your head you said. “I’ll make popcorn, but that’s it.”

“You’re no fun.” She whined. “So, you were at the cemetery for a few hours?”

“No.” You stood, walking to the kitchen. “I went to Big Dog and tried job searching. A guy bumped into me and made me drop my drink.”

“Asshole. Give me his address.” Kimi commanded. “I’ll burn his house to the ground.”

“Kimberely, I don’t think the principal of your school wants one of his teachers to be charged with arson.” Your straight tone didn’t match your amused smile.

“That’s why I’m just a sub.” She bragged.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you decided not to tell her more about Michael. It’s not like there was anything to tell.

So, the day played out like usual, and so did the next one, and then the next one. Everyday felt the same; wake up, apply for jobs, then get emails starting with ‘We regret to inform you’ from jobs you had forgotten about.

It was on the fourth day you decided to go back to Big Dog to at least treat yourself for your noble efforts of seeking employment.

You went in the afternoon this time, and it wasn’t as packed as the morning you went in, so you managed to get a small snack without anyone bumping into you. Sitting at a small table, you pulled out your laptop. The moment you did, who would walk through the door than Michael.

It felt different seeing him. To be fair, there was no initial hostility from him bumping into you, so that added onto it. He walked hands in his pockets up to the counter, ordering. He seemed to not have as much weight on his shoulders that day; at least, not as much as there was when you last saw him.

He must’ve felt your eyes on him, because his soon trailed over to you, and he smiled.

“Hey,” he said your name, approaching your table.

“Hi.” You greeted, somehow feeling at ease when being approached by a grown man. “Have a better shift?”

He nodded. “Better than a few this week. What about you?”

You shrugged. “The Elvis impersonator cancelled.”

Michael winced. “You had it worse than I did.”

“Eh, at least I didn’t have an old lady confess to murder this time.”

“Well, now I gotta hear this.”

You tilted your head to the empty seat across from you. “You’re more than welcome to.”

It felt strange how easy it was to talk to him. Blame it on your own anxiety, blame it on Covid fucking everyone’s socialness, but you weren’t one to talk to strangers in cafes. There was just something about him that…made him so interesting to you.

Still, he hummed, sitting down after a moment of pondering. “Spill.”

Sitting up, you began. “So, Mary-Anne was honestly the most popular girl there, she was super sweet. Like, you picture the textbook old grandma, and that was her. I’m reading to her one night, this old murder mystery or something, and she says, ‘Men don’t scream the way they do in movies’. So, I’m thinking she’s just talking to talk, but when I tried to keep reading, she told me in great detail how she lured her abusive husband out into the woods when they lived in Montana and killed him.”

“No, she didn’t.” Michael shook his head, chuckling.

“Peter DiMaggio. Look it up and you’ll find a missing person’s case in Hamilton, 1961.” You grinned as if you were the one who killed him.

He nodded. “I believe you. What happened to Mary-Anne?”

“She passed away the next night.”

“Okay, you’re bullshiting me-.”

“You just said you believed me!” You laughed.

“Well, maybe I don’t now.”

You wondered if it weirded him out how effortless the conversation fell between the two of you. He must have; you didn’t even want him to confirm how old he was, and you didn’t want to confirm yours either.

“A doctor who doesn’t believe patients?” You joked. “Don’t know if I’m really that surprised.”

“Woah.” He smiled. “Bad experience?”

“Not really, just a shitty joke.” You tried to shrug it off. “What happened at your shift the other day?”

He thinned his lips. “Nothing really.”

“Now who’s bullshitting?” You smirked. “You don’t have to tell me something traumatic just…something.”

Michael rose his brows, leaning back in the chair and then sighing, defeated. He reached around his neck, pulling an empty chain out of his shirt. “I lost my medal a few days ago. I thought it must’ve fallen off when I bumped into you, but when I came back the next day, no one found anything. It’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it still threw me off.”

You furrowed your brow. “What was it?”

“Star of David.”

Immediately, your hand went into your purse. Once you felt the sharp points prick your fingers, you dug it out and held it in the palm of your hand. Michael’s face fell into the perfect mix of shock and relief.

“I forgot about it the second I found it.” You began. “I should’ve given it to the baristas. I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was yours.”

He took it, holding it in a way where you knew it was holy to him in more ways than one. “I…I thought it was gone forever. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing-.”

“No,” he stopped you. “it means a lot. Seriously, I bumped into you last week, and here you are, finding something that means the world to me.”

You were feeling bold and stupid. “How about you buy me the overpriced drink you knocked out of my hand?”

“Done.”

…That was easy. You thought.

Michael didn’t come back until both of your drinks were made. The time alone only settled in the strangeness of this entire situation. Yes, sometimes life was all about having good conversations with people without it leading to anything.

…So why did you want it to? He was reasonably attractive, and so far, very kind to you. Still, you were always the voice of reason with friends who were getting with older men.

“It doesn’t matter if he said he loves you.” You told your old sophomore year roommate when she was thinking of dropping out of college to move to California with a man who was forty-five. “You’ve only known him for three months, you don’t know anyone out there, and there’s probably a reason he’s not with someone his own age.”

You managed to convince her. But there you were in that café in Pittsburgh years later, having coffee with a man most likely older than the ones you begged your friends not to date.

Nothing would probably happen, that was your rationalization.

“Okay,” you sat up straighter, smiling once he came back to the table. “now I have to hear why it’s important to you. If you want to tell me, that is.”

He didn’t take his eyes off the medal. He’d taken out a pair of glasses from his bag and put them on to get a better look as he tried to reattach the star to the chain.

Fuck…why’d he look even more attractive?

“I lived with my grandma when I was really young; until high school, I think.” He said as if you were interviewing him for a job. The more he spoke, the more you could hear the strain in his voice. “She made me go to service every Saturday and said a prayer every morning. She didn’t even give me this for a birthday or anything; just found it in a drawer when I was eight.”

It was such a simple story, but one you knew carried an immense weight.

“You still practice?” You couldn’t help but ask.

“Thinking about it.” He sighed, finally getting the star back onto the chain and slipping it around his neck. “I barely know anything about you.”

You hummed. “What do you want to know?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you have any siblings?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Won’t ask anymore.”

“No, it’s-.” You stopped yourself, laughing from nerves. “I was obviously an accident. My mom and I were close until she passed away a few years ago, but she married this one guy I don’t really talk to.”

You felt like it was too much to say. Was it because it was, or because it was the first time in a while you told someone? Was it weird you still felt empty yet whole at the same time whenever you talked about her?

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom.” Was his response. Appropriate and predictable, but it sounded genuine. Well…he was a doctor; probably a good one if you had to go off from what you knew about him.

“I like talking about her.” You smiled.

He mirrored it, not saying anything right away. Nobody ever talks about the silence within conversations; how peaceful it is just to exist. It didn’t matter that you only knew him as the man who bumped into you at a café like it was a damn romcom from the 2000s. You were just beginning to know who he really was.

“How old are you?” He asked.

And there was the question. The question where you vowed you wouldn’t lie. So, you told him the truth. Michael’s eyes grew only minimally, but his whole body tensed.

“I was definitely out of college by then.” He stated.

You asked him. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-one.” He was in the age range you assumed he was, so it wasn’t that much of a shock. When you didn’t react in any way, he asked. “What are you getting out of this?”

You furrowed your brow. “You came up to me?”

“Look I…” He sighed. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to think I have an ulterior motive or anything. I’ll get up and leave right now if you ask.”

Tilting your head, you decided to turn the tables. “Do you have any friends outside of work?”

“Excuse me?”

“Wife, husband, kids? Anything like that?”

“No.”

 “Okay, we’re in the same boat.”

“What’re you getting at?”

You leaned forward. “Almost all of the friends I’ve made in high school, college, and grad-school have either gotten married, moved states, or just stopped talking to me. The only person I consistently speak with is my roommate who is like an annoying little sister that’s in a shitty on-and-off again relationship. I’m just saying, if or when one of us just needs to vent…sometimes it’s better to do it with someone who only knows you.”

Compelling argument on one hand. On the other, sweet baby Jesus and the grown one too, you were lonely.

He turned his head to the side. “So, we just rant to each other. That’s it?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We could meet on our days off, then take as long as we need.”

“When are your days off?”

“When are yours?”

And that’s how perhaps your strangest relationship started. Your decided date would be Thursdays at eleven. That day, you both still spoke for hours even with the uncomfortable introduction.

You told him stories about coworkers that frustrated you (fuck you Robyn, you know what you did), and elderly residents that were both weird but kind at the same time (Mr. Carter said he would beat other ‘suitors’ with sticks if they were ever mean to you. A win is a win?).

Michael’s were more eventful. The other day, he went from consoling a drunk teenager who crashed his father’s car, to then pulling a horsefly out of a woman’s ear.  He talked about the other doctors and students too.

Dana wasn’t a doctor but the charge nurse and ran the ER simultaneously like the Navy but also a gentle daycare. Javadi was the youngest, being twenty years old but extremely bright. McKay was passionate but could be impulsive. And Mohan was smart as a whip and would spend a lot of time getting to know the actual patients.

“I think you’d like her.” He said.

You took a sip of your drink. “Yeah, just tell me when she’s working and I’ll break my arm.”

He laughed, not even bothering to hide it.

You went home feeling happier than you had in months.

The one or two friends you had left in Pittsburgh took notice, and you did your best to keep it vague as possible. (“I’ve just been going to a coffee shop a lot; getting things done.” “Yeah, I met someone there.” “No, it’s nothing serious. Just nice to have someone to talk to.”)

Kimi though, for how unassuming she could be, immediately knew.

“This the same guy who ran into you?” She asked as you both ate dinner the night after your first ‘official’ meeting with Michael.

You nodded. “Yeah, he got me a drink because I found his medal that fell off his chain.”

“And he’s old?”

“A bit.”

She shrugged. “I mean, if you’re fine being a sugar baby, then get it.”

You snorted. “We’re just talking.”

“Ninety percent of sugar baby work is just being a therapist.”

“You speaking from experience?”

“I had friends who did.” She pointed her fork at you, grinning. “Never knew you’d be one of them.”

Shaking your head, you played with your food. “He won’t pay for anything, and he’s also being my therapist.”

“You talking shit about me?”

“Oh, hell yeah, Kimberly.”

Job hunting was another monster that hid itself in the depths of your mind. You miraculously got an interview out of the hundreds of applications you sent out.

You thought it went well, but just the next day, you were welcomed with an email, informing you the position had already been filled.

So, just a week after saying you wouldn’t take handouts, you texted Jack.

“Sorry for being an asshole last week. Has the position been filled at PTMC?”

He texted you an hour later. “I emailed you the application. I can’t guarantee an interview, but I think I could pull a few strings. I won’t be as honest as I should if they ask me if you’re nice 😊”

You chuckled, staring at your phone.

“Michael?” Kimi asked, sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Jack’s helping me get a job at the hospital.”

She hummed. “You see, that’s a provider. That’s the kind of man I need in my life.”

“Just because you haven’t talked to Trent in weeks doesn’t mean you can screw my stepdad.”

“Would that make me your step-step mom?”

You threw a pillow at her.

Of course you told the story to Michael the next day, changing details of course. Your stepdad wasn’t helping you get a job; he was fixing your car. He wasn’t an attending at a hospital; he was a mechanic.

“Your roommate’s something else.” He hummed.

“Please,” you rolled your eyes. “you don’t know the half of it.”

And you talked for another few hours. Apparently, one of the senior residents at the hospital was caught months ago stealing some of the medications and was currently in rehab.

“It was just before Pittfest.” He sighed. “He came back of course, and I was pissed but…we needed all hands-on deck.”

You nodded. “I can’t even imagine.”

“I really trusted him, you know?”

You placed your hand on his, only to retract it once you felt his skin on yours and you realized what you were doing. He didn’t seem to care and continued.

A week later, you got a call to schedule an interview later that week for the social worker job. You kept it secret from everyone that wasn’t Jack; just in case you wouldn’t get it. Of course, it almost slipped out when you were talking with Michael.

There was just something about him that made you feel safe.

“You know,” he began one day. “I saw you in here sometimes when it wasn’t our day.”

“Yeah?” You drank your drink.

He hummed. “The coffee’s good, you’re not the only reason I come here.”

“Well now I’m wounded.” You teased. “Why’d you never come in?”

Michael shrugged. “You’d be in there first. Wouldn’t want you thinking I was stalking you or something.”

“Good man.”

“What’s something else I don’t know about you?” He asked.

You snickered. “I’m not that interesting.”

“I feel like I’ve been talking at you the whole time.” He smiled. “I just need to think of what to ask.”

“A lot of guys I’ve talked to just rely on the girl to carry the conversation. They get confused why she doesn’t want to talk anymore.” You joked.

Guys my age I went on dates with… was what hung above the statement.

“Okay,” he leaned forward. “what’s at the front of your mind right now? Like, something that would feel good to get out?”

There were a million things.

“I miss my mom.”

“I’m scared of my roommate getting back together with her shitty ex.”

“I got an interview!”

“I feel like I’m dying at my job.”

Trauma dumping hated to see you coming.

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“I mean,” you forced a laugh. “It’s obviously not as stressful as yours but I think that’s the point. I’m bored, and I feel like I’m aging with my residents.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to-.”

“And you’re starting to sound like them.”

Let it be known that, despite going through years of schooling, you never really perfected keeping your thoughts to yourself.

Still, he did not look offended even for a moment. He huffed, smiling. “You’ve probably heard that a million times already.”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry, it’s just exhausting.”

“It’s true though.” He explained. “Life’s too short to stay somewhere you hate. Find another job first, then quit.”

You did that out of order, but you had the right idea.

The interview came quicker than you could even expect, and you met with a nice woman named Jeanie who worked as one of the night shift social workers. Apparently, “theoretically”, if you were to work at PTMC, you’d start nightshifts.

It wasn’t your best interview, but it sure as hell wasn’t your worst. They said they’d let you know early next week if you’d gotten it or not.

So, the rest of your days were the same; lock yourself in your room for more than half the day watching movies or reading, maybe hang out with Kimi, then sleep. If it wasn’t that, then you were at Big Dog with a book.

You found out you got the job when Jeanie called you, and it felt like a weight had fallen from your shoulders. You would start on Friday of that week (which was strange, but you also found out you would be working that weekend).

“You okay?” Michael asked as you walked around the neighborhood the day before you would begin your job. You both decided it would be better to get fresh air instead of remaining stagnant inside the café.

You were tempted to tell him about your job, but a part of you (the romantic, delusional girl who’d sometimes create scenarios in her head before she fell asleep) wondered what would happen if he worked at the same hospital.

The chances were low, but never zero. You decided it would be best not to risk it.

So…you lied (again).

“I…it’s been a few weeks, but it was my mom’s birthday, and I visited her grave.” It also wasn’t technically a lie; you were still upset.

He hummed. “How was it?”

“She was quiet, as usual.” You both snickered, unable to look at one another. “No, but really, it was…weird. It’s been years, but I still feel the same way I felt when I was in the hospital with her. Not as intense but…you know.”

“Do you want me to listen,” he asked. “or do you want old man advice?”

“You’re not that old.” He gave you a look, as if, for the first time, wondering if you were an idiot. You chuckled. “Go on.”

He tucked his hands in his pockets. “You probably already know this, but it never goes away. Someone so close to you leaving like that. I know it’s…I know it’s little things we miss and take for granted; a habit, a favorite, or just even the sound of their voice. I…I only got to meet my mom through home videos from the 60s and 70s, and they didn’t even have audio. I still miss her.”

“Mike…” You breathed.

“She died giving birth to me. I’ve made peace with it.” He explained. “Bottom line, there’s nothing wrong with grieving someone for years. It just means you felt so much towards them.”

You couldn’t help but ask. “Do you still grieve over your mom?”

“Yeah, sometimes. We can’t really explain why we miss people we didn’t know.”

The tiniest of grins pulled onto your lips as you walked, staring ahead. “My mom told me that, when we wake up sad with little to no explanation, we were supposed to meet someone that day who would have changed our lives. I sometimes think it’s also to mourn someone who has no one to mourn them. Does that make sense?”

You looked back at him and saw him smiling. He was smiling at you in a way no man had ever done before; at least, towards you. You snickered. “What?”

He snapped out of it momentarily but continued to smile bashfully. “Just never thought of it like that. I might need to steal it from you.”

“Probably not the first nor the last time you’ll steal a woman’s idea.” You teased.

“You’d be right.” He learned quickly to never fall for your sarcastic statements.

“I knew it!” You shoved him without thinking.

He huffed with repressed laughter. “So, why’re you hanging around me then?”

“You’re the one man I know who doesn’t give me ‘Fuck Me’ eyes.”

Maybe you’d gotten too comfortable around him? Maybe you were so lonely you had forgotten how to speak to people normally; as if you had known them for years, instead of just weeks.

It wasn’t cold out, but a chill ran through your body when you realized what you said. His own face had fallen at the statement, and you attempted to backpaddle, still keeping the unserious attitude.

“I mean, that’s a lie, I’ve known plenty of men I can just be friends with. So, I don’t know why I said that, and I think I’m talking too much-.”

He said your name, and that was enough to stop you. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either. “It’s alright.”

“Is it?”

“I just don’t have a poker face around women.” You both laughed, feeling at ease. He continued. “On another note, I can’t meet next Thursday. I have a family thing going on.”

You shrugged, wondering if that was his way of saying he didn’t want to see you again. “No, I get it.”

“Can we do Saturday?”

…Oh…

Thankfully, you’d gotten your schedule for the next few weeks ahead of time and already knew you wouldn’t work Saturday through Monday. Apparently, they were giving you time to adjust to the day shift, which you would do the week after next.

“Yeah, that works.”

“I have a shift that day, where wouldn’t you mind eating at eight at night?”

You rose your brows, answering him then asking. “You really want to spend time with me after a long day?”

“Yeah, I do.”

He said it like it was a no brainer. While it left you like a deer in headlights, all you could do was say. “Okay, see you then!”

And you were the first one to leave; it was the first time you had done so. He just wished you a simple ‘Bye!’ as you walked away, and that was it.

You never had done night shifts before, even at the senior center. So, it was strange driving to work when the sun was setting. Sure enough, Jeanie was there for you to shadow, and you clung to her most of your shift.

Doing your best to avoid your stepfather, you took to befriending others. Parker Ellis being one of them. A lax, but talented senior resident who you hit it off with right away. She was also the first one to clock that you and Jack were (somewhat) related three hours into meeting you.

“Shit, you even lean like him.”

You immediately stood up straight away from the wall when there was a surprising lull in the number of patients.  “What?”

“Abbott.” She snorted. “I thought I was crazy thinking you were his kid. Niece, maybe, but no way a daughter. You got a fake leg too?”

Trying to play it off, you joked. “No. You gonna tell anyone?”

“Maybe.”

Of course she did, but instead of talking behind your back (let’s be real, some probably did), it was a harmless joke brought up once in a while.

Your first shift seemed to be going well; only two car crash victims, and a sex injury. Then, just as you had an hour left, an elderly woman coded. It wasn’t the first time you saw death, especially in someone so old; but it still hit you just the same.

You slept until five in the evening when you got home, and spent the rest of it in your room, barely eating.

Second shift, Jeanie was there with you but let you know right away you would be on your own after that.

There was more that night; everything ranging from an impatient frat boy with the flu to a group of twenty-six girl scouts and four troupe leaders coming in from a bus accident.

Seven of them had bloody noses, four had broken bones, two were taken into surgery, and one coded…

“If you ever need to talk to someone-.” Jack said softly as you both sat in the ambulance bay.

“I’m fine.”

He said your name. “I know it’s not the same, but I or-.”

You stood. “I gotta help Jeanie tell twenty-five little girls, four troupe leaders, and two parents that one of them isn’t coming home.”

It should’ve been seen as a victory, only one being dead considering the state of the accident. But it wasn’t. You debated quitting but realized you’d rather suffer than be jobless again.

So, you had another shift, and no one talked about what happened the previous one. You were alone for the first time but had a different attending.

Dr. John Shen was younger, but acted just as experienced as your stepfather. The third night wasn’t as intense; and he certainly helped.

“You ever thought about becoming a doctor, Baby Abbott?” He teased.

You shook your head as you walked by him to go comfort a drunk woman who had a stiletto in her cheek. “If I did, I’d shove the first thing so far up your ass, no one could remove it.”

“Take me to dinner first.”

That night was more fun; well, you also emptied the coffee pot, so maybe that’s why you were in a better mood. Such a better mood, you stayed to greet the day shifters.

“Good morning, starshines!” You giggled, seeing two new faces.

The girl with sharp eyes and a pretty smile snorted, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “Good morning?”

You introduced yourself. “How’re you guys?”

“Eh, sleep deprived.” She nudged the boy beside her who had deep bags under his eyes. “Huckleberry here kept me up all night long.”

“It’s not my fault!” He sighed. “The cat just waltzed in like he owned the place and-!”

“Are you two together?”

You were absolutely going crazy from getting only three hours of sleep.

“No!” The boy immediately squeaked. “Just roommates.”

“Oh my god, they were roommates.” You and the girl said together before laughing.

She pat your shoulder. “Trinity Santos. This is my completely platonic roommate, Dennis Whitaker.”

“Nice to meet you.” You told them your name then opened your locker. “Welp, have a good shift!”

And you left. The nights after that weren’t so bad. You met a day shift attending before you left one time.

Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi had only been there for a month but already gained a high reputation from others. You could tell; only speaking to her for a minute, you found yourself developing a harmless crush.

“Nurse?” She asked when you were cleaning yourself up in the bathroom.

You snickered. “Worse: Social worker.”

“Ah.” she cleaned her hands. “Doctors for the soul and psyche.”

“Don’t even have a doctorate.”

She shrugged. “You don’t need one. You guys deserve the title even without it.”

….Damn….

You were happy to get some reprieve for the weekend. Specifically, seeing Michael again. True, there were times when you were so busy during the week, you’d almost forgotten about him. But, before you’d fall asleep, you’d think of him.

His voice, his smile, everything about him…it comforted you.

Saturday finally came, and you were touching yourself up in the mirror when Kimi barged into your room.

“Hey, you wanna go out with my coworkers?” She asked.

“Already have plans.” You were currently blending your eyeshadow.

 “Cool. If your friends ditch you, we’ll be at Conley’s around ten.” You watched her face scrunch up in the mirror. “What’s that smell?”

“Probably my perfume.”

“Smells like piss.”

You snorted. “It’s the stuff you begged to wear months ago.”

“No, I didn’t.” She denied. “Stop gaslighting me.”

“Sure, Jan.”

She snickered before leaving. “You’re so weird.”

It was strange…why were you putting in so much effort? Surely it would just be like normal where you’d talk to each other about work, maybe something personal. What were you going to tell him now? So much happened, and your job was new…He invited you out to eat, he asked where your favorite place was and didn’t try to compromise it.

What was his end goal?

What was yours?

You kept asking yourself that as you drove to the restaurant. The closer you got, the more stupid you felt up until you were standing outside. You didn’t have his number, how were you supposed to know if he was there? What if he had to stay late? What if he stood you up? Maybe you could make the workers feel bad and give you free-?

The sound of your name made you turn around. There was Michael, wearing the same sweatshirt he always wore, hands in his pocket.

“Sorry I’m late.” He apologized.

You smiled. “Fashionably. How are you?”

 “Hungry.”

Going inside, you both sat at a table and proceeded to order. It was busier than you thought it’d be, and you wondered if the staff were playing the game “Related or Dating?” as you and Michael talked.

You realized you didn’t care.

He asked you how work was going, and you just told him there was nothing. You asked how his was, and he said the same. So, you both delved into talking about nothing and everything, from childhood stories to fictional ones.

“Why would you read a book about batshit insane things happening?” You joked, asking in between bites when the food came.

“Catch-22 is not just crazy things happening.” He explained. “It’s a critique on military bureaucracy and the struggle for individual sanity-and I’m boring you.”

You shook your head, giggling. “No, I like listening to people talk about things they’re passionate about.”

“What are you then?” He asked. “Passionate about?”

“Do you ask everyone that?”

“Only passionate people.”

You went quiet, taking time to think. The only one you could settle on was. “People not being assholes to each other for no reason.”

“Amen.” He held up his cup before drinking from it. “You got an example?”

You smiled despite how inappropriate it was. “You remember Covid?”

“I want to forget it.” You both chuckled.

Shaking your head, you said. “I did an internship after restrictions started lessening, and the agency was shit. There was barely any training, but they had me supervise a visit between a dad and his son by myself.”

“Are you serious?” He sounded upset.

You nodded, telling the story as if it was a normal one. “It was fine for the first hour, but then he started yelling at the kid. He was like three years old, knocked down his Lego tower, and that was what set the dad off. I tried to keep the peace, but he just kept screaming. He never hit either of us, but he said he would, and he kept getting too close. I didn’t know what else to do, so I carried the kid out to my car. Dad followed us, yelling in my ear, took off his mask and spat on me. Had to go into quarantine after that, so that was fun.”

Michael’s jaw nearly fell to the table. “What the hell?”

“I know!”

“What happened after?”

You snorted. “My stepdad gave them hell. I wasn’t embarrassed at all, they were unprofessional. He said he’d beat up the dad too. I told him I wouldn’t bail him out, but I would’ve; just wanted to not spend money on something avoidable.”

He hummed. “Reverse psychology.”

“Comes in handy.” You asked him. “You got a Covid story like that? I mean…I know it’s different and you don’t have to-.”

“That was your worst Covid story?” He interrupted. When you nodded, he took a minute, eyes dropped to the table. He said. “I had a favorite person at work; I’m guessing you do too. I don’t know if yours is a mentor but mine was. His name was Montgomery Adamson. Even after knowing him for twenty years, he was always Dr. Adamson to me.”

Michael took a deep breath, dropping his gaze again. His voice grew heavier. “He retired just a few months before Covid started and was back in as a patient. He went on the ECMO, then a little girl came in and…he was on it for seventeen days; we had to take him off to try and save her. She still died but…that was fun.”

Hearing him repeat the ending to your story only solidified just how traumatic it all was. You had trouble finding what to say at first, then.

“You were close with him?”

He nodded. “Very. My…my dad was in and out of my life, so Dr. Adamson was…you know.”

You reached over and placed your hand on his; something about it all told you it was fine this time. He didn’t move it.

“What was he like?”

Michael smiled. “Worked in the field for decades but was still the sweetest person I’ve ever known. Smart as hell but could explain a kid’s injury or illness in a way they’d understand.”

And conversation fell back into light. Not because you both didn’t want to acknowledge the dark, but because of just how it happened. After you both paid for your dinner (this wasn’t a date), he offered to walk you to your car (this wasn’t a date).

Yet, a story kept you both from doing so.

“You did not!” You laughed as you left.

“It was my first double shift!” He defended.

“Someone puts on ‘Mista Tung Twista’, and the first thing you asked was: ‘Is this French?’!”  

“I want to see you function after staying up for twenty-four hours on the job.”

“I have,” you sassed. “and I’ve never mixed up two languages.”

He snorted. “Alright, what have you done?”

“Remember the shitty internship I had?” You didn’t wait for an answer. “Right before the botched supervised visitation, my other case was a fourteen-year-old. She snuck out one night, and I somehow managed to track down the shitty house party she was at. I don’t remember a lot besides screaming, ‘I’m calling your parents!’ and then the girl I was looking after said so proudly, ‘I’m a ward of the state!’”

It wasn’t funny when she said it, and it wasn’t funny when you told the story, but both times you doubled over in laughter and so did Michael.

“That-!” He wheezed. “That’s a mouthful.”

“No, it’s because she was so happy to say it!” You tried to stand up straight as you both tried to walk to your car, but leaned against the wall, still cackling. The only source of light around you was the moon held high in the night sky.

Neither of you could speak, only laugh until it hurt. While you both took heaving breaths of air, your eyes met, and your laughter slowed. Staring at one another, it was only then you realized how close you stood.

Michael’s breath caressed your cheek as you glanced at him, inhaling heavily. His eyes poured into yours, and you couldn’t look away. Well, unless it was his lips, but only for a moment.

You leaned in, kissing him.

It was too quick. You pulled away, as if his lips burnt you.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t-.”

He leaned into you, pressing his lips back to yours. It was ravenous the way you kissed him, as if you’d forgotten the feeling. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you dared to bring him closer. He went willingly, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to keep your head off the hard wall behind you, and his other hand circling your waist.

When his knee inched its way in between your legs, you pulled away with a gasp, staring up at him. His breath was warmer now.

“What…” he whispered. “What do you want?”

“You.” You didn’t miss a beat.

He smiled; the same smile he had rebuked himself for having because he couldn’t control his face around women. Kissing your forehead, he whispered. “Okay.”

You walked hand-in-hand together to his car, him opening the door for you. The car ride was silent, both of you sneaking glances just to see the other smiling so stupidly. You arrived in front of his house in a matter of minutes, letting yourself out.

Michael opened the door, turning on the lights. It was a modest, single-level house. Nothing too fancy, considering you could only imagine how much time he spent at the hospital. Still, there was something so him about it.

In this economy? You’d marry him on the spot if he asked, just to own a house.

“It’s not the best but…” he tried to make conversation as you both slipped off your shoes and jackets.

 “I like it.” You nodded.

He huffed, grinning uncomfortably. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

You had no idea if he meant a one nightstand, or sex in general. Still, where you were hot and bothered, you were endeared. Approaching him, you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay.”

Taking his hand in yours, you led him to the couch in his living room. Your lips met his as you sat beside him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. His hands went lower, one to your waist, the other to drape your leg over his hip, halfway pulling you into his lap. You hummed into his mouth, pleasantly surprised at his assertion.

You felt like you could drown yourself in him the longer his lips were on yours. Breathing be damned, there was something so exhilarating about having to gasp for air just to never separate from him. You felt the tent in his pants grow between your legs, and instinctively, you rolled your hips.

Swallowing his muffled moan, you continued to move against him, your hand trailing down his chest to the waistband of his pants. Your fingers hadn’t even slipped in before Michael took your hand.

“No, I-.” He heaved. “I need to taste you.”

Blood rushed to your face first before it traveled through the rest of your body. Once the initial shock wore off (because you barely knew anyone who wanted to go down on you), a wry grin formed.

“Who am I to stop you?” You answered.

He smiled, kissing your hand then pulling you onto your feet. Adding onto your surprise, he took you to his room and laid you gently down onto the bed.

“Such a gentleman.” You teased as he fiddled with your jeans.

Michael rested his chin on your lap. “I don’t think you’re going to be saying that after this.”

“Won’t I?”

He opened your jeans and carefully slipped them down your legs. He breathed deeply, eyes trained in your clothed center before up at you. “You can say no; at any point.”

“When I told you reverse psychology comes in handy, I didn’t mean for you to use it now.”

He grinned, dipping his head and pressing a kiss to your stomach. A shiver ran through your body as he carefully pulled your lace panties down.

“You’re beautiful.” He sighed, his breath caressing your bare cunt.

It was a reflex to deflect, to make a joke. Yet, for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to as Michael shouldered his way further between your thighs, draping your legs over his shoulders. He left a string of kisses from your calf to an inch away from your core.

But when he lifted the hood of your clit with his fingers and pressed his mouth to it? A stuttering mewl left your lips like no other.

His tongue licked up your strip as you laid flat on the bed. His arm tugged you closer to the edge, as if you weren’t close enough for him. His nose rested in the patch of your pubic hair, momentarily bumping against your clitoris as you moved against him. You threaded your fingers through his hair, meaning to ground yourself, only to begin tugging on the strands.

He groaned into you, adding a new wave fluttering within your stomach. His tongue moved as if he was trying to spell words with it. Words that you would never know, but just the thought of them alone brought heat to your body. You drew your gaze down, only to be greeted by his own eyes staring into yours. It was too much, tossing your head back. You whimpered his name as the feeling came closer, and closer, and closer.

Your legs trembled as you released your final cry, feeling his tongue pulse within you. You tried to catch your breath, but Michael didn’t stop. Still with his face tucked between your thighs, he continued like a man starving.

“Michael.” You moaned, a sore attempt at stopping him. The only sounds escaping him were ones of pleasure as his hands encircled your thighs, almost pulling you off the bed. You kept your hands on the mattress, steadying yourself. He kissed your clit with a fervor you didn’t know possible. The pleasure was beginning to become uneasy in your stomach.

“Mike, Mike!” You mewled, clutching the top of his head and pulling him off. His beard shined with your slick in the moonlight peeking through the window. If his eyes were mirrors, they would have shown your own: overblown and wide as a doe’s. Your gaze trailed down to the bulge straining in his pants.

“I know you’re not gonna let me be the only one naked.”

It sounded sultrier in your head, but from already being fucked out of your mind, and the strangeness of it all, your words sounded like a whine.

This led to silence followed by laughter

“You’re so impatient.” He shook his head, using the bed as leverage to stand. You slipped your shirt over your head as he did his.

You turned slightly, showing him the clasp of your braw. “Can you help me?”

“I thought you wanted to get me out of my clothes first?”

You looked over his shoulder. His barrel chest was covered in hair, and the Star of David chain settled perfectly over his sternum. “Well, I can’t get it on my own.”

“Really?” He scoffed. “You can’t without my help?”

“Yes.”

“You know you’re setting feminism decades back by claiming that.”

You turned to face him. “I know you’re not lecturing me about feminism right now.”

He kissed your nose, pressing his head against yours. “Just wanted to remind you that you’re smart and capable.”

His hands wound behind your back and unlatched your bra, pulling it off to reveal your breasts. You snickered, hands going to the waist of his pants, pulling them and his underwear to the floor.

Immediately, your eyes fell to his sweltering cock as he stood in front of you. Heat rushed from your cheeks to your pussy, still wet from his tongue. Michael took your face into his hands, kissing you too sweetly with a mouth that had completely ravaged you.

You rose to your knees, and he followed, pulling you tightly to him and laying on the bed. You pulled away, sitting on his lap as his dick rested against your stomach. He closed his eyes, his face scrunching as he breathed in and out.

You brushed his face. “You okay?”

“I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.” He responded tightly.

“Being nice to you?”

He shushed, kissing your wrist and up your arm, pulling you farther down for his mouth to meet your skin. You hummed, running your fingers through his hair. He stopped suddenly, then moved his hand to the nightstand drawer. Pulling it open, he took a condom out, tearing it open.

With his eyes closed, he attempted to slide it on. You bit your tongue to hold in your laugh.

“You want help?” You asked.

“I can do it.” He said with his eyes still shut, failing miserably.

“You know,” you held his hands. “you’re making it harder with your eyes closed.”

“Shut up!” He laughed.

You took charge, slipping the condom onto him with practiced ease. It helped there was enough precum on the tip of his cock. Breathing through your nose, you settled one hand on his chest to steady yourself, and the other around his bulge. You sank down, taking him inch by inch.

The utter of your name brought your eyes back to Michael, and you rested your other hand on his chest. He gripped your hips lightly, never looking away from you. When the stretch no longer felt unpleasant, you rolled your body.

He sucked in a tight breath beneath you, his fingers sinking deeper. Rolling your hips again, you created an easy rhythm. Your clit caressed his pubic hair just enough to create friction. Michael sat up, holding your hips down as he thrusted up into you, sounding like a bitch in heat. Your arms wrapped around his neck to balance yourself, the new speed hitting you just right.

Your tight moans stroked his ear as he cupped your breast, still rocking into you. Resting your head on his shoulder, you looked down between you. His cock sliding in and out seamlessly was the first thing that caught your eye. Then, it was the sharp points of his Star of David medal piercing your chest ever so lightly.

There was something so hypnotizing about it, you couldn’t take your eyes away. You drew your mouth down, the chain between your teeth, intending to kiss the pendant over Michael’s heart.

He came with a groan right from his chest, hiding his face in your shoulder. You breathed together with no space between each other. He grew soft as you sat there, his lips gently tracing a line of kisses from your shoulder to the shell of your ear.

“I’m sorry.” Was the first thing he said.

“It’s okay.” You kissed his cheek, pulling out of him and flopping onto the bed.

Michael slipped the condom off, leaving the bed and entering the bathroom just a few feet away. After washing his hands, he laid back down. Encasing your left breast in his hand, his index finger encircled your areola. Your breath hitched, and he grinned from ear to ear.

“Just give me a minute.”

He lowered himself, taking your right breast into his mouth. You grew wetter than the spit from his mouth on your skin. His hand left your breast and moved to the apex of your thighs, teasing your clit. You bucked your hips against his hand, begging for more.

“Mike…”

“Shhh.” He moved his free hand to cradle the back of your head.

“I swear,” you heaved. “if you don’t-.”

He took his hand away, taking yours in his and kissing the back of it. “I told you to give me a minute.”

You wanted to lash out at his taunts; mouth off at him and see what he’d do. But, you were prideful, so you just stood up and walked into the bathroom. After relieving yourself, you went back out and was welcomed by Michael enveloping you into his arms and tossing you onto the bed with him.

 He kissed your brow. “Are you mad at me?”

You snorted. “Depends.”

He smiled the same smile that drew you to him. A smile, just for a moment, you caught a glimpse of what he might have looked like years ago; when he was your age. Michael kissed your other brow before rolling over and grabbing another condom. There wasn’t a song or dance this time as it slid on. It didn’t get past him how you watched with hooded eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” He loomed above you, kissing your jaw. “You know that?”

You smirked. “I know. I just didn’t want to say anything.”

His booming laughter resounded in your neck as he trailed his lips all over your skin. He placed himself between your legs, teasing your entrance. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you brought him close to you. His hand gripped yours, pressing one last kiss to your head before slipping into you.

He was slower this time; gentler. It was almost as if this wasn’t your first time sleeping together, your bodies moved in tandem. Even with every thrust of his hips, you couldn’t feel much outside of how sensitive your clit was from the previous orgasm. Still, it was just nice to be so close to him; how his pants echoed in your ear, your cheek and chest pressing against his, your legs wrapped around his waist…

Michael’s hand brushed your face. “You okay?”

“What?” You slurred.

His movements slowed until they stopped. “Do you feel good?”

Pursing your lips, you couldn’t look him in the eye. “I don’t really feel anything.”

You thought he’d be angry; pull away from you and tell you to leave. Instead, he smiled, unashamed and pulled out of you. “What do you need?”

Taking a deep breath, you ran your eyes down his body. Michael was breathing as if he’d run a marathon, yet he was still asking for your pleasure without a hint of slowing down. Kissing his cheek, you draped your legs over his shoulders. Something in his eyes darkened, but his lips were just as sweet when he kissed yours. He slipped back into you as if he was never meant to leave, his thrusts bringing a more deliberate, even pace.

He drove deeper into you, hitting the right spot immediately. Your moans were like music to Michael’s ears; rhythmic, differing pitches, soft at first before it crescendos into a chorus of breathy groans.

“That’s it.” He soothed as your pussy tightened around him. “Thatta girl.”

His praise only heightened your arousal. You were barely kissing now, more so just breathing into his mouth as your jaw bobbed with your growing pleasure. He held both of your hands above your head, driving himself farther into you.

“You’re so-fuck,” he grunted. “fuck, you’re perfect.”

Words could not form out of your mouth, only sounds you never heard yourself make before. Your sweat glued you together, there was nothing but the music of pants and moans filling the room as you moved together. It was filthy, it was raw, but it was real.

You didn’t even know your orgasm swept over you until your body was spasming with aftershocks. Michael soon followed behind, trying his best not to collapse on top of you. You dropped your legs and ran a hand up and down his back as you breathed together.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna walk tomorrow.” You thought aloud.

A muffled chuckle tickled your neck. “You’ll be fine.”

You hummed a ‘no’ sound. “Don’t doubt your abilities.”

“Who said I did?” He pulled out of you, wrapping up the condom then throwing it in the trash in the bathroom. He laid back down next to you, tossing his right arm over your chest and kissing your shoulder.

Trailing your fingers over his arm, in the corner of your eye, you saw something on his bicep. Sitting up to get a better look, you saw Latin words written in ink.

“I’m dumb, what does this say?” You asked.

 “‘Love your fate’” He chuckled, then showed his left arm, revealing another tattoo. “‘Remember you will die’”

“I imagine you got those on an impulsive night out when you were younger?” You teased.

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

“What were you like?” You found yourself asking. “When you were in medical school?”

Michael released a long breath. “I don’t know…more hopeful, I guess? I wanted to be a surgeon, actually.”

“You?”

“Don’t act so shocked.” He teased. “Yeah, I thought I was hot shit. Was kind of a jerk sometimes too.”

“What made you change to ER?”

“The people. Patients and doctors alike.”

“Screw the nurses, I guess.”

He laughed, kissing your cheek. “And the nurses.”

You both lay there, relishing each other’s presence. The curtain had parted, letting the moonlight in and basking upon your body. You got to see more of his room as well. Surprisingly, it was spotless. You imagined it would have been littered with dirty laundry because he probably didn’t have time to organize clothing, but then you realized he just didn’t have time to be dirty.

As you psychoanalyzed his bedroom, you felt a line of kisses on your skin. You snorted.

“You’re not tired?”

“Not at all.” He came back up to your shoulder, lightly biting the skin. You sighed at the feeling of him sliding his hand over your side to fondle your breast. He was pressed up against you, and after another minute, you felt him against your ass.

Needless to say, you were impressed, and your gentle moans only confirmed it.

“Shit.”

Humming, you looked over and saw him reaching over on the nightstand. There were no more condoms.

“It’s alright.” You whispered. “I’m on the pill.”

You expected him to deny you, and you would’ve understood. Instead, he was quiet.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“Only if you are.”

Him massaging your ass was his response. You rolled onto your stomach, not having the strength to even raise yourself to your knees. Michael lifted your hips before smoothly sliding back into you. A pleasant groan left your lips as he entered, feeling him instead of rubber. He slowly thrusted into you, resuming his kisses down your neck to your spine.

“You spoil me,” he breathed into you. “you know that?”

You could only groan into the pillow, his thrusts creating friction between your clit and the mattress every time you moved together. Your sensitivity to all of him seemed to wash away and overwhelm you at the same time. You felt Michael’s hand grip the back of yours that rested above your head. It was certainly a little awkward to hold, but that didn’t stop him from intertwining his fingers with yours as he sat up on his knees, pistoning his hips into you.

“Mike, Mike, Mike.” You babbled, pinching your eyes shut from the pressure and pleasure of it all.

You couldn’t make out any of the words he whispered into your skin, but it didn’t matter. His actions and care towards you spoke louder: His chest pressed against your back, moments of the cool, metallic feel of his pendant caressing your skin alongside the sharp edges of the hair on his chest. Just as you felt the beginnings of another orgasm, he stopped with a sharp groan.

“What?” You drunkenly mumbled, turning your head to see him. “Are you okay?”

He hissed, letting go of your hand to brace himself on the bed. His other hand cradled his back. “Yeah, I just…”

Slipping out of you, he slowly lowered himself back onto the bed, breathing evenly. You brushed his face with your hands.

“What happened?”

He laughed suddenly, making you flinch. He kissed your palms. “My age catching up with me.”

“Fuck…did you hurt yourself?”

“No, just did too much. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, laying beside him. “Don’t be.”

It was just you, him, and your slowing breaths. After moments of complete silence, Michael stood up and went to his dresser. He opened the top drawer, taking out a large shirt. “Sit up.”

You did, and he slipped it over your head, helping you put your arms through the holes. It smelled exactly like him, and the material was perhaps one of the softest things you ever felt. You laid back down, sinking into both the mattress and his oversized shirt. After slipping on his boxers, Michael tossed an arm over your waist, pressing his lips to the side of your head.

Neither of you said a thing, still just relishing in each other’s presence. Yet…in the silence, your mind lingered to perhaps the worst thing it could have that night. The longer it wore on you, the more tempting it became to put it into words.

No matter how much you resisted it, it won in the end.

 “You’re a doctor…right?”

Michael glanced at you, grinning like a fool. “If this is your way of getting me to do a thorough exam, I’m done for the night.”

You didn’t say anything, already feeling tears spring into your eyes. You had to say something; you had to laugh, tell him you meant nothing of it.

“Hey,” he sat up, placing his hand on your cheek. “what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” You sniveled, pressing the heels of your hands to hide your eyes. “I don’t know why I…” You began to get up. “I’m ruining this, I’ll go-.”

“You’re not ruining anything.” He soothed, setting his hand on your shoulder. You were silent, staring at the crack in the curtains of his windows. His hand made its way to the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin. “Just tell me what’s up.”

You didn’t have to beg him to comfort you. It was second nature. How was it that you never experienced a tenderness like this?

Sinking down onto the mattress, you still avoided his gaze, but the words left your mouth.

“I-I quit my job months ago and I got one at a hospital last week.” You confessed. “I was…there was a little girl, and she got into an accident but-but I thought she was okay. I just went out to talk to someone and she died. Her name was Molly, she lost her first tooth in the accident, and I had to tell her parents-.”

You covered your mouth before a sob could escape. You stopped crying, but it still felt like the entire world was trying to swallow you whole. Michael stood up and you watched as he went into the bathroom. He came back out with a washcloth, and he sat back on the bed, cleaning you up.

“Your first death?” He asked.

“So young.” You responded.

He didn’t say anything right away, and you knew he was trying to find the correct words. Then, when he finished running the washcloth over you, he kissed your hairline.

“It shouldn’t ever be normalized.” He started. “I’ve been in healthcare for years, and those ones especially feel the same as if it were the first time. I won’t lie; it doesn’t get easier, and the job isn’t for everyone. Still, the thing is, if your mind is in the right place, you’ll get stronger. It doesn’t mean you’re weak whatever you choose, but it’s a part of the job. I wish I had something better to say.”

You shook your head. “You said it best.”

Michael gave a tender smile, laying next to you and encasing you in his arms. “You know I…I never really talked about Adamson to a lot of people.”

What else was there to say? You could’ve (and probably should’ve) prodded him more about it, or say ‘Thank you for being vulnerable with me’. But you were exhausted, and you had a feeling he didn’t want to speak on it anymore; just let you know. So, you kissed the apples of his cheeks and clung onto him before drifting off to sleep.

It was some of the best rest you’d ever got.

Even when he stirred and woke you up, you still felt relaxed enough to keep your eyes closed. Even when you heard him shuffling around the room, you said nothing.

Then, his kiss on your forehead brought you back to the land of the living.

Humming, you rubbed your eyes, only for him to shush you.

“Go back to sleep.”

And somehow you did.

You didn’t wake up again until the light poked in through the slit of the curtains. Stretching as you got up, you found your clothes folded on his dresser with a note on top of it.

“I had to go in early. I only work ten hours today. You can stay if you want. I had a great night. I hope you have a good day. -Mike.”

You could tell he wrote it in a rush and perhaps didn’t have the best words to say so early in the morning. Still, you were happy he at least left a note. At the same time…what were you going to do for ten hours? It was your day off, you had no idea when he left, so what was the point?

After getting dressed, and taking a few more minutes to deliberate, you left.

Then, you realized you left your car back in the restaurant parking lot the night before. While it was about a five-minute drive, you looked on your phone and saw that it would be a thirty-minute walk. You weren’t in a position to spend money on an Uber, so you decided to bite the bullet.

After taking a glance in the mirror before you left, you hoped no one would look you in the eye as you walked down the sidewalk.

Of course, ten minutes into your journey, as the cold, morning air bit your skin through the fabric of your clothes, a car pulled up beside you.

The last voice you ever wanted to hear called your name.

Eyes wide, you looked and saw Jack Abbott slowly driving beside you. He mirrored your look of utter surprise.

You couldn’t say anything at first. This was something that should’ve happened when you were in high school, or even college, not now.

“Hi…” Was all you could manage.

“Are you alright?” He quickly asked.

“…Yes.”

“You live on the other side of town, what the hell are you doing here?!”

What were you supposed to say? ‘Sleeping with a guy older than you’? No, you settled on. “Taking a walk.”

With that, he parked the car and got out, stopping in front of you.

“What day is it today?”

You blinked. “Sunday?”

“Who am I?”

“The Muffin Man?”

“Okay,” he took your arm, trying to lead you into the car.

You escaped his hold. “I’m not in a fugue state, Jack.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know that, would I?” You haven’t seen him like this in a while. Hands on his hips, eyes intense and voice tight with the harshness but concern all parents had. “I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?”

Pursing your lips, you glanced down at your feet. It was a walk of shame, and you both knew that. You also knew he wouldn’t stop asking questions.

“Are you hurt?”

You shook your head. “Just my pride.”

He sighed, debating on whether to talk more about it or not. Then, he said. “Get in, I’ll drive you home.”

“I left my car in a parking lot, you can just drive me there.”

“Got yourself a real Cassanova, didn’t you?” He scoffed.

“Hey, that’s the same thing I told Mom when she brought you home.”

Jack only responded with a slight glare as if he didn’t instigate it; to be fair…yeah, maybe Michael wasn’t the best considering your options were to either spend money, walk half an hour, or wait for ten hours.

Begrudgingly, you accepted Jack’s offer to drive the short distance to the restaurant. At least, it should’ve been short. Some dipshits apparently decided it was the perfect time to get into an accident on a major intersection. So, there you two were, experiencing shared suffering being in a car together.

When flipping through the radio to fill the silence didn’t work, it was Jack who took a deep breath and spoke first.

“We never really debriefed on your week.”

You pursed your lips. “Night shift was fine.”

“You excited for day?”

“I guess…”

“They’re more type A, so take with that what you will.” He said, and when you didn’t respond, he asked. “Just to really make sure you’re not dissociating, when do you start?”

“Tuesday.” You sighed.

“The Attending’s Robby, who means well but has a stick up his ass sometimes, so don’t take it personally.”

That caught your attention. “I thought I’d have Al-Hashimi?”

“She had a family emergency and should be back on Wednesday.”

“Fun.”

You thought that’d be the end of it, but alas, traffic was still horrible. Soon enough, Jack asked.

“How’re you doing though? Really?”

Swallowing, you knew what he really was asking: “How are you coping with a little girl dying?”

“I don’t know how you’ve done this since you were like…twenty-five?” You answered.

“About that age.” He shrugged. “What you’re doing is something I could never do.”

You furrowed your brow. “Bullshit, you have to play therapist and doctor.”

“You and the other social workers take all of the emotional aspect on.” He looked at you. “If I need to, I can go back out and work on someone else. You though? You have to sit with it, and with the people you need to break bad news to.”

It was true. So true, that you felt the walls chipping.

“I haven’t been sleeping well since then.” You confessed. “I sleep, but I still feel tired when I wake up. Even on days off.”

He nodded. “I wish I could say it gets better-.”

“But it doesn’t.” You sighed.

“You get stronger.”

It felt strange to hear that from him after Michael told you. Still, it wasn’t the first time you had even heard it; it was such a common, somewhat performative, motivational phrase. Didn’t make it any less true.

“Look,” he said when you went quiet. “I’d let you know if I thought you couldn’t do this job. I’ve done this for almost twenty-five years, being an attending for thirteen of them, and I’ve seen all types come and go. I’ve seen recently graduated nurses quit within the first ten minutes, med students throw up after their first bloody patient, all of it. You wanna know what though? I’ve seen all of that shit happen on the same day, and a lot still stay. Few months ago, when Pittfest happened? Two med students, an intern, and a second year had their first day. How many stayed?”

“All of them.” It wasn’t like it was a twist.

“But guess what? Everyone who I said abandoned ship? I don’t judge them.”

“Yeah, right.” You scoffed.

“I really don’t.” He didn’t sound defensive. “The point is that while I think you can do this, and that there’s proof you’ve rocked the job, you have to listen to yourself. If you want to stop, if you want to keep going, all that matters to me is that you’re okay.”

A simple sentiment you never thought he’d express; at least, outright. Dare say you felt…validated. Again, you didn’t say anything, staring ahead at the traffic beginning to clear up. Tears tried to pierce through your eyes, but you blinked them away.

“Thank you.” Was all you could say.

You never hated him; well, you did sometimes but in the same way you wake up in a bad mood and don’t want to talk to anyone the whole day, but then you do. There was a new understanding between the two of you. The rest of the car ride was silent, but not unpleasant.

“Alright.” Jack began when you got out of the car to the restaurant parking lot. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

He said that a lot when you were a teenager, and you never thought you’d hear it again. There was something nice about him being worried about you. You gave him a smile.

“Thanks, Jack.”

He nodded and drove off. Sighing, you unlocked your car and sat inside of it. The week prior was rough; there was no doubt about that. It was something you never really had to do before, or at least in a while. Juggling all the patient’s emotional, and sometimes spiritual, needs. You had an idea it’d be worse during the day; more people, more of them fully awake and probably ready to bitch at you.

But that’s what you signed up for, and it wasn’t the first time you had to do difficult things. You also knew a few people coming into the day shift too; well, you hoped they worked the same shift and weren’t on their days off.

Your mind drifted back to Michael. On one hand, you felt bad you didn’t leave a note, on the other…was he really expecting you to stay at his house for ten hours? You didn’t feel used per say, and you understood that he had to leave…but it still hurt.

You had no idea when you’d ever see him again. The more you thought about it in your car in the restaurant parking lot, you realized you knew the strangest things about him and didn’t know the most basic.

You didn’t know his phone number but knew his coffee order.

You didn’t know his favorite color but knew he lived with his grandma because his father was neglectful and his mother was dead.

You didn’t even know his last name but knew where he lived.

Sighing, you pressed your head on the wheel. It was official: You were having a mid-youth crisis for sleeping with him the same way he was most likely having a mid-life crisis.

With that, you understood nothing serious would come from it; but it was all serious to you. From sharing your vulnerabilities, to sharing your bodies. It most likely wasn’t to him, considering how he left you.

It wasn’t the time though. Partners could come and go from your life, and while you didn’t feel young, you still were (in the grand scheme of things). At that moment, you had a job to do; one where you anticipated it to be harsher during the day shift.

So, with newfound vigor, you started the car and began to drive home to savor your last few days off. You had no idea what Tuesday would bring, but you had a good feeling.

DBF!DEAN WINCHESTER was completely smitten by you the moment he met you. You had graduated college and came back home, the familiarity of the house you grew up in and the new people and adjustments your parents had met and made was foreign to you, but they weren’t all unwelcome. It took months of back and forth pleading looks and careful yearning lingering touches of fingertips for the two of you to realise it went both ways, and the taboo relationship felt right and safe, especially the nights you lay on his chest in comfortable silence, sharing soft words and happy memories.

DBF!DEAN WINCHESTER felt guilty to be the one to take your innocence, but on the other hand, a twisted, protective part of him was glad he was the only one to take you like that. His soothing fingers and hummed praise, your soft legs and self indulgent whimpers, the silk sheets and the familiar walls of your bedroom, made the most perfect night for you and Dean. The softness of his lips trailing down your stomach and over your hips with experienced precision made your cheeks flush and stomach flutter, making you certain you wouldn’t want this moment with anybody else.

DBF!DEAN WINCHESTER FICS - missing you while he’s away

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The garage is quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. No shouts from mechanics, no whine of drills or wrenches, just the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint smell of hot rubber that clings stubbornly to the air even after the cars are wheeled away.

You swing your legs idly from the folding chair you claimed an hour ago, phone long forgotten on your lap.

Your dad said it wouldn’t take long.

“Just a quick debrief, stay put, I’ll grab you when we’re done”, but “quick” in race weekend terms is always a lie from Ruben Cervantes.

Which leaves you here. Restless, bored, and very aware that the only other person left in the space is Sonny Hayes.

He’s exactly where he’s been since Ruben disappeared upstairs, still slouched on a stool near the coffee machine, one of his ankles hooked over the other, his hand wrapped around a paper cup. Even off-duty, he looks like he’s been carved out of something harder than the rest of the world. His jaw is sharp under the fluorescent lights, grey creeping through the edges of his hair.

His eyes flick up every so often like he’s making sure you haven’t wandered off, but otherwise, he seems content to leave you to your boredom.

It’s strange, in a way.

Sonny has always been around. Your dad’s old teammate, his drinking buddy, the guy who used to ruffle your hair when you ran around the paddock in oversized team gear. He’s always been Uncle Sonny in that casual, honorary sense. But now, with no one else around, the nickname doesn’t fit.

Your gaze drifts across the garage until it lands on the hulking shape in the room across the hall. The simulator rig, still powered down but impossible to ignore. You’ve seen drivers climb in and out of it on practice days, but never this close.

You tilt your head, considering. “So… what’s it like?”

Sonny’s eyes flick toward you, lazy, wary. “What’s what like?”

“That thing.” You jerk your chin toward the sim. “The car. Driving it.”

He smirks faintly and goes back to sipping his coffee. “Fast.”

You roll your eyes. “Wow, thanks, very descriptive.”

“You asked, I answered.” His voice is that low, gravelly rumble that makes every word sound like a dismissal. “It’s not something you put into words, kid. You feel it.”

The nickname lands heavier now, making you bristle. “Don’t call me that. I’m not ten.”

That earns you a longer look. His eyes narrow, assessing, like he’s noticing for the first time that you aren’t the gangly teenager sneaking sodas from the team fridge anymore. It only lasts a second before he turns back to his coffee.

You stand, crossing the floor toward the sim. The thing is kinda intimidating up close, all wires and screens and the sleek outline of the cockpit seat. You brush your fingers over the wheel, imagining what it would feel like with an engine roaring behind it.

“Does it really throw you around like people say?” you ask. “Like, do you feel every bump? Every turn?”

You hear the sound of his stool scraping back from behind you. A moment later, he’s closer, his presence filling the space before he even speaks.

“You shouldn’t mess with that,” he says, quieter now. “Not a toy.”

“I wasn’t gonna break it.” You glance at him sideways, lips quirking. “You don’t think I could handle it?”

His laugh is short, humorless. “It’s not about handling it. You wouldn’t last two seconds before your head hit the wheel.”

Something about the way he says it, so matter-of-fact, makes you want to push. “So show me.”

That makes him pause. You watch the muscle in his jaw tick, like he’s debating whether to shut this down outright. Finally, he exhales through his nose and mutters, “You're not gonna let up, are you?”

You smile sweetly, leaning back against the frame of the rig. “Not when I’m curious.”

He mutters something under his breath about Ruben killing him for this, but he sets his coffee down anyway, stepping past you to crouch by the simulator’s power switch. The screens flicker to life one by one, casting a pale glow over his face, and for a moment you think you forget to breathe.

Watching him like this, so focused and methodical, isn’t anything new. You’ve seen him on TV, on podiums, even slouched in your dining room during the off-season. But it's different when you're standing so close, impossible to ignore the lines carved into his face, the way his hands move with easy confidence over every switch and strap.

He slides into the seat like it’s second nature, body folding down into the cockpit until he looks like part of the machine. For a heartbeat you just stand there, staring, and then his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Well?” he drawls. “You wanted a show.”

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force a shrug. “Just making sure you remember how.”

That earns you a real smirk, crooked and sharp. He reaches for the belts and clicks them across his chest, shoulders flexing under his t-shirt. The cockpit is narrow enough that his arms brush the sides as he works, and you can see veins shifting under tan skin.

“Everything’s tighter in here than you think,” he says, his voice slipping into that calm, instructive tone you’ve heard him use with your dad when they talk setups at home, or during team briefings.

“You don’t move around. You can’t. Car does all the moving for you.”

The sim hums louder when he taps controls, and suddenly the screens wrap around him with the illusion of asphalt and guardrails. He grips the wheel, and just like that, the laziness vanishes.

His whole body sharpens. His eyes lock forward, jaw clenches, and shoulders square up.

You find yourself leaning in, fingers curling around the edge of the rig as the seat vibrates under him. His arms flex with each turn. It isn’t flashy, but there’s a rhythm to it, muscle memory.

“Throttle’s everything,” he says, low and even. “Too much, and you’re sliding. Too little, you’re dead in the water.” He presses down with his foot and the rig lurches, the engine sound vibrating in your chest.

“But brake points are instinct. You can’t second-guess.”

You swallow, eyes fixed on the way his knuckles tighten around the wheel. “So it really feels like this?”

“This?” His lips twitch. “Multiply it by ten, and then you’re getting close.”

The car on the screen shudders through a corner. You gasp without meaning to, stumbling forward a little, and his hand shoots out instinctively to steady you, hot against your hip, just for a second, before he pulls it back like the touch burns him.

“Careful,” he mutters. “It’ll throw you if you’re not strapped in.”

You look down at him, heart skittering, and for the first time he doesn’t immediately look away. There’s something in his gaze that makes the space between you feel smaller than it is.

You force a grin, trying to break it. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not.” He shakes his head, tearing his attention back to the screens. “Every second, the car’s trying to kill you. You either stay ahead of it, or you don’t walk away.”

“That’s why you like it, isn’t it?”

His eyes flick to you again, sharp, unreadable. “What makes you think I like it?”

“Because you’re still here,” you say softly. “Still doing it, when you could’ve walked away years ago.”

He doesn’t answer, just flexes his hands on the wheel like he needs something solid to hold onto. The car on the screen eats up another straight; you can feel the vibrations through the floor.

You lean in, lowering your voice. “So when do I get a turn?”

That breaks his concentration. His head snaps toward you, disbelief written plain across his face. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” you ask, letting the words tilt into a tease. “Afraid I’ll be better?”

“You wouldn’t last half a lap.”

“Then show me.”

You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, he’s trying to find the right angle to brush you off.

But you don’t give him a chance to tell you no again, because before he can find the right gruff dismissal, you swing one leg over the edge of the cockpit and lower yourself into the narrow space, right onto his lap.

Sonny goes rigid beneath you, every muscle locking like you’ve just thrown him into a live current.

The sim seat definitely isn’t made for two, and the fit is impossibly tight. Your back is pressed to his chest, your thighs spread wide to straddle his, the wheel just out of reach of your fingertips. His breath hitches hot against your hair.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is low, dangerous.

“Learning,” you say, all false innocence as you wiggle to settle in. His thighs are solid beneath you, the belts of the cockpit digging against your hips. “You said I wouldn’t last two seconds on my own. So… show me.”

His arms hover like he doesn’t know where to put them, as if touching you will set off an alarm. Even like this, he dwarfs you, his shoulders boxing you in on either side, chest a hard wall, legs stretching so much farther under the pedals that you feel small in a way you haven’t in years.

“Off,” he bites out. His voice cracks around the single word. “Now.”

But you lean back, tilting your head just enough to catch his profile. “C’mon, Sonny. Just one lap.”

The use of his name lands like a punch. Your voice is soft, coaxing, not the bratty kid tone he expects.

“I said-” His jaw flexes. He swallows whatever warning is next, dragging a hand through his hair instead. “Christ, you don’t make anything easy, do you?”

You smile. “Where do my hands go?”

He curses under his breath but reaches for your wrists, guiding them forward until your fingers curl around the wheel. His much larger hands close over yours, and suddenly it feels less like a lesson and more like a trap. The heat of his skin bleeds through and you can’t help shifting slightly, pressing back against him.

The sim jolts into motion as he taps the control. The engine’s roar fills your ears, vibrations shuddering up through the seat and into your body. Well, into his body, which is pressed flush against yours. His thighs bracket you, his arms wrap around you to grip the wheel, and the size of him makes you feel as if swallowed whole.

“Hold it steady,” he mutters against your ear, voice gravel scraping low. “Don’t fight it. Let me… guide you.”

The words thrum through you, double-edged, and you let out a soft laugh. “Feels like you’re doing all the work.”

“Because you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he growls back, but his breath is harsher now, his hands tightening over yours.

The car jolts through a sharp corner, the rig shuddering violently. The motion presses you back harder against him and you feel everything, including the unmistakable heat building beneath you.

Your breath catches, and you shift again, deliberately this time.

His hands slip from the wheel to your waist, fingers digging in. “Don’t,” he warns.

But you only tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “Then make me stop.”

For a beat, the only sound is the roar of the simulated engine, the rattle of the seat. His chest rises and falls like he’s fighting with himself.

Then his grip tightens, dragging you down against him with a force that makes your pulse stutter.

“You don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, sweetheart,” he rasps against your ear. “And I’m not the man you want to play it with.”

But he doesn’t let you go. His grip on your waist tightens like he means to shove you off, but he doesn’t.

The sim jolts again, the wheel twitching under your fingers, but neither of you are paying attention to the track anymore.

“Stop moving,” he mutters, low and ragged.

You tilt your hips just slightly, the motion deliberate, pressing yourself back against him. The growl he lets out is guttural, helpless.

“You think this is funny?” His voice rasps over your skin, vibrating low in your chest. “Sitting here, squirming on my lap like a damn-” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale.

You smile, wicked and breathless. “Feels like you’re the one squirming, Sonny.”

That does it. With a hissed curse, his hands land hard on your hips. The sim car jerks into a wall on the screen, alarms blaring, but the motion only makes the seat shudder violently beneath you.

He drags your hips back, forcing you flush against him, and his voice cracks through his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes I do,” you whisper, head tipping back against his shoulder. “I know exactly what I want.”

His breath shudders out, hot against the shell of your ear. He presses his mouth there, just a ghost of lips, and you feel his restraint splinter.

“Ruben would kill me,” he mutters, like saying it aloud might ground him. But his fingers are already sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms hot against your skin. “Christ, I should walk away right now.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you tighter against him, the sheer size of him enveloping you. Every shallow rock of your hips against him drags another ragged sound from deep in his chest.

“Look at you,” he grinds out, voice low and hoarse. “Dad’s little girl, sitting here trying to ruin me.” His teeth graze the curve of your neck, not quite biting.

“And you’re doing a damn good job.”

Your fingers clutch at his forearms, nails biting into muscle. “Then stop fighting it.”

The sim rattles around you, forgotten, the world outside the cockpit narrowing until it’s only his breath, his heat, his hands dragging you into the hard line of his body.

One hand slides down, past your stomach, pressing firmly between your thighs. You gasp, the sound swallowed immediately by his mouth on your jaw, rough and demanding.

“Goddamn it,” he groans, almost to himself, as if he can’t believe he’s letting this happen. “You feel that? That’s what happens when you play with fire, sweetheart.”

You roll your hips into his palm, into him, and he curses again, louder this time.

His control slips fast.

His touch goes rougher, his kisses harder, every word spilling out like a confession he can’t hold back.

“This is wrong,” he growls, but his hand is already working you through your clothes, the heel of his palm pressing just right. “So fucking wrong…”

You turn your head, catching his mouth with yours at last, and the kiss is a collision. It's messy, desperate, teeth clashing until he groans into you and drags you harder against him.

Sonny is everywhere, his body is caging you in, his hands pulling you apart, his breath filling your lungs like you’ll never get enough.

Finally, with a sharp jerk, he tears his mouth from yours. His voice is wrecked, his forehead pressed hard to the back of your head.

“If I don’t get you out of this seat right now,” he pants, “I’m gonna fuck you in it.”

And then his hands are under your thighs, lifting you out of the cockpit like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, but he’s already moving. He crosses the garage in three long strides before slamming you up against the nearest wall. The impact rattles the tools hanging there, your breath knocked out of you in a startled laugh that dies in your throat when you see his face.

His eyes are dark, wild, all the lazy composure stripped away. He cages you in, one massive hand gripping your hip, the other braced beside your head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, forehead dropping against yours. His breath is ragged, hot. “I shouldn’t be touching you.”

But he is.

His hand slides up your side, under your shirt, calloused palm rough against bare skin. You arch into it instinctively, chasing the heat, and his mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for years. His tongue sweeps in, his teeth catching your bottom lip until you whimper against him.

That sound undoes him. With a growl, he grabs both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head, his grip iron. The other hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back so his mouth can trail down your throat. He bites, sucks, laves at the skin until you’re squirming, until your pulse is hammering under his tongue.

“You have no idea what you’ve started,” he rasps against your neck.

“Then… finish it,” you whisper, breathless.

His laugh is low, humourless, almost broken. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”

He releases your wrists only long enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. His hands are everywhere, palming your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs dragging over your nipples until your knees buckle.

He catches you easily, slamming your body tighter against the wall, his own pressed flush to hold you up.

“Look at you,” he groans, eyes raking down your body like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. “Ruben’s little girl. You know what he’d do to me if he saw this?”

You meet his gaze. “He’s not here.”

That’s all it takes. He swears harshly, and then his hands are on your waistband, shoving your pants down your legs in a rough, impatient motion. He kisses you again, harder, while his fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already wet. He groans into your mouth, the sound guttural, like he can’t believe it.

“Fuck. You wanted this. All along, you knew.”

“Yes,” you gasp, rocking into his hand. “I wanted you.”

That shatters what’s left of his restraint. He spins you, pressing you chest-first against the wall. The cold surface shocks you, but his body heat smothers it instantly. He yanks your underwear down with one hand, the other flattening against your stomach to pin you in place.

“You’re too damn small for me,” he growls in your ear, rutting against you through his jeans. “I’ll break you.”

“Try me,” you throw back, voice trembling but certain.

He curses again, pulls his zipper down, and in one sharp motion he’s pushing inside you. The stretch steals your breath, a cry ripping out of your throat as your hands scrabble uselessly at the wall for purchase. He clamps a hand over both of yours, pinning them flat, his whole body pressing you into the metal as he groans.

“God… tight little thing,” he pants, every word a growl. “Taking me so well.” You moan, pushing back against him, but he won't let you move much.

He sets the pace himself.

Slow, deep thrusts at first that make your legs shake, then harder, faster, until the sound of your body hitting the wall echoes through the empty garage. His hand slides from your stomach to your throat, pulling you back against him as he drives into you.

“That’s it,” he growls against your ear. “Take it. You wanted to play grown-up, didn’t you? This what you were begging for?”

“Yes, Sonny- fuck-”

He groans your name like it’s a sin, rutting into you with bruising force. His free hand slips down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in messy circles that have you gasping and shaking in seconds.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough. “Right here, with me buried inside you. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

It’s all too much. The wall, his body, his voice wrecking you from the inside out. You shatter around him with a broken cry, legs giving out as pleasure rips through you. He holds you up easily, growling as your body clenches tight around him.

“Fuck- goddamn it- ” He buries his face in your neck as he thrusts harder, sloppier, until he finally loses himself with a raw groan, grinding deep as he spills inside you.

The two of you collapse against the wall, breath mingling, bodies trembling, his arms the only thing keeping you upright. He doesn’t let go, not yet. He just presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, like he’s still fighting with the weight of what just happened.

Your chest is still heaving when the world starts to crawl back into focus, the hum of the garage lights, the faint creak of tools swaying on their hooks, the sting of cold air on your sweat-damp skin.

Sonny hasn’t moved. He’s still pressed against your back, his forehead buried against your shoulder, his arms locked tight around you like if he lets go, the whole thing will come crashing down. His breath is hot, ragged, ghosting over your neck.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice shredded. “What the hell did we just do?”

You shift in his grip, forcing him to lift his head. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, guilt and hunger knotted together.

“What we wanted,” you murmur, lips curling into the ghost of a smile.

His jaw works, like he wants to argue, but his hands don’t leave your waist. Instead, he spins you slowly, pressing your back to the wall again, just so he can see your face. His size still dwarfs you; even hunched over, he’s a head taller, broad shoulders blocking out everything else.

"This can't happen again."

You run a hand through his hair, "Says who?"

“You don’t get it,” he says, almost pleading. “Your dad… if he knew-”

You cut him off with a kiss, soft this time, a contrast to the hunger from before. He doesn’t resist, not really. His lips find yours with an ease that betrays how much he’s wanted it, how long he’s been holding back.

When you finally pull away, you whisper, “He’s not here.”

That earns you a low groan, part frustration, part surrender. He drops his forehead against yours, shaking his head. “Christ, you’re trouble.”

You smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

He huffs a laugh and finally steps back. The loss of his body heat makes you shiver, but his hands linger, smoothing down your arms like he can’t quite stop touching you. He glances toward the sim, the scattered clothes, the obvious wreckage of what just happened, and swears under his breath.

“Get dressed,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp hair. “Before someone-”

And then you both freeze.

Footsteps echo down the hall outside the garage, steady, purposeful. Your dad’s voice drifts closer, muffled but unmistakable as he finishes up his call.

Your heart leaps into your throat. You scramble for your clothes, tugging them on with shaking hands, while Sonny moves faster than you thought possible. He sweeps your shirt from the floor, tosses you his jacket to cover up, and yanks his zipper up like he’s done this kind of cleanup before.

Which, to be fair, he probably has.

The door creaks open, Ruben’s laugh carrying into the garage. Sonny straightens instantly, back to his stool by the coffee machine like he’s been there all along. You drop into the folding chair you started in, jacket hiding your rumpled clothes, pulse hammering in your ears.

Ruben steps in, still distracted by his phone. “Sorry about that, took longer than I thought. You two surviving down here?”

“Yeah,” Sonny says, smooth as gravel, lifting his coffee like it hasn’t gone cold. “Just babysitting.”

You bite your lip to smother a grin, pulse still racing. If your dad notices the flush in your cheeks or the way Sonny won’t quite meet his eye, he doesn’t comment.

But when you risk a glance at Sonny, his gaze flicks to you for just a second. It’s quick, sharp, and charged with something that makes your stomach twist. Guilt, yes, but also hunger, a promise you know he won’t be able to keep.

One time, he’d said. You don’t believe it. And neither does he.