àż*:welcomeàż*:
todi â 21 â she/her
masterlist
â§ïœ„ïŸ: mdni, all work is mine, do not copy, translate, or post it as yours
†currently only writing for dean di laurentis, jack abbot
†requests are {closed}
Sweet Seals For You, Always
NASA
taylor price
Sade Olutola

Game of Thrones Daily
Today's Document

â

blake kathryn
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Not today Justin
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

izzy's playlists!
Mike Driver
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

đȘŒ
noise dept.
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

seen from France

seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States
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@tatoda
àż*:welcomeàż*:
todi â 21 â she/her
masterlist
â§ïœ„ïŸ: mdni, all work is mine, do not copy, translate, or post it as yours
†currently only writing for dean di laurentis, jack abbot
†requests are {closed}

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
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NAVIGATION | JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST
that was me blue (26.7k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] [smut] did i do it to myself? (6.3k) [angst] [hurt/comfort]
by @docrobinavitch
compromise (3.1k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] [fluff]
by @abbotly
CALL ME HOME (4k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] TOUCH AND GO (2k) [fluff] [hurt/comfort] THAT FUNNY FEELING (7k) [angst] [hurt/comfort] DOCTOR BARKER (3k) [fluff] [with tension] OFF-DAY (6.4k) [angst] [hurt/comfort]
by @lovebugism
paying up (2.4k) [fluff] it's a little bit messy (7.9k) [smut] [soft angst] sprains and refrains (4.7k) [fluff] [soft angst]
by @alinathinkstoomuch
old man charm (3.3k) [fluff] secret santa (5.5k) [fluff] (ik it's not christmas but this was too cute) the terrible date (5.5k) [soft angst] [fluff]
by @fromsil
things a man provides (4.3k) [fluff] [angst] [hurt/comfort] that's what i'm here for (3.8k) [angsty] [fluff]
by @annsfics
emergency contact (1.5k) [angsty] [hurt/comfort] [fluff]
by @kalila
gorgeous (5k) [fluff]
by @dearwalker
sergeant, M.D (6.6k) [smut] [tension}
by @drjohncarters
happily married (2.4k) [fluff]
by @imaginesofwonder
shy shell (2.2k) [fluff]
by @weird-is-life
you chose well (3.9k) [soft angst] [smut]
by @youthereader
lights out (3.2k) [angst] [fluff] [hurt/comfort]
by @thefictionalmanswhxre
unknown etiology (2.2k) [soft angst] [fluff]
by @pellucid-constellations
i have been OVERLY obsessed with sweet creature by @p1ttlings (itâs so funny i def recommend, itâs one of my fave smaus heh) and i was bored so i made a little moodboard edit of reader and pope⊠đđ
HELLO???????????? I AM IN AWE????? This is sooooo them, baby đđđđđđđâ€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž this is sooooo fucking cutesy you donât get i am addicted to edits my TikTok bio is literally me liking edits and thatâs all my reposts I would repost tf out of this. I love you so much wowwwwwwwwww
Chef || Grant Reilly x Hostess!Reader
summary: you are a hostess at north & vine, usually youâre up at the front but you help occasionally run food. that includes running into chef grant. marcus gives you a task to sit down with grant and go over the new menu⊠little did you realize, you were on the menu
warnings: not really edited!!, SMUT she/her, no y/n mentioned, reader is late 20âs, sweetheart host, oc chef king, grant getting turned on by you saying chef, grant pining after reader, eating out bc we know heâs an eater!, oral, fingering, making out, fem!receive, grant cumming in pants?, fooling around in the car?, grant whimpering!!!!
authors note: in memory of me quitting my hostess job
When it came to the kitchen you knew nothing, when it came to the people, you knew everything. Your home was the front of the house. Greeting people, walking them to tables, hearing shit from servers when you sat them. (like do your damn job). People loved you, you always entered with a smile on your face, talked the ears off of servers and management when it was slow.
You would occasionally help run food when the other hostess didnât want too or tried to avoid the kitchen. One time chef King yelled at you when you accidentally dropped food at a wrong table, that scared you to the point you stayed away from the kitchen. Chef Grant was the only nice one, he was hard on everyone but you.
âchef, i-i can help run food.â you say walking up when you see grant holding his hand up. he looks down at you pausing for a moment as the kitchen sounds around the both of you. he snaps out of it and nods pushing a plate towards you
âsalmon all the way to table 26â he says looking at the ticket crossing it off. you reach for the plate retracting when itâs hot. Grant doesnât look at you when he tosses the napkin thatâs on his shoulder to you.
âthank you chefâ you say softly and he just nods swallowing before continuing to yell out orders. you walk the food to the table smiling and asking if they need anything else before heading back to the front to check on the other hostess. they seem to be doing fine so you go around and help set some tables. soon enough you walk back to the kitchen. Grant holds a plate ready.
ânapkin.â is all he says in a low gruff voice and you hold out the fabric and he places the plate into your hands
âthank you.â you say and he nods âwhat table?â he shakes his head snapping him out of whatever trance he was in get your head together grant is what he says to himself because heâs letting a sweet little thing like you get into his head
â43â he says and goes back to yelling at the kitchen trying to ignore the way you make him feel
âyes, chefâ you say moving past him and his back grazes your side, as you walk away he stares at the back of your head mentally cussing at himself
âgrant, steak is upâ taylor says snapping him out of his trance. when grant looks at him, taylor has a smirk on his face and grant just flips him off
Later that night marcus comes up to you and basically says that you need to stay after tonight to go over the new menu with grantâŠ. as the shift lead you were in charge of any change to the menu to update and make new menus.
You close up the front of the house, making sure everyone did their side work. Soon enough you grabbed all the menus and moved to the staff room to put them on the table. before you sit down, you make your way into the kitchen. You hear the pans moving as you peak in and see grant making something.
âchef?â you say carefully walking up to him to not scare him, he jumps slightly anyways
âi thought everyone was goneâ he says
âmarcus told me that we need to go over the new menus⊠did he not tell you?â you say softly âwe can do tomorrow night or tomorrow morning?â but he shakes his head
âtonightâs fine.â he swallows as he stirs the pan
âwhat are you making?â you stand on your tip toes and peak over a little too close that grant freezes up âsorryâ you back up and he shakes his head
âuh some new pasta dishâ he mutters trying to hard not to remember how you smelled like lavender
âi love pasta, especially the one hereâ you smile bouncing on your feet
âi knowâ he say a little too fast and his eyes widen âi-i mean i just pay attention to staff orders, is allâ you smile shyly
âright.â you say âwell, iâll be in the staff room whenever youâre readyâ grant grunts
âgot itâ he stirs some spices in a bowl âbe there soonâ
Back in the staff room you throw out the old menus cleaning some of the covers when grant walks in with two bowls. he places one in front of you as he sits down moving a notepad from between his arm and placing it on the table
âwhatâs this?â you ask (girl you know exactly what it is, he made you some pasta) âfor me?â you ask
âi thought.. it would be nice for the pasta expert of the restaurant to give this a tryâ grant leans back in his chair nodding to the bowl
âo-oh thank you chefâ you grab the fork
âg-grant, you can call me grantâ you look at him and he looks⊠flustered?
âchef grant?â you tease and he swallows âgrantâ you say and his eyes meet yours âmay i try it now?â you motion towards the bowl
âpleaseâ he says with no hesitation, he watches you as you twirl the fork in the bowl and bring it to your mouth eating it off of the fork. his eyes watch you the whole damn time and if he wasnât turned on already by you calling him chef, he most certainly was now âgood?â you look at the bowl moving it around
âis there chili flakes in here?â you ask and he nods before you push the bowl âi-im allergic, like i need to be driven to the er.â he immediately stands
âshit shit shit, okay okay.â he moves to look for his keys near the hook by the door âfuck me, i should have asked, im a goddamn chef for goodness sakeâ he says moving towards you but when he sees your face holding in a laugh his sholders drop âyouâre not allergic..â you burst out laughing
âyou should have seen your face.â you hold a hand to your mouth as he tosses the keys on the table
âi seriously believed you.â he moves and sits back down âi seriously would have taken you to the er, i got some friends there that you would be considered vip statusâ he crosses his arms over his chest and your eyes immediately go to his biceps and how they look squished against his arms⊠all perfect and freckles scattered across his skin- he snaps in front of your face
âsorry what?â you snap out and he smirks
âhow long have you been at the restaurant?â he asks and you mess with the cleaning wipes that sit on the table
âjust about 2 yearsâ you shrug
âthatâs what i thought.â he mutters and you both go silent
âdo you enjoy being a chef?â your turn to ask a question
ânothing else iâd wanna do moreâ he says honestly
âyouâre the only nice chef.â you say and his head snaps to you
âseriously? chef king has a better track record.â he chuckled
âhe yelled at me once for dropping a wrong dish off at a table.â you say softly
âhe what?â grant sits forward âgoes marcus know?â you shake your head âyouâre a host, not a server, not a chef. you donât run food often he should know that.â grant says with anger in his tone
âitâs fine really, i just avoid him at all costs nowâŠâ grant relaxes âi think he also things itâs dumb that im in my late 20âs and work as a host⊠like im studying and trying internshipsâŠ.itâs a lot.â
âfuck him, do whatever you think is right.â he says resting his arms on the table âlate 20âs? sheesh.â grant says and you give him a gasp
âokay silver fox.â you shoot back âwhat are you like 60?â he gasps now
âyou take that back.â he says with a smile on his face
â61? 62? 63?â you keep going and grant grabs the chair your sitting in from underneath and slides you towards him quickly putting a hand to your mouth
âim 50â he says looking down at your eyes
âsliver foxâ you mutter against his hand and he looks at you
âyou like that huh?â what the fuck grant??? your eyes donât change as you nod his hand still on you but it slides to cup your cheek âyouâre into 50 year olds?â heâs testing the waters
âoneâ you say back softly and thatâs when grant moves forward and kisses you, he wishes he did it 2 years ago when you got hired. his hand stayed on your cheek as you move closer kissing him deeper
âfuckâ he says in between kisses letting out a tiny whisper (iykyk) his other hand grabs your waist and drags you towards sit onto his lap as he kisses you deeper âive been dreaming about kissing you for yearsâ he mutters and you smile softly
âreally?â he nods and drags you back down as your hands move to his chest and he groans in your mouth
âfuck iâve thought so much about you, and your hands.â he hisses looking down
âlike what?â you ask and kiss his neck and he lets out a whimper
âanywhere, everywhere. how they would feel wrapped around me, scratching me-â you run your nails down his chest and he holds in a moan
âyouâre very vocal, i like itâ you bite his earlobe and he moves to put you onto the table (yeah itâs right out of the story sorry it was just so hot) you sigh as he knocks off the menus and his notepad⊠the pasta bowls cold as he moves them away from you
âi would go home⊠imagine you, the way you say chef, gosh i get hard every time you say it. i would pray that you would run food just so i could hear itâ his hands grip the table âfuck we canât do this here.â he rests his forehead on yours âand we have these damn menusâ
âforget about the menus.â you cut him off âyour truck outside?â you ask and he raises an eyebrow
âyouâre dirty⊠yes itâs outside.â he reaches for the keys and hands them to you âiâll be right out. iâll clean and close upâ he kisses you again and you chase his lips before heading out to his car
Getting into the truck, it smells like him immediately. itâs neat and looks as if he only uses it to and from work. You move to the backseat and wait patiently. 10 minutes later he walks towards the truck and opens the back door slipping inside
âwhat about the camerasâ you worry and he sits bringing you back to his lap
âtinted windowsâ he mutters ghosting over your skin with his lips ânow let me make you feel good yeah? when i see you in those cute little sun dresses walking people to tables, but this, this one is my favoriteâ he looks down at your floral dress âiâve dreamed about just sinking to my knees and hiding under itâ you shiver âso thatâs what im gonna doâ he moves so youâre sitting now on the seat. he reaches towards the front and pulls the passenger chair up all the way so he can settle on the floor with enough room.
âi-i didnât shaveâ you say quickly and nervously
âyou think i care? baby you could be chewbacca for all i care and i would still get on my knees for youâ he moves to the end of your dress âthis okay?â he mutters and you nod eagerly âfuck yes.â is the last thing he says before he disappears under your dress
âgrant-â your cut off when he immediately moves your underwear aside and licks a line up your core âfuck,â your hips buck and he moans against you
âiâm gonna fucking cum in my pantsâ he mutters, you still canât see him but you feel when he dives back into you like a starved man, he enters in two fingers with no warning and you grip his hair through your dress
âg-grant-â you squirm and he shakes his head using his tongue and you never felt anything like it
âsay chefâ he peaks out of your dress, his chin glistening in the street light thatâs coming through the truck window âsay. it.â he says
âchefâ he practically cums there but comes up to kiss you as he pushes you both back onto the seat
âyouâre gonna look at me when you cumâ his fingers enter you again and he moans too as his forehead rests on yours, you nod as he moves his fingers faster. your breaths mix together as he stares into your eyes as his fingers curl hitting a spot you gasp holding onto his shoulders âcome on, be a good girlâ he mutters âcum.â
âfuckâ you let go at his words and he digs his hands into you⊠he moves his fingers slower letting you calm down and he catches his breath too
âi feel like im a teenager again.â he falls back and you sit up looking down at his pants and see the wet spot on his crotch
âdid you-â he lets out a laugh cutting you off
âyeahâ he smiles
Grant insisted on driving you home where more fun activities happened. He stayed over at your house and waking up next to him felt like a dream. Work has been fun, keeping your relationship a secret, running food more often when grant worked, fucking in the staff room during breaks. It was amazing and definitely worth it.
Hi bb i miss your series and I hope you get the motivation to keep it going soon because the pitt fandom needs ur big brain
iâm so sorry i just saw thisâŠ. BUT NEW EPISODE COMING OUT THIS WEEKEND YIPPIEEE IM BACK THANK THE SHAWN QUINN EPISODES

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
sneak peak so far đ€đ€ iâm so excited to release this THEHEHE
grant reilley x hostess!reader who is the sweetest thing on earth, and is probably the most chatty person in the whole resturaunt (prooobably because sheâs a hostess)
grant reilley x hostess!reader who is absolutely terrified to talk to most of the chefs except for chef grant
grant reilley x hostess!reader who calls grant âchefâ and it turns him the FAWK awn
OKAY YOURE AMAZING IM GETTING RIGHT ON THIS ASAP đđđđ
guys hear me out⊠grant reilly x hostess!reader đ
Temperature Control
blurb: Jack Abbott was supposed to find a safer hobby. He wasnât prepared to find you.
jack abbott x fem reader
content/tw: age gap implied, older man, afab reader, explicit smut, praise kink, soft dom jack, PIV unprotected (wrap it up folks), public(ish) sex, referenced gun violence, Jack Abbott is an amputee and this is briefly mentioned, flirting, forced proximity, humour and smut, porn with a plot
a/n: i wrote this in about 6 hours of shawn hatosy arm fuelled horniness so itâs barely edited, hope itâs at least readable and makes sense đ«Ł
length: 5.7k
MASTERLIST (still havenât gotten around to making one for this blog yet so itâs on my main for now)
By the time you reached the Maison du Goût cooking school, the day had finally loosened its grip on you.
Youâd spent what felt like a lifetime kneading and sifting and decorating. Followed by a second life time of mind numbing admin. Payroll, utility bills, bulk ingredient orders. After days like that not many people would want to step into a kitchen with cold lights, stainless steel counters, the scent of butter in the air. But it was your happy place. Something inside you would unclench and the tension in your shoulders would melt away.
Cooking was different from baking. Baking was your lifeâs passion. Cooking hadnât come as easily but it was all the more rewarding for it.
Precision mattered, but not in the way it did elsewhere. You could fix mistakes. Start again. Add salt. Lower the heat. Let something rest and come back to it kinder than before.
Nothing screamed.
Nothing bled.
Nothing died.
That was why you had first started coming. Baking had always kept your mind busy, but never still. It was numbers and structure, precision. Weights, percentages, temperatures, chemistry.
A constant series of calculations. Cooking asked less of your head and more of your senses. Taste this. Smell that. Stir until it feels right. Add a little more. Let it simmer. In cooking, you could disappear for a while.
You tied your apron behind your back, tucking a loose strand of hair away as the first of the evening students drifted in. The chalkboard by the door read:
French Cooking for Beginners: Week ThreeâšMother Sauces, Knife Skills, Tart Tatin
Your idea of heaven. Some cooking. Some baking. Best of both worlds.
You were setting your notebook down when the door opened again and someone entered the kitchen.
He did not look like a man arriving for recreational mother sauces.
His hair was all salt & pepper curls. Not overly tall but thick. Visibly strong in a way that gave him more height than he actually had. Broad-shouldered. Bow legged. White t-shirt tight around his chest and shoulders. The kind of posture that suggested he had spent years in rooms where standing wrong had consequences. His expression was calm, unreadable, bordering stern.
He was noticeably older than you. And devastatingly handsome. Your stomach flipped.
Now is not the time or the place to be thinking inappropriate thoughts about an inappropriately older man.
He carried a knife roll.
An expensive one, by the looks of it.
âŠTo a beginners cooking class.
You bit back a smile.
He scanned the room once, taking in exits, counters, people. Then chose a station near the wall and set his things down with deliberate care.
Interesting.
He looked up.
Caught you watching.
You smiled politely.
He gave the smallest nod in return.
You nearly laughed. You had never seen someone so tense in a cooking class. Half of the students already had a glass of wine in their hands and yet he was surveying the rooms with the intensity of someone whose life was at risk.
âWelcome back, everyone!â
Chef Mireille swept in precisely on time, elegant as ever in her white jacket and red lipstick.
âTonight we learn knife skills, mother sauces, and if you behave, dessert.â
A murmur of approval moved through the room.
âAnd because life is cruel,â she continued with a wink to the room, âwe are rotating partnersâ
Groans. Laughter.
You straightened immediately.
Please let me get the stern one.
Something about him was drawing you in. You were known to talk too much, pry a little too far at the best of times. But his rough exterior did nothing to repel you. It only made you want to look more.
Mireille pointed around the room, assigning partners at random.
Then at you.
Then at him.
âYou two.â
Perfect.
You crossed to his station, smiling warmly at him.
âHi,â you said brightly. âThis will be fun!â
He blinked once, a little taken aback by your optimism.
âI canât promise anything will be edible when Iâm done with it.â he responded, dryly though there was a glint of something in his eyes.
You laughed âThatâs alright, Iâm excellent in a crisisâ
That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was privy to a joke that you werenât.
âIâm Jack,â he rasped, reaching a hand out to you.
You gave yours and grasped his hand with your own. It was calloused and so large it engulfed your own. You briefly wondered what theyâd feel like on other parts of your body. But shut the thought down as fast as it came around.
âSo,â you said cheerfully, âwhat made you sign up for this?â Your head tilted and you handed him his apron.
âIt was⊠an aggressive recommendation.â he put, watching you as he put the apron on. Your mouth went dry seeing the veins in his arms, visible as he forcefully tied the knot.
âThat sounds suspiciously vague.â
His lips pushed to the side like he was trying to hold back a smile.
âFrom who?â
âFriends. Colleagues. Therapist.â
Your eyes widened a little and you grinned. âAn intervention?â
âSomething like that.â
âThatâs sweet.â
âTrust me, it wasnât but they all think I need better hobbies and it was either this or pottery. Maybe that wouldâve been the safer optionâ you saw him eyeing the fancy knife set he had brought with him.
You laughed softly.
He shook his head once, but there was the beginning of amusement there now.
âAnd you?â he asked.
âWhat made me sign up?â
He nodded.
âIâm work at a bakeryâ you said. âThought it was time I learned to make things that donât rely on sugar. Though Tart Tatin is safely in my comfort zone.â
âYou bake professionally?â
âI do.â
âWhat kind?â
âPastries, cakes, breads, anything involving butter and unnecessary effort.â
That earned the smallest real smile.
It was entirely worth the wait.
Chef Mireille clapped once for attention, waiting until the room quieted.
âBefore we begin ruining perfectly good butter,â she said, âwe talk about mother sauces.â
She lifted a wooden spoon like a pointer.
âIn classical French cooking, the mother sauces are the foundations. The starting points. Learn them properly, and you can build a hundred other sauces from them. Learn them badly, and everything that follows tastes of regret.â
That got a laugh.
âThere are five traditionally recognised mother sauces: bĂ©chamel, veloutĂ©, espagnole, tomato, and hollandaise.â
She moved down the line of ingredients as she spoke.
âBĂ©chamel is milk thickened with roux. Simple, elegant. VeloutĂ© begins with stock and becomes lighter, silkier things. Espagnole is rich and brown and rewards patience. Tomato sauce, in the French sense, is deeper and more structured than many of you expect.â
Then she held up a bowl of cubed butter.
âAnd hollandaise,â she said, smiling faintly, âis where overconfident people go to be humbled.â
The room laughed again.
âAnd naturally, that is where we will begin. If you can master this sauce you can master them all. It is an emulsion. Fat and liquid persuaded to cooperate through technique, temperature, and attention. Too cold, it tightens. Too hot, it splits. Too rough, it breaks. Too timid, it never comes together.â
Her gaze swept the room.
âSo, like many relationships.â
Even louder laughter this time.
Mireille set the bowl down.
âTonight, we are learning what they teach: control of heat, patience, texture, and trust. If you can make a good sauce, you can cook. If you can rescue a broken sauce, you can really cook.â
She
âNow. Aprons on. Whisks ready. And if anyone curdles my hollandaise, at least do me the courtesy of telling me before I taste, hm?â
You divided the ingredients between you with the efficiency of someone who had done this enough times to know chaos always began with poor prep.
Jack read the recipe card once, then set it down like he intended to win on instinct alone.
He took the butter and put it on the stove, whilst you got to work whisking the eggs with white wine, a splash of cold water and a pinch of salt.
âSo, Jack, what do you do when youâre not being mysteriously assigned hobbies?â
A brief pause as he stared down intently at the melting butter. As if, if he looked away for a second, it would all go wrong.
âEmergency medicine.â
âOh. Really?â
âReally.â
âThat must be intense.â
âSometimes.â
You laughed.
âSometimes?â
He glanced at you, then back at the butter.
âA lot of the time.â he admitted.
âII hope you donât mind my questions. Iâm justâŠ. interested.â you said honestly. Because it was the truth. And you wanted to know more.
âIn emergency medicine?â
âIn you.â
That made him pause, spoon stalling in the pan.
You pretended not to notice.
Then he resumed stirring.
âER now,â he said.
âNow?â
âI used to be a combat medic.â
Your whisk stopped.
âWell.â
He looked over.
âWell what?â
âThat is significantly more interesting than baker.â You held out the eggs for him.
He huffed a laugh and poured the butter into the eggs, placing the bowl over a pan of simmering water.
âI mean⊠donât get me wrong. Iâm sure youâve never had pastry collapse at six in the morning.â
âComparable trauma?â he smirked, not turning to face you but you could see his eyes flicking towards you.
âDevastating.â
He laughed then.
Short. Real.
It changed his whole face.
You liked the sound of it immediately.
But the smell⊠wait? The smell?
Oh no.
Chef Mireille appeared at your shoulder with the uncanny timing of someone who could sense culinary incompetence from across the room.
She looked first at the pan.
Then at Jack.
Then back at the pan.
You craned your neck and got your first look as well. The hollandaise sat in the bowl in glossy yellow patches, butter pooling at the edges, curdled through the middle.
Mireille placed one hand on her hip.
âWell,â she said. âThis poor sauce has suffered, it seems. The heat is far too highâ
Jackâs brows raised in surprise and then dropped into a frown. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.
Jack glanced down at the bowl. âIn my defence,â
âAh Ah. The heat,â Mireille cut in smoothly, âdid not turn up by itself.â
A few people nearby laughed.
Then her eyes moved to you.
âAnd you,â she said, lifting one elegant brow.
Uh-oh. You swallowed the laughter you had been holding in.
âWere you paying attention?â
You straightened automatically.
âI was just,â
âShe was helping,â Jack cut in.
Mireille ignored him with professional ease.
âYou are usually one of my star pupils,â she told you, tone playfully stern. âReliable. Focused. A woman I trust around butter.â
You pressed a hand to your chest. âChef,â
âAnd yet tonight,â she continued, gesturing toward the bowl, âyou have allowed this man to commit acts of impatience in my kitchen.â
Mireille pointed her spoon between the two of you.
âStart again. Lower heat. Slower hands. Less eye contact.â
Heat climbed your neck.
Now it was Jack who was holding back a laugh.
âWeâre just cooking.â
âMm,â Mireille said. âAnd I am twenty-five.â
She swept away before either of you could answer.
There was a beat of silence.
Then you turned and nudged Jack lightly in the ribs with your elbow.
âYouâre dragging my reputation down.â
He looked at you, deadpan.
âYour reputation must be pretty fragile.â
You gasped softly.
âIt was immaculate before you arrived.â
His mouth twitched and he absently rubbed the spot on his torso where your elbow had been.
âThen Iâm glad I came.â
One more attempt, this time successful, at mastering the hollandaise, and it was time for the knife demonstration.
Your second batch had come together beautifully. Pale gold and glossy, thick enough to ribbon from the spoon. Chef Mireille had swept past, dipped a fingertip into it, and given a rare nod of approval before gliding on to terrorise another station.
You had tried not to look smug.
Jack had noticed anyway and shot you a subtle wink that made your heart skip.
Now the room gathered around the long central counter while Mireille demonstrated how to peel, core, and slice apples evenly for the Tart Tatin.
âUniformity,â she said, lifting a wedge between two fingers, âis not about pleasing me, though naturally it does. It is about making sure everything cooks at the same rate. If one piece is too thick and one too thin, one burns while the other stews.â
She set the knife down.
âAnd grip matters. If you are fighting the knife, you have already lostâ
She demonstrated once, swift and elegant, then sent everyone back to their stations with bowls of apples and the promise of shame for anyone who hacked them into rustic chunks and called it charm.
You returned to your counter with Jack beside you.
He picked up the knife immediately.
And held it completely wrong.
Not beginner wrong. Not nervous wrong.
Wrong in a way that suggested years of muscle memory.
His index finger ran high along the spine of the blade, thumb angled close, grip narrow and exact, as if he were about to make an incision rather than cut fruit.
You stared.
âThat,â you said, pointing, âis not a kitchen grip.â
He glanced down at his hand.
âIt cuts.â
âYouâre holding it like a scalpel Doc.â
His mouth twitched.
âIâm sure itâll be fine, theyâre just applesâ
Your face dropped into a deadpan stare and you teased, âYouâre not dragging my reputation through the mud anymoreâ
You stepped nearer before you could think better of it.
Up close, he was even more solid than he looked. Heat rolled off him in a quiet wave. He smelled so good. Clean soap, cotton, and something warmer beneath it. Cedar, maybe, or just him. The kind of smell that made you instinctively lean in before sense caught up.
You reached for his wrist.
His forearm tensed the second your fingers closed around it.
Strong. Dense. Warm.
The muscles shifted beneath your touch like restrained machinery.
âRelax,â you murmured.
âI am relaxed.â
âYouâre so tense, didnât you hear what Chef said about fighting the knife?â
That earned a low sound that might have been a laugh.
âNot like that,â You slid your hand down, nudging his thumb and forefinger into place at the base of the blade, âLike thisâ
âPinch grip,â you said. âHere. Control comes from the blade, not strangling the handle.â
Your other hand covered the back of his briefly, guiding the angle lower.
He went very still.
So did you.
You became acutely aware of the breadth of his chest just behind your shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the fact that if you leaned back half an inch you would feel all of him.
Your pulse gave an unhelpful kick.
âThen your guiding hand,â you said, voice thankfully steady, âmakes a claw.â
You took his free hand and curled his fingertips inward around the apple.
âProtect the tips of your fingers, bend them in a little.â
âBossy,â he murmured near your ear.
âPeople generally appreciate instruction involving sharp objects.â
âI donât usually need any instruction around sharp objects.â
âDebatable.â You smiled, though with you in front of him like this you know he couldnât see.
You released him and stepped back.
âThere. Now slice.â
He brought the knife down through the apple in smooth, clean strokes. Even wedges. Neat spacing.
Quick learner.
Annoyingly attractive.
âWell?â he asked without looking up.
âWell what?â
âTell me Iâm talented.â
You laughed.
âIâll tell you youâre teachable. Letâs not get ahead of ourselves.â
That time he smiled properly.
It hit you with the force of a minor collision.
Warmth transformed him. Softened the stern lines of his face. Made him look less like a man carrying something heavy and more like one who had briefly remembered how to set it down.
You forgot what you were saying for a full second.
He noticed that too.
âTart Tatin,â he said coyly. âTry to focus.â
You stared at him.
âAre you flirting with me over apples?â
âI donât know,â he said, slicing another perfect wedge. âIs it working?â
You rolled your eyes, another smile forcing its way onto your face before you could stop it. You didnât bother humouring him with a response, your expression told him enough already.
From there, working together became strangely symbiotic.
You caramelised the apples on the stove, he stabilised the pan handle without being asked.
He fetched ingredients before you reached for them.
You corrected seasoning. He corrected heat. And then overcorrected it.
Still learning. You bit back a laugh
âThe heat was fine, just watch the timerâ you said.
âThey burn if ignored.â
âWhere was that attitude when you killed our hollandaise?â
He glanced over.
âI was distracted then:
Your heart beat heavy against your chest.
âYouâre not now?â you asked, eyes flicking up to his. He was watching you with a flirtatious intensity you hadnât experience from anyone before. Maybe youâd just been flirting with the wrong people this whole time.
âI amâ he said, voice rough and low, âIâm just motivated not to disappoint you twice in one nightâ
âHmm, maybe too late for that Doc. Your tart crust is looking pretty thick.â
He looked down at it.
âIt is not.â
âItâs wearing armour.â
âIt needs structure.â
âIt needs tenderness.â you arched a brow, daring him to argue further.
That look again.
Unadulterated attraction.
âYou talk like that about all pastry?â
âOnly the difficult ones.â
The timer for the apples went off then.
You both reached to take the pan off of the heat at the same time.
Your fingers brushed.
Neither of you moved for a beat too long.
Then he moved away, allowing you to take it.
âSlow reflexes, old manâ
âI was letting you have it, kidâ
âHow noble.â you retorted, trying to ignore the flush of heat between your legs at the nickname he had given you.
As the tarts came out of the ovens, the room softened into that pleasant end-of-class warmth.
More wine appeared at nearby stations. Mireille floated by critiquing apple placements and praising crusts.
Jack stood beside you, leaning on the counter. You were starting to think he noticed how much youâd been looking at his arms and had decided to show them off for you.
Extremely annoyingly attractive.
âWhat kind of bakery?â he asked.
You glanced over, surprised.
âUmm itâs called Willow & Rye. Mostly pastries, custom cakes, bread. If Iâm feeling particularly masochistic Iâll make macarons on weekends.â
He hummed, eyes never leaving yours.
âYou own it?â
âI do, took over from my mom or took over from her mom. I basically grew up in that place.â
âYou like it?â
No hesitation.
âI love it.â
He nodded once.
As though filing that away.
âAnd cooking?â he asked.
âWhat about it?â
âWhy take a cooking class after baking all day?â
You laughed lightly, understanding the absurdity, âWell⊠itâs very different to baking. And I like learning things Iâm not good at.â
âWhy.â
âBecause being bad at something humbles you.â
âYouâre not bad at this.â
You laughed, âThanks. But thats now. I was never a natural with cooking like I was with baking. It took time.â
His mouth twitched.
You added more quietly,
âAnd I find it peaceful. Even when the kitchen is chaotic I can still find the peace I need there.â
Something in his expression shifted then.
Small enough most people wouldnât notice.
You did.
âPeaceful,â he repeated.
âYeah.â
He pushed down off of the countertop and wrung his hands together, looking down at them.
âMaybe thatâs why Iâm here too.â
Warmth moved low in your stomach.
So naturally, you ruined the moment.
âI still wouldnât trust you to do any of this aloneâ
He stared.
Then smiled slowly.
âI learn fast.â
âDo you?â
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
âI do.â
By the time the tart came out of the oven, golden and fragrant, the room had dissolved into happy chaos.
People packed leftovers. Chef Mireille kissed cheeks and assigned homework.
You stayed behind to wipe down your station, as always.
Jack stayed too.
Not helping, exactly.
Lingering.
âYou can go, you donât have to wait for meâ you said.
âI know.â
He didnât move.
You dried a pan, trying to reign in the heat you could feel spreading up your neck to your face.
He watched you with the same focus he gave everything else.
âYou hungry?â
You glanced over at the half-eaten tart between you, raising a brow at him.
âIs that a joke?â
âOr thirsty, then.â
Not smooth.
Not practiced.
Just direct.
You liked that far more than smooth.
âI could use a drink,â you replied, a smile playing at the corner of your mouth.
The wine bar next door was narrow, warm, and softly lit.
You took a booth.
You ordered wine.
He ordered water, mentioning briefly that he was driving home when he saw the surprise on your face.
âAh, here I was expecting whiskeyâ you said.
âWhy is that?â
âItâs very on brand for gruff older man in need of hobbies.â
âYou think Iâm gruff.â
You bit your bottom lip, smiling and nodding before saying âCan I ask you a question?â
He gestured for you to go ahead.
âNow, donât take this the wrong way because I think you look incredible in the apron but. Why do your friends feel the need to strong arm you into taking up a cooking class?â
He shook his head, amused before leaning forward, resting on his elbows.
âThey think I have a habit of mistaking danger for recreation.â
You smiled faintly. âDo you?â
âSometimes.â
He glanced down at the water glass, turning it once against the table.
âBefore this, I was doing volunteer medic work with a SWAT unit.â
You blinked. âWow,â nodding âThatâs really braveâ
His mouth twitched but he didnât argue.
âAnyway, couple months back I caught a graze.â
Your smile faded.
âA bullet?â
âTechnically.â
âJack.â
âIt barely touched me.â
You stared at him.
Mouth downturned, he drew a sharp breath through his nose, shrugging like it was no big deal.
âApparently getting shot, however inefficiently, gave everyone around me opinions.â
You were quiet for a moment.
âAnd what do you think?â
That made him pause for a second.
âTheyâre probably just tired of waiting for the phone to ring. So. Cooking classâ
He summed it up like it was nothing. Like he had just finished telling you about traffic.
Conversation unspooled easier after that.
He told you about his job, long shifts working nights. You laughed when he taught you the Nightcrawler chant that he does with his staff at the start of a shift to hype themselves up.
He told you about his friends who worried.
And he told you about his time in the service, a life built around reacting quickly. Losing his leg.
He didnât overshare, but what he gave you was enough that you were able to build a picture of who he was, the life he lead. And you wanted more.
You told him about four a.m. starts at the bakery, kneading dough before sunrise, the violence of holiday cake orders.
You told him about pressures of keeping the third generation family business going.
And you told him about baking. Growing up. With your mom and grandmother. Food as a conduit for community. A way to gather close with everyone you love and share in something.
âYou talk about food like religion,â he said.
âOh please, in my family it was the next best thing.â
Eventually the wine bar closed down. Jack offered you a ride.
You wouldnât have ever said yes to a ride from someone you had only known for a few short hours but⊠you didnât want to say goodbye yet.
The walk to the car park was damp with recent rain.
Streetlights turned the pavement gold.
You stopped beside his car.
He opened the passenger door.
As you neared him, you hesitated.
âYouâre not getting in?â his voice was low. You looked up at him, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. He swallowed and his adamâs apple bobbed.
You were suddenly very thirsty again.
âNot yetâ
Streetlight caught in the silver at his temples. The night air was cool, but standing this close to him made it hard to notice.
He stepped closer and the air changed with him, into something electric.
âYou got quiet,â he said.
âJust thinking.â
âDangerous habit.â
A smile pulled at your mouth.
âI want you, Jack.â
He went still.
Not startled. Not offended.
Just still in that way controlled men did when faced with something uncontrollable.
His eyes searched your face like he was checking for hesitation, for uncertainty, for the chance that you didnât mean it.
âYou donât know how difficult youâre making it for meâ he said quietly.
Your brow furrowed, confused. Your hand reached out for his, trailing up his arms lightly.
âWhatâs difficult about this?â
His jaw tightened visibly.
âIâm older than you.â
You laughed a little.
âYeah, Jack, I noticed.â
âThat doesnât concern you?.â
âIt looks like it concerns you enough for both of us, apparently.â
That almost pulled a smile from him, but it faded before it fully formed.
You dropped your hand. âLook, if this isnât-. If you donât want this. Iâm sorry if I got the wrong impressionâ
His hand came to your jaw then, rough palm warm against your skin, thumb resting lightly beneath your chin.
âNo. I want you too, you donât know how much. All night Iâve been thinking about itâ he said, the words sounding dragged from somewhere deep. âThatâs the problem.â
You leaned into his touch.
âDoesnât sound like one to me.â
âNo,â he said, one corner of his mouth tugging up, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. âIt sounds like the start of several.â
You smiled up at him innocently. Far from innocent.
He groaned, almost too quiet to hear but you did.
That did it.
You reached up, hands reaching for his curls and bringing his head towards your own.
He kissed you like heâd been restraining the urge for hours and resented the delay.
One hand came to your waist.
The other braced on the car above your shoulder.
Controlled. Strong. Deliberate.
You kissed him back harder.
He made a low sound in his throat.
You tugged him closer by the front of his shirt.
âStill think pottery was the better choice?â you murmured.
âNo.â
âGood.â
He kissed you again.
Longer this time. His tongue pushing in against your own, teeth biting gently at your lip.
When you broke apart, breathless, you took him by the hand.
Closing the passenger door and opening the back door.
You looked at him, brow raised in a challenge.
He laughed and slid into the back, pulling you with him.
The windows fogged quickly.
Heat trapped in too small a space. City lights reduced to blur.
You learned several things, as you were straddled on Jacks lap with your dress hiked up above your hips.
Jack liked control until he trusted someone enough not to need it.
He was attentive in every sense of the word.
And all that contained stillness hid a startling amount of hunger.
You kissed until your lips were swollen. Chin rubbed raw against his silver stubble.
Hands explored through clothing first, hesitant nowhere but careful everywhere that mattered.
There was laughter between sharper moments.
Your forehead bumping the roof of the car.
His muttered complaint about leg room, wishing heâd had the fore thought to push the front seats forward.
You teasing him that tactical planning shouldâve accounted for that.
But when the laughter subsided, all that was left in its place was the heat.
You lifted up on his lap and he reached down to align his cock to your soaking entrance. You hadnât had a chance to see it but fuck did you feel it. You had a moment of panic, he was thicker than anyone you had been with before. And lets be honest⊠it had been a while.
He looked up at you, eyes darker than before.
âYou still with me?â
âYeah.â
âTell me if anything feels wrong.â
Something in your chest tightened at the care in it.
You nodded.
âGood girl, so wet for meâ he said softly, voice roughened by want, feeling exactly how much you wanted him as the tip of his cock entered you.
The words went through you like a spark.
He held you closer to his chest, patient where another man might have rushed, giving you time to adjust, time to breathe, time to feel every inch of anticipation.
Your fingers tangled in his curls.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
âTake your time baby,â he murmured against your throat.
Your thighs were shaking with the strain of holding yourself up but Jack noticed. And before you knew it strong rough hands were holding you up, hovering you just on the tip while you got used to the stretch. The veins in his arms were more prominent than you had seen all night. Jack moaned as your pussy clenched around him from the sight.
âGood girlâ he said, drawn out âWeâre gonna go nice and slow yeah?â he lowered you ever so gradually lower and lower as his cock went deeper and deeper inside of you. You had never been so fucking full. It was overwhelming. So full you could cry.
When you finally settled, his cock fully seated inside of you, Jacks head fell back onto the head rest. Eyes closed and mouth slightly open in absolute bliss.
You kissed up his jaw, hands moving from his hair to his shoulders. Clutching desperately as you began to move.
That spurred Jack back into action, his hands moving to cup your ass, finding the rhythm you wanted to set and lifting you in time.
âOhh good girl. Youâre so wet for me arenât youâ he cooed, drawing out a wanton moan from you that had you realising youâd been holding yourself breath. He had made you forget how to fucking breathe.
Bracing his hands against the seat, he used the leverage to buck his hips up to meet you and you folded, head resting against his shoulder.
âJack, feels so goodâ you whined pathetically.
âYeah baby, let me take care of youâ he murmured in your ear, words enunciated by grunts as he rutted his hips, âDo you feel how hard you made me? Iâve been thinking about this all night. Wanted you as soon as I fuckinâ saw you babyâ
Your insides quivered around him and he knew you were close, you wanted to straighten back up and move on him again but you were so fucked out on his cock you felt like you couldnât move. He didnât seem to mind.
âGood girl, youâre getting close arenât you?,â he moaned, a ragged breath leaving his chest, âYouâre gonna make me cum too, your tight pussy is squeezing me so well babyâ
Fuck. That did it.
Your legs started to tremble and his hands were already there, on your hips, grinding you down onto his length where you had lost the strength to do it yourself.
âThere she is. Iâve got you, cum all over my cock babyâ
He held you steady, worked you through it with the same patient certainty he seemed to bring to everything, like there had never been any question he would carry you when your body gave out.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, voice rough and low. âLet go for me.â
And with his hands anchoring you, you did.
Your body hummed with pleasure and the sob that you had been holding in let out as your orgasm rode through you.
You mumbled something indecipherable, unable to get the words out.
âTalk to meâ Jack said, voice raspy and breathing fast, âWhat do you want baby?â
âPlease Jackâ you sobbed âI need you- inside me. Pleaseâ
His eyes closed again and his fingers dug into your flesh at your words.
âYou want me to finish inside you?â
You nodded, head still resting on his shoulder, body complete mush.
âSay it.â he bit out. Demanding and assertive.
âI want youâ you whimpered.
âNot what I meant,â His hips bucked up hard and you gasped for air, âSay. Itâ
âCum inside me Jack. I need it. Pleaseâ you repeated that last word, over and over, blabbering and completely cock drunk.
Jack groaned and you could feel his cock twitching inside of you, filling you with his seed, overflowing and seeping back out.
What a fucking mess.
You leaned against his shoulder, you couldnât say for how long, catching your breath.
Jack held you, long after his cock had gone soft, still buried deep in the warmth of you. His hands stroked your hair, down your back. Repetitively over and over. He pressed kisses into your temple and whispered how good you were.
You had never felt safer.
After a long time, you got up. Jack helped you dress which you were glad for. He had fucked any strength you had left out of you.
He drove you home, hand holding yours the whole time, rubbing soothing circles into your palm.
When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved immediately.
Then, direct as ever,
âIâll make you dinner sometime.â
You laughed sleepily before you could stop yourself.
His brow lifted.
âIâve seen your skills, Jack.â
âThey improved significantly tonight.â
âStill.â
He leaned towards you, hand coming up to grasp your chin gently.
âYou saying no?â
âIâm saying if we eat anything edible, Iâm probably the one cooking.â
He smiled, nodding.
âYou can cook. Iâll sous chefâ
You grinned up at him, knowing you probably looked completely love sick.
âDealâ you said.
He walked you to your door, making sure you had stepped over the threshold before asking,
âNext Thursday?â he asked.
âThe class?â
âThe dinner.â
You pretended to consider.
âDepends.â
âOn?â
âWhether you practice your knife gripâ
He laughed.
Warm and rough. Pulling you back towards him slowly.
âI will practice.â
He stroked your hair and tilted your head back towards him, kissing you deeply.
âThen yes. Next Thursday, it is.â you agreed, mumbling against his lips.
Hello, I hope youâre having a great day. I just wanted to let you know that I love the SMAU fic youâve written, and I canât wait for the next part! Itâs so good.
hi thank you!! iâve been super slammed with work and unmotivated đ but i promise im working on something :)

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oh just watched the finale of animal kingdom đ someone should have told me just to stop watching đđđïżŒ
â behind closed doors.
med school!jack x fem!reader
summary: you took over jack and robby's spare room a few months ago and now you and jack are constantly at each other's throats. robby has finally had enough and he's hoping some forced proximity will do the trick. seems like it works a little too well.
content/warnings: roommate au-ish, robby is alluded to being kinda a slut, in robby's pov for like 25% of the fic, you're kinda a bad roommate tbh, jack is sort of mean to u, forced proximity trope, angry/hate sex, unprotected piv, mirror sex, exhibitionism if you squint, subtle degradation, choking, kind of what i imagine early mean dom!abbot is like, pope cody kinda possessed jack near the end in this one #sorry NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 6.7k
notes: fully inspired by that one tumblr post that's like "you should be addicted to shutting the fuck up" "you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid" this was a fun challenge and i love shawn hatosy's teeth i am so sad he's straightened them. self indulgent as always u'll start seeing a trend with my kinks soon. not proofread so proceed at your own risk
â
When you think back on this situation, you always wonder how you ended up here. And the answer is simple. You were desperate.
You must have done something evil in a past life because your landlord had decided to sell his place with no notice, which left you and other roommates with two weeks to find a new place to live before he evicted all of you. You remember spending countless sleepless nights scouring the internet, meeting random people, seeing random apartments.Â
Thatâs how you met Jack and Michael.
It was another roommate interview; they seemed nice, both in med school or something so they wouldnât be home much, they said. Their apartment was scarily clean for two guys, but Jack assured you that he was a self proclaimed clean freak and it was always like this. Michael just said not to go into his room and you would be fine, which you didnât really want to think about further.Â
They used to have a third roommate, they explained, but he wasnât really taking to residency all that well and moved back home. Although the way Michael told the story seemed casual, the implication was glaring. You could read between the lines. They needed someone to take over his lease, and fast.
Considering the fact that the last two girls you met said your chakras were misaligned and that they could fix that if you paid them, coupled with the fact that you were about three days out from being homeless, you decided to take a chance on Jack and Michael. How bad could living with two guys be?Â
That was months ago. Now?
You wish you paid those girls to realign your chakras and moved into their apartment. Sure, the boysâ apartment was nice. It wasnât living with boys that was the issue. They were telling the truth; Jack really always kept it clean and the pair of them were always at the hospital, so they were barely around.
Itâs when they were around that was the issue.Â
Or, more specifically, when Jack was around. Robby, as he told you to call him a few weeks into you living there, was nice enough. He was polite and funny, humor just dry enough to be endearing. He always had a few girls coming in and out when he wasnât working or knocked out from his shift, but that was neither here nor there for you.
Jack, on the other hand, was driving you up the wall. Your niceties had fizzled out in exactly two weeks, ending when you got into an argument about something so small, you canât even remember it now.Â
And that was that. After that fight, you were always butting heads whenever you were together, always about the dumbest things. Itâs reached the point where you two can barely be in a room together without getting into it. You know Robby had been trying to mediate over the past few months, but to no avail. Nowadays, he just tries his best to not pull his hair out.
Like today.
âHow many times have I asked you to stop slamming doors?â Jack snaps as you exit your room. Heâs seated next to Robby at the bar, whoâs tucking into his bowl of cereal and looking like he's praying that no one drags him into this conversation. They're both still in their pyjamas, Jackâs curls still mussed from sleep.Â
âWell, good morning to you too, Jack,â You sigh, not even looking in his direction as you make your way into the kitchen on the opposite side of the bar. Pulling open the fridge, you ponder making a smoothie just to see if itâll piss him off some more. âGlad to see a full night of rest hasn't removed the stick from your ass.â
You can see Robby white knuckling his spoon out of the corner of your eye, but he remains silent. Jack scoffs, using his fork to angrily gesture in the direction of your bedroom.
âLast I remembered, there was only one of us here not working twelve hour shifts at a hospital. Iâd like a little sleep before I have to listen to you talk all day.â He looks to his right, presumably to have Robby to back him up, but heâs already left his bowl in the sink and is slinking away from the conversation.
âTsk, tsk, Doctor Abbot. Someone needs to work on their bedside manner,â Shaking your head at him, you can tell that heâs already annoyed, face twisted up as your words. You decide, yeah, the blender probably will piss Jack off, and start pulling out some fruit. âDonât they teach you that in medical school?â
âIâve got one of the highest patient satisfaction ratings of the department,â He shoots back, a barely concealed brag. Not that it mattered that much to you, but he was clearly proud of the fact anyways. âI just save it for people that actually listen to the words that come out of my mouth. You-â
It seems comical, the timing, really. You toss the last of the fruit into the blender and switch it on, effectively cutting him off and punctuating his point. You watch his eyes furrow and you were totally right, the blender absolutely does piss him off. You mime something about not being able to hear him, sorry! and he rolls his eyes, conceding. Jack always did, if it was before eleven in the morning. Still too tired from his shift to get under your skin properly, you assumed. He grabs his plate and his coffee mug in a huff, heading into Robbyâs room, no doubt to complain about you behind your back.
You shut the blender off once he leaves, the loud whirring slowing to a stop. You remember a time that you imagined yourself getting along with both of them, falling into your place at the apartment like their missing puzzle piece. But there was just something about Jack that just pushed all your buttons. He was just a pain in the ass.
A really handsome, really annoying, cherub-faced pain in the ass.
â
Robby likes to think of himself as a patient man.
The emergency room teaches you that. Taking a step back. Pausing, being objective. Being able to make the decisions that need to be made.
And right now, a decision definitely needed to be made. Robby was living in a psychological warzone.
He remembers when he and Jack were deliberating on who to choose to take over their spare room. It was between you and some guy who looked like he ate cigarettes for every meal; Robby canât even remember his name now. Jack had said that they should pick you â even said you were cute.
This was one of the few instances in the time that he had known Jack that he had regretted listening to him.
âAnd she just-â Jackâs got his plate teetering on his knee, coffee mug still in his hand as he gestures angrily for no reason in particular. Youâve really worked him up this morning and now Robby is dealing with the consequences.
âGeez, man,â Robby canât help but snap, cutting him off. Lately itâs been endless, Jackâs complaining. It feels like he starts and ends every day listening to Jack bitch and moan about their roommate, and itâs driving him up the wall. âYou ever think about cooling it a little? Maybe extending an olive branch or something?â
âAn olive branch? For what? I didnât do anything.â His comment has clearly caught Jack off guard, eyes falling to his plate as he pushes the remaining remnants of his breakfast around.Â
âItâs not about you doing something. Itâs about you two getting along,â Robby explains with a sigh. He knows that Jack knows better than this, but there was just something about the situation that made him see red. Something about you. âA little peace around here would be nice, you know?â
âYou should tell her that.â Jack gives up pretending to eat and sets his plate aside. Robby can feel the anxious energy radiating off of him; his leg shaking the bed, the angry tap, tap, tap of his nails against the ceramic of his coffee mug. He reaches out and places a hand on his thigh to steady him. The shaking stops instantly.
âYou gotta figure this shit out,â Robby says, attempting to toe the line between stern and empathetic. He thinks it might just be coming off as tired, though. âWhatever issue you guys have, you guys need to solve that shit.â
Jack stiffens under his touch when the words leave his mouth and Robby kicks himself. For some reason, he keeps forgetting just how stubborn his best friend is.
âI don't know what you're talking about.â Jack replies flatly. That kills the conversation and he collects his things and leaves Robbyâs room, leaving him alone in some well needed silence.
Robby decides needs a new approach.
He tries his best to stick it out for the next few days, waiting until his next off day rolls around. Jack, on the other hand, is working that day which presents the perfect opportunity for Robby to appeal to your better nature instead.
Heâs leaning on the counter, watching you put your groceries in the fridge. Over the time that youâve been living together, you and Robby have learned to grow comfortable in the silence in the apartment. Youâll sit together on the couch, reading a book while he studies without saying a word. Itâs grounding for him, like a familiar blanket. At least, thatâs when Jack isnât around.
Robby is finally pulled out of his thoughts when he notices you staring at him, hand on your hip. Youâve got an eyebrow raised, like you just asked him a question that he took far too long to reply to.
âSorry, what did you say?â Robby shakes his head, trying to focus on you once more. âI was, uh, zoned out.â
âI just said youâve been looking at me all weird,â You reply, hand dropping from your hip. You approach him slowly, laying a hand on his arm. You seemed concerned, which was sweet. Heâs always wondered where the part of you that got Jack all riled up went when he wasnât around. âAre you okay?â
âNo, not really,â He says with a sigh, taking a step back out of your space. He takes a deep breath, wondering how exactly to explain this to you. He doesnât want to misstep like he did with Jack; then heâd really be screwed. âItâs about you and Jack.â
âWhat about us?â Your curiosity is piqued but Robby can see that youâve stiffened just at the mention of his name.
âLook, I get that you and Jack hate each other or whatever,â He runs a hand through his hair, deciding that the best course of action was to just be honest. Whatever happens after that is out of his hands. âBut the arguing is driving me insane. Would you be able to maybe take it down a notch when Iâm around? And when Iâm not, you can kill him for all I care.â
âI think you would definitely care if I murdered Jack,â You say with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. You two stand in silence for a moment. Tense, not the comfortable kind that Robby is used to. He can see your eyes flicking around as you think, taking in his words. And then your posture softens. âBut youâre right, Iâm sorry.â
âOh great,â He heaves a sigh of relief, taking a seat at the bar. You watch him, the curious look in your eye replaced with something that might even resemble sympathy. âI asked Jack the same thing and he nearly bit my head off.â
âYou thought I would react worse than Jack?â You look at him sadly, hand splayed over your heart in mock hurt. âIâm wounded, Michael.â
He rolls his eyes and youâre back in the kitchen, bent over and rustling through the fridge. He watches you gather ingredients, pushing around and looking for the things that you need. He taps his finger on the counter, suspicious.Â
âIs that really it?â He asks and you turn around, arms full. You shrug as you start placing things on the counter, gesturing for Robby to help you with a nod of your head. He quickly stands up, setting down whatever remained.
âI could make more of a scene, if you like,â You pull out the cutting board and knife from below the counter, shooting him a look from the corner of your eye. âBut I thought Iâd make you an âIâm-sorry-I-get-into-fights-with-your-best-friendâ dinner instead.â
Robby lights up at that. He and Jack always cook for themselves, but your food always looks a million times better than theirs. Probably because once they get home from their shifts they only have the energy to make boxed mac and cheese before falling asleep on the couch, bowls still in their laps.Â
So yes, Robby will jump at the chance to eat some food that doesnât come out of a box and doesnât involve any powdered cheese.
Youâre standing side by side when Jack walks in; Robby is chopping vegetables and youâre throwing everything together in a pot. Your shoulders are brushing âthe kitchen you share is too small not to, especially at Robbyâs size.
Robby glances up from the cutting board, ready to greet Jack, when he sees the look on his face. Itâs twisted up in something⊠something Robby canât really place. Heâs frowning, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. Before he can open his mouth to say hello, Jack stomps off to his room, hand clutching the strap of his go-bag tightly. The door slams behind him and Robby finally looks in your direction. Youâre looking equally as confused as he feels.
âWhat the hell is up with him?â You ask, going back to what you were doing before Jackâs abrupt arrival. He guesses that you were used to this kind of behaviour; Jack being all prickly towards you. Robby however, was not. He sneaks another glance at Jackâs closed door, brows furrowed.
âBad shift, maybe?â He tries to supply. You just shrug in response.
He knows that itâs something else.
â
After that dinner the fighting only gets worse.
Youâve been making Robby a lot of Iâm sorry dinners, which is a plus. But the hostile living situation is definitely a negative.Â
He knows youâve been trying to keep it down but it seems like you canât even enter a room without Jack getting irritated with you these days. Heâs tried to talk to him about it a grand total of once, and Jack snarls at him to âjust leave itâ in a tone heâs never heard before, so he has.
But itâs driving Robby insane. He wants to eat a meal, sit on the couch, and study in peace. Itâs reaching the point where heâs wondering if heâs going to have to physically separate you. The fights have been escalating; you two have been crowding each otherâs space, all gnashing teeth and pointed jabs to the chest.Â
Right now heâs laying in bed, listening to you two argue through the wall. He doesnât even know what itâs about. In fact, he never really knows what theyâre about. They always start off about something insignificant and then escalate into the grudges that you two are holding against each other. It seems like the fights never end, one of you always storming out before you ever come to a resolution.
Robby is sure that you could probably talk out your differences if you bothered to actually have a conversation about it without one of you stomping away. In fact, heâd put money on it.
He listens to a few more shouts and a particularly loud door slam and something in him finally breaks.Â
He decides to put his money where his mouth is.
â
Youâre enjoying a rare moment to yourself, curled up on the couch under a blanket with a book in hand when Robbyâs voice rings through the living room.Â
âThe sink in the bathroom is doing that weird thing again.â
Motherfucker.
You tilt your head back with a groan, slamming your book shut. The sink in the bathroom had been crapping out on you guys for as long as you remember and for some reason, you were the only person who could jiggle the handle just right to get it working again.
âCanât a girl get a moment to herself here?â You sigh, pulling off the blanket dramatically. Robby just shrugs, eyeing you as you put your book down. Thereâs something in his gaze you canât place, a bit distant. Itâs easy to assume itâs all the fighting with Jack.Â
You promised to try to be nicer to him, but he just keeps goading you into petty arguments. Itâs not hard to tell that itâs driving a wedge between the three of you. Tensions have been high in the apartment lately and youâve noticed that Robby has elected to spend more time away, presumably with one of his many girlfriends.
Robby turns around wordlessly, not even checking to see if youâre following. It unnerves you a bit; heâs usually always down to rib with you and he never ignores you. Worrying your lip, you drop the nonchalant act and trail behind him in the direction of your bathroom. He pauses at the doorframe, waiting for you to catch up.
You approach him, wanting to ask if everything is okay, when he grabs you by the arm. Itâs not rough and you wouldnât expect it to be; Robby would never hurt you. However, his grip and the element of surprise are enough to allow him to haul you into the bathroom. You barely get a word out before the door shuts behind you.
You blink in shock, taking a moment to realize what exactly is happening to you.
Jack is standing in front of you, the same look of shock mirrored on his face. The sight of him has you whirling on your heels, grabbing the door handle. It doesnât give âsomething is jamming the handle, effectively locking you in the bathroom. The bathroom you share, thatâs about the size of a closet. Locked in with the guy that makes your blood boil.
For more reason than one.
âYou gotta be fucking kidding me.â You hear Jackâs gruff voice from behind you but you deign to ignore it, choosing to bang against the door instead.
âRobby!â You shout, still rapping your fist against the door. You know that he can hear you; the walls and doors in this place are paper thin. Jackâs gaze is hot on your back and you can imagine his arms are crossed, ready to see what youâll do next. âLet us out!â
âNo,â You can hear his voice loud and clear through the wood. He must be standing right in front of the door on the other side, staring at the chipped white paint. His voice is serious, flat in a way youâve never heard before. âYou guys arenât coming out until youâre best friends. I canât deal with the bickering anymore. Either figure it out, or enjoy living in the bathroom together. Forever.â
Then you hear his footsteps, the sound of them peetering away. Which means you really are stuck in here for the time being.
You turn to face Jack with a deep sigh. You were right; his arms are crossed over his chest, looking as cool and collected as he always does before he starts pushing all your buttons. You two just look at each other for a moment, soaking everything in. He breaks the silence first. âHow did he lure you in here?â
âHe told me the sink was broken again.â You mutter, shifting uncomfortably in place and leaning your back against the door. The two of you stand at opposite ends of the bathroom, but the distance doesnât feel nearly far enough.
You know that Robby is right. The two of you are constantly at each otherâs throats for no reason. You run a hand over your face, annoyed that youâve found yourself in a situation as dumb as this. As tragic as it is, you realize that this is probably the longest the two of you have gone without arguing in a long time.
âRobby is right. We need to stop.â Jack says, as if he can read your mind. You scoff at that, rolling your eyes. Thatâs rich coming from him. Heâs the one constantly provoking you, pushing you until youâre the one whoâs fuming when he walks into the room.
âYouâre one to talk,â You reply, deciding to confront him. Itâs what Robby wanted, right? For you to talk it out? You werenât sure it would lead anywhere but it didnât really seem like your third roommate was letting you out anytime soon. âRobby told me that he already asked you to stop and you chewed him out for it.â
âI did not chew him out,â Jack denies, shaking his head in disbelief. You can already feel anger bubbling up just from his dismissive tone. âYou and Robby are best friends now, huh?â
âYeah, that's kind of what happens when your third roommate is a gigantic asshole.â You spit back. So much for not arguing. It's getting hard to keep your annoyance under wraps, especially with the wounds of your last million fights still raw.
âOh, please. I was his friend first, way before you came along,â Jack takes a step forward like he wants to pace but quickly realizes he doesn't have enough room without getting closer to you and pauses. He opts for rocking back on his heels instead. âItâs your fault weâre even in this situation in the first place.â
âMy fault? Are you listening to yourself?â You laugh incredulously, dropping all pretenses that this could even be a normal conversation anymore. âYou sound like a child. Iâve tried my best to be nice to you! How is this my fault?â
âYeah, itâs your fucking fault!â This time heâs brave enough to take a step forward, probably more out of frustration than anything else. âYou call that being nice? Getting into fights with me? Getting all friendly with Robby?â
âIs this what this is about?â Youâve caught him in a weird spot and he knows it, running a hand through his auburn curls. His brow furrows but you cut him off before he can shoot back a response. âRobby? Is that why youâve been acting extra annoying since that night you saw us making dinner a few weeks ago?â
âIt's not about him,â He grunts, jaw tensing. You can see that heâs holding back whatever he wants to say by his taut shoulders as he speaks. âIt's about you.â
âAbout me? I don't understand what your problem with me is, or why you think this is my fault-â
âOh my god, do you ever shut up?â Jack cuts you off, and the room goes dead silent. You two are close now, like both of you were taking subconscious steps towards each other as you fought. It was always like that âwhen you had these fights it always ended up with you crowding each other's spaces. This time was no exception.Â
But the size of the bathroom makes it feel different. You can almost feel his breath from the quick rise and fall of his chest, pulse racing from the argument. Your breath matches his, coming out in short huffs. Youâve got each other all riled up and you can see something flash in his eyes.
Then it clicks.
âYou want to fuck me, don't you?â You can see from his reaction that youâve got it right on the nose. He takes a step back, the bluntness of your statement pulling him out of the stupor of anger he was in.
âWhat?â He recoils like the thought of it is physically repulsive. You try not to take too much offense from that, especially because you know that itâs all for show. The heat of the tension between you two has shattered and you give a smug smirk, teeth almost bared.
âThatâs it, isnât it?â Youâre taunting him now, but after everything that he put you through it only seems fair. You canât help but laugh out loud as you continue. âLittle Jackieâs got a crush on me? Thatâs why heâs pushing me on the playground?âÂ
âDonât call me that.â The timbre of his voice is low, egging you along. âYou wish. I hate you.â
âOh, yeah? How much?â You press. Jackâs gained more confidence and heâs back in your space. Even though youâre holding the cards, taunting him with a crush, you still feel like prey. Heâs circling you like a shark without even moving. His eyes are on you as he backs you up against the door.
He still hasnât answered your empty threat. You can feel his body heat even through your clothes and it makes your breath catch. It doesnât go unnoticed by Jack, and you see a whisper of a smile on his lips. Any proverbial cards you had in your hands just moments before have fluttered to the ground. Jack has caught you and you both notice, and the idea of that has Jack looking at you like the cat who got the cream.
Youâre fully pressed against the door now, almost forehead to forehead. His hands hover between the two of you, like heâs unsure of if heâs actually allowed to touch you or not. You finally grow the courage to look up at him and meet his eyes, your noses brushing as you do. He takes that as permission and moves his hands towards you, resting loose at your waist.
Itâs hard to breathe, much less think. You can smell Jackâs body wash from this distance and it has your brain short circuiting. Heâs close enough to see every reaction and he drags a hand up your side slowly, fingertips skimming.Â
It travels up the expanse of your body and pauses at your neck, his fingers tightening for a moment. His grip isnât firm but itâs enough to make your eyes flutter. Jack rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest and his hand continues itâs journey upwards, thumb settling on your bottom lip. He swipes across it slowly and it makes your heart stutter.
Fuck it.
Your mouth parts slowly and you take his digit into your mouth, lips closing around it. Jack presses even closer to you, chest to chest. His eyes have been locked on yours the entire time and they stay that way, even as his other hand moves to slip into your sleep shorts.
Heâs got his hand cupped over your panties but you know he can feel how wet you are, even through the fabric. He finally lets the smirk take over his face, pressing his thumb into your mouth further. His fingers trail across the dampness of your underwear, sickly slow.
âThis all for me?â He asks, cocky, and itâs pretty annoying when the shoe is on the other foot. âYou get wet when I tell you I hate you? When we fight?â
His fingers are still moving slowly, making your mind foggy. Or maybe thatâs just your excuse for when you look up at him dumbly, nodding. He seems satisfied with that answer, dipping in past the lacy waistband of your panties. His breath hitches when gets a finger between your folds and feels that youâre absolutely dripping in anticipation. Youâve got half a mind to tease him about it, but he pushes a finger in and the thought suddenly vanishes from your mind.Â
The finger on your lips moves down again, landing on your throat once more. Heâs only a knuckle deep when he pauses, cocking his head. The hand around your neck gives a small squeeze, and your pussy flutters around nothing at the sensation. You let out a small moan, heat rushing up to your face in both arousal and embarrassment. âThink I didnât notice, huh? How much you liked it?âÂ
Before you can answer he slides in the rest of the way, leaving you speechless. The pace he sets is slow and deep, making your knees buckle. Youâre gripping onto his annoyingly thick arms and his breath is ghosting your face. You can tell heâs holding back, eyes flickering from your lips to the hand down your shorts.
You donât wait for him to make up his mind. Surging upwards, you catch his lips in yours, pulling him close by his shirt. The moment breaks the dam âall the months of pent up frustration and fights seared into a bruising kiss. He wastes no time, licking desperately into your mouth as he works you open with his hand. Youâre mewling, sliding your lips against his as you whimper, slick with spit.
Heâs got his leg slotted between your thighs and you can feel how hard he is, even through the layer of his denim jeans. He groans quietly under his breath, grinding against you as he fucks you with his fingers. The noise is obscene âyouâre so wet that the sound of it reverberates through the bathroom every time his digits enter you.
Itâs embarrassing, really, the way that youâre basically riding his fingers. Your hips are chasing the sensation and he gives another groan at the sight. Heâs still got his hand wrapped around your throat and his brow is furrowed with pleasure, obsessed with the way he has you just falling apart for him.
The look on his face is getting you close, like heâs pissed that he gave into you but he wants to take you apart so damn bad he just canât resist. He tightens his grip and hits that spot inside you just right and you canât help the strangled whine that leaves your mouth as you tighten around him, cumming on his hand way too loudly for you two to keep what youâre doing a secret.
Heâa got his hand out of your shorts now and heâs moved them both to pull your tank top down, exposing your chest. His breathing picks up and runs his hands up your body, rough skin on your sensitive nipples as he grabs at you, rough. Jack leans in for another bruising kiss, but you only get a short moment to savour it before he's got you by the hair, twisting you around and bending you over the counter.
The force of it has everything on the counter rattle, the tall bottle of lotion you keep in the bathroom toppling over. You recover and stumble to push yourself to your elbows, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look absolutely fucked out, hair disheveled, lips pink and swollen, looking at yourself all glassy eyed. Then your eyes flick back to take a look at Jack, whoâs rutting his bulge into the clothed heat of your cunt.
The sight almost makes you cum again on the spot. His lids are hooded, mouth hanging half open in pleasure as he moves against you. Heâs still got a hand woven into your hair and his eyes flutter open in a way you can only describe as pretty as he takes in your state through the mirror. His grip disappears and he pulls off his shirt, the piece of clothing landing on the ridge of the bathtub behind you as he tosses it. You canât even get out a quip before heâs yanking your shorts down, taking your panties down with them.
Even though he just had his fingers in you moments ago, you still feel embarrassed with how exposed you are for him. If he notices the way you get shy, he doesnât comment, hands drifting to undo his belt buckle instead. You mewl as he steps out of his jeans, hard cock slapping against his stomach. Youâre almost drooling to get your mouth around it and he laughs at the look on your face.
âYeah? Are you sure youâre not the one that wants to fuck me? âCause it seems like youâre a minute away from begging for it.â He pumps his length loosely with one hand, lips curled into a smirk as his fingertips of the other skid up the side of your thigh. The touch has your pussy fluttering, and youâre hoping that he canât see the way your legs are shaking. You can see the glimmer of precome gathered at his tip and you lick your lips.
âFuck you.â You say through gritted teeth, although it comes off much less intimidating as you would like since youâre bent over and at his mercy. He lets out another laugh at your expense, not bothering to say anything else while he lines himself up at your entrance.Â
âWell, since you asked so nicelyâŠâ Youâre already slick from his fingers, so he pushes in rough and fast, both of you groaning as he sheathes himself fully inside of you. It pushes you to your toes, punching a breath from your chest. You can tell that this is going to be quick and dirty, and you brace your hands on the counter in anticipation.Â
You were right. He pulls out slowly and you shiver at the sensation, then he slams back into you so hard that you canât help but yelp. You spare a glance up at his face and you can tell that he fucking loved that, so he keeps that pace, rough and slow.
âFuck, JackâŠâ You sound strung out as you moan his name, hips bucking as you try to get him to speed up, go deeper, anything. Youâve already come to terms with the fact that youâve definitely lost this argument but then one of his big hands presses into your back, pressing you against the counter and you canât really bring yourself to care. The other grips your shoulder and itâs like he can read your mind.
Jack starts fucking into you without abandon, chasing his high. Itâs rough and the slap of skin on skin bounces off the tile, which only serves to make you even more wet. Youâre pretty sure youâre just mumbling nonsense now, too focused on how deep Jack is inside of you to put together a coherent sentence. Jackâs getting loud too, the hand on your back snaking down to grab at your hip, pulling you back into him as he thrusts.
âWouldâve done this a lot earlier if I knew how easily I could shut you up.â He manages to get out, in between low groans and short breaths. You want to defend yourself, you really do, but he pulls you back on him and plunges in particularly deep, making your eyes cross, and your voice dies in your throat. Jackâs fucking you brainless, that much you canât deny. Youâre whining as the heat in your stomach spreads, cunt tightening as Jack fucks into you even rougher.
You know he feels it when he lets out a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously close to your name, hips stuttering. Then you feel a tight yank on your scalp, forcing your head upwards. You can barely keep still as Jack continues to move, head bobbing even with his grip on your hair.Â
âLook at me.â He says, gruff and deep, and you clench around him at the sound. It takes way too much effort to open your eyes, motions slow like molasses. You clearly take far too long for Jackâs liking, pulling harder on your hair as he repeats himself. Finally, your eyes flutter open, and youâre so close to the mirror that your breath fogs the glass. Your mouth is wide open in a silent moan, eyes almost crossed. Another rough tug reminds you what he asked for, and you drag your gaze up to meet Jackâs.
His hazel eyes are dark with lust, hair stamped to his forehead in sweat. A smirk spreads across his face when he notices that youâve obeyed, finally looking at him. The way he has your hair in an iron grip has your back arching and his cock is hitting spots inside of you that you didnât even know existed. You can tell that heâs approaching his high just as fast as you are; his thrusts are growing sloppy and you almost canât hear your small mewls over all the noise heâs making.
âLook at me when you cum.â He growls as he notices your eyes drifting as your orgasm approaches. Itâs not a question. Itâs a demand. Your eyes snap back to his and heâs already looking at you, eyes watching your face contort in pleasure. Locking eyes, he slides a hand in between your legs to work your clit, already slick from just how turned on you are by the whole ordeal. Heâs rubbing tight circles around it and everything comes crashing down.
You cum so hard around his cock that you canât even tell if you kept the eye contact he asked for, your vision going white. Youâre also pretty sure your knees give out, but Jack keeps you steady with a hand around your waist as he keeps his pace going. You whimper as he fucks you through your orgasm, nerves alight, when he pulls out with a loud groan. He gives a few rough pumps, made easy with your cum practically dripping off of his dick, and you have the pleasure of watching him come undone, coating your ass with ropes of cum.
Jack braces his hand on the counter, knuckles tightening with one last shudder of his body. You two stay that way for a moment, catching your breath. The silence is deafening as you try to think through the synchronised pants that you two share. Youâre not sure how many minutes pass until he straightens up, grabbing a towel hanging off the back of the door. He begins to clean you off, gentle in a way that you didnât expect from him, and you decide that this probably isnât the best time to tell him that heâs using Robbyâs towel.
Once heâs done, he tosses it into the laundry bin in the corner and pulls up his briefs and jeans. You turn around as he approaches you once more, worrying your lip. Youâre trying to think of something to say when Jack bends down, pulling your shorts and panties back up to your waist. He fiddles with the waistband of your shorts for a second before moving onto your tank, tugging the straps back up your shoulders and covering your chest once more.
You two are close again, but this time it lacks any of the anger and heat that it did before. Jackâs still got a finger tangled in your tank top strap, leaning closer into your space, noses brushing once more. You think he opens his mouth to say something, but the door swings open and interrupts him before he can start.
âThat was probably a million times worse than listening to you guys argue,â Robby says, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, the door still held open with the palm of his hand. âCan I ask you guys to go back to fighting instead?â
hi i hope you know youâre loved and you are so appreciated đ©·
MWAHHHH YOU ARE TOO
love your smau :) i think you do a great job at balancing written content and text interactions! often i feel like smau feel a little fake because they have to include so much info over text, but you do an incredible job!
i honestly feel like itâs shit đđ but iâm just a people pleaser so i overthink waaayyy too much and think itâs horrible. but ty ily â€ïž
i promise a post is coming iâm so sorryđđđ

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A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part II
read part I here!
pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: Youâre a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbotâtrauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptiveâstarts seeing through you in ways you didnât anticipate wc: ~6.4k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (we are still burning, I am so sorry), mutual pining of the most agonizing variety, emotional repression doing its absolute worst, discussions of clinical work/mental health, dissociation mention (clinical context), hurt/comfort, avoidant attachment being avoidant, internship anxiety, a hospital hallway that changes things, Samira being the patron saint of this narrative, angst, yearning, more yearning, a little hope at the end I promise, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: thank you to everyone for your patience, grad school has been kicking my ass these past 6 months but here she is, i kept my pinky promise. (she was alive in my chest this whole time, i was just afraid to look directly at her đ€)
The morning after you walk out of Jack's office, you wake up at 5:47 a.m. to a sunrise the color of a bruise and the particular sensation of having done something you can't entirely undo.
Not the elevator. You'd made your peace with the elevatorâor rather, you'd sealed it in a folder labeled don't open until internship year, filed it somewhere between unresolved childhood stuff and papers to revise in Q2, and moved on. You were good at that. Filing. Moving on.
What you couldn't file away was the sound of your name in his voice.
Heyâ
Just that. One syllable. Half a word, really. And then the soft thud of a door closing, and your own footsteps, and your hands shaking all the way down the hall like your body hadn't gotten the memo that you'd decided to be fine about this.
You lie on your back and stare at the water stain on your apartment ceilingâthe one that's been there since October and which you've been meaning to tell your landlord about and somehow never doâand you think: this is the problem with being good at compartmentalization. You start to believe your own filing system.
Your phone lights up.
Samira [6:02 a.m.]: u awake
You stare at it.
You [6:03 a.m.]: unfortunately
Samira [6:03 a.m.]: âš come for a walk âš
You close your eyes. Open them. The ceiling stain looks faintly like a sheep if you squint.
You [6:04 a.m.]: give me 20 mins
The farmers market isn't open yet when you get there, but the vendors are setting upâthe man with the sourdough stacking loaves, the woman who sells honey she names after her daughters. Samira is already there with two coffees from the cart near the entrance, hair in a low bun, sleep still in the corners of her eyes.
You take the coffee without speaking. She falls into step beside you.
"You're doing the thing," she says, eventually.
You sip. "What thing."
"The thing where your jaw is very tight and your eyes are doing that scanning thingâ"
"That's just my faceâ"
"âand you keep checking your phone even though no one's texted you." She glances at you. "The 'I made a decision I'm regretting but I'm calling it self-preservation' thing."
You exhale through your nose.
"He called my name," you say. "When I was leaving. And I justâkept walking."
Samira is quiet for a moment. Then: "Why?"
"Because." You watch a pigeon investigate a dropped strawberry near the sidewalk. "Because I didn't know what he was going to say, and not knowing felt safer than knowing and it beingâ" You pause. "Nothing."
Samira doesn't fill the silence. She's good at that. It's why you love her and occasionally find her terrifying.
"So you ran," she says finally. Not unkind. Just precise.
"I walked. Quickly."
"Right."
You both stop at the honey table. The jars are lined up in rows, amber and gold and deep brown, labeled in small cursiveâClara, Margot, Bea. You pick one up without really looking at it.
"I don't know what to do with it," you say. "I don't know what the it even is."
"Yes you do," Samira says, very gently. "You just don't know what to do once you admit it."
You put the honey down.
"He's on my committee," you say.
"I know."
"I'm leaving for internship in eight months."
"I know."
"It's literally textbook contraindicated."
"I know." Samira turns to look at you. "I also know that you came back from that conference and spent a week looking like someone had taken all the furniture out of a room you'd been navigating in the dark."
You blink.
"That," she says, quieter now, "is not nothing."
You look down at the groundâat the coffee cup in your hands, at the seam of your shoe on the sidewalk. The weight in your chest has shifted, not lighter, just differently distributed.
"I don't know how to do this," you say, for the second time in as many months. The second time you've said it out loud.
Samira bumps her shoulder against yours. "I know. But you said that about the dissertation defense outline too, and you handed it in six days early."
You almost laugh. Almost.
"That's not the sameâ"
"It absolutely is not." She links her arm through yours and starts walking again. "But the point stands. You figure things out. It's physically your personality."
The sun is just cresting the buildings to the east. The market is filling up around youâfootsteps and laughter and the smell of something with cinnamon baking somewhere nearby.
"And if figuring it out means getting hurt?" you ask.
Samira is quiet for a beat.
"Then you'd have been brave enough to find out," she says. "Which is more than most people manage."
You say nothing. Hold the warmth of the coffee between your palms.
Some things you carry without answering.
The distance, when it comes, is nothing dramatic. No cold shoulder. No avoided eye contact. No sudden shortness in his emails.
It's subtler than that.
The cadence of your meetings shiftsâback to once a week, crisp and functional, the kind of sessions that produce useful feedback and leave no residue. Jack asks about your analyses. You answer. He comments on your framing. You revise. He schedules the next meeting. You confirm.
It's fine. It's professional. It is exactly what your graduate school handbook would describe as a well-functioning mentor-mentee relationship.
It should feel like relief.
It doesn't.
You notice things in the space where something else used to live. The absence of the small aside at the end of a meetingâthe stray observation about something you'd mentioned weeks ago, the dry comment about the department printer, the half-question that wasn't quite a question. They're gone. Not dramatically. Just quietly returned to wherever they'd come from.
Jack is still warm, in the way that he is warmâcareful and deliberate and exactly as much as the situation calls for. But the frequency has changed. The wavelength.
You're both doing it, you think. Both retreating to the coordinates you know by heart. Both pretending the elevator was just an elevator.
The self-aware part of youâthe part that has read every paper on defensive avoidance and could lecture for forty minutes on the behavioral inhibition systemârecognizes it with clinical precision. Aversive conditioning of anticipated rejection. Avoidance as negative reinforcement. Classic extinction failure: the feared outcome was never actually tested.
The other part of you just misses him.
Quietly. Without announcement. The way you miss things you never quite hadâthe shape of a feeling rather than its substance.
You tell exactly no one. Even Samira gets radio silence on this front. Some things are easier to file when you don't keep talking about them.
November fades into December the way Pittsburgh winters do: fast, gray, and without apology. The light drops out of the sky by four o'clock. The Monongahela goes flat and pewter. The trees have been bare for weeks already.
You're in the thick of dissertation writing nowâan all-consuming, existentially leveling process that at least has the virtue of leaving you very little bandwidth for anything else. You're on your fourth draft of the discussion. You've rearranged your integrative conclusion three times. You've developed a complicated relationship with the phrase taken together.
It's a Thursday when the clinical week falls apart.
Your practicum is at the university training clinic on Tuesdays and Thursdays, standard for fifth years. You've been carrying a moderate caseload: anxiety, adjustment disorder, one OCD case supervised closely by your practicum coordinator. This term you'd also picked up a new case under GM: a college student presenting with recurrent dissociative episodes, functioning well on the surface but fragile in ways that required careful, slow-moving work.
On Thursday afternoon, the session doesn't go the way you planned. Nothing goes wrong, exactly. Nothing catastrophic. But there's a momentâa long pause in the middle of a grounding exercise where your client looks at you with eyes that are there but not there, present but unreachable, and you talk them back gently while something in your own chest catches.
You go through the motions with professional competence. You close the session correctly. You write the note. You consult with GM on your way out.
But by the time you reach your car, you feel itâthe hollow, bruised sensation of doing hard emotional work and having nowhere to put what it costs you. You sit in the driver's seat for five minutes before you can make yourself turn the key.
You don't go home. You end up at the lab insteadâthe quiet, familiar grid of your officeâand just sit there for a while, lights on but not doing anything in particular.
He knocks at ten past eight.
You don't need to look up to know it's him. His knock has a particular qualityâthree times, evenly spaced, not demanding but not tentative.
"Hey," Jack says. His voice is quiet. He's in a jacket, not his usual button-downâmust be heading out, or have just come from somewhere.
You manage something that's almost a smile. "Hey."
He reads the room. He's good at that.
He comes in without being asked, leaves the door cracked just slightly, and sitsânot at the desk chair you use for supervision, but on the edge of the little couch along the wall, the one cluttered with journals and one forlorn stress ball someone left in 2019.
"Clinical?" he asks.
You nod.
He doesn't ask for details. Doesn't push. Just settles in with the quiet steadiness that has always been his particular wayânot filling space, but not evacuating it either.
"Good session or hard session?" he says, eventually.
"Hard," you say. "Not bad. Just." You turn your pen over in your hands. "Heavy."
He nods slowly.
"She dissociated," you say. "Not dangerously. We got through it. But she looked at me for a second like I wasâ" You pause. "Like I was the only solid thing in the room. And I just." You exhale. "I wanted to be solid for her. I wanted to be enough."
Jack is quiet for a moment.
"You were," he says.
"How do you know that?"
"Because you're still here thinking about it." He glances at you. "Clinicians who stop caring don't sit in dark offices at eight p.m. asking themselves if they were enough."
The lamp on your desk makes a warm amber pool on the carpet between you. You turn your pen over again.
"I know." You look at the wallâat the print you'd pinned up there in your second year, a Magritte reproduction slightly askew that you've never straightened. "I know, academically. I just needed someone to say it out loud."
Jack doesn't answer right away. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped in that posture you've come to recognize as his thinking postureâunhurried, turned inward.
"I had a case in my third year," he says. "Veteran. Chronic combat trauma. We were deep into prolonged exposure and he had a flooding episodeâcouldn't orient, couldn't regulate. I held the space, called it correctly, got him back. Textbook." He looks at his hands. "I went home and couldn't remember what I ate for dinner. Sat on my kitchen floor for about twenty minutes."
You look at him.
"It costs something," he says. "It should. That's not weaknessâthat's you metabolizing what it means to be in the room with someone else's pain." He meets your eyes briefly. "The trick is learning the difference between carrying it and drowning in it."
There's something in his voice that's older than clinical training. You hear it.
You don't say anything right away. The lamp hums softly.
"When did you learn the difference?" you ask.
His mouth does the thingânot quite a smile, but close enough. "Still learning," he says.
You exhale. It comes out longer than you intended.
You don't know when the distance shrank againâor when you stopped feeling the absence of what you'd been missing. Maybe it was the knock. Maybe it was before that. But the room feels different now. Not charged, not complicated. Just warm in the way of two people who have, without deciding to, become important to each other.
He stays for another thirty minutes. You talkânot about the case, not about the dissertation, just talk. About a book you've both read that you have opposite reactions to. About whether the department coffee machine is a metaphysical threat. About a conference you'd both attended in 2022 where the keynote fell asleep during a panel.
By the time you both get up to leave, the hollow thing in your chest has mostly filled back in.
In the hallway, walking toward the exit, the corridor is dim and quiet. Your footsteps echo.
"Jack," you say.
He looks at you.
"Thanks." You mean it completely. "For coming in."
He studies you for a momentâthat careful, unhurried look you've catalogued more times than you'll admit.
"You'd have done the same," he says.
He holds the door open for you when you get to the exit. The night air is cool, and the parking lot is mostly empty.
You walk to your cars on opposite ends. At some point, you both say goodnight.
You don't touch. You don't linger at the threshold.
But when you pull out of the lot, you glance in the rearview mirror and see his headlights behind you, following the same street for two blocks before diverging.
And something about thatâthe parallel trajectories, the ordinary fact of itâmakes the hollow thing seal over completely.
The distance has a half-life. This is not a metaphor; it's a measurable phenomenon, and you are an empiricist.
By January you've stopped counting the meetings where he doesn't say more than he needs to. By February you've started bringing coffee again when you come to his officeâone for each of you, the exact order by now committed to muscle memoryâand he takes his without comment but with that barely-there flicker at the corner of his mouth that you've learned to read as thank you and also you remembered.
The dissertation is moving. Your committee is satisfied. Your applications have all been submitted to internship programs across the countryâranging from dream (Johns Hopkins, Vanderbilt, UCSF) to realistic (solid programs in the midwest and southeast you've made your peace with) to the one your program director submitted on your behalf as a safety that you will simply not speak aloud.
Match day is scheduled for the second Friday of March.
This fact exerts a low-grade gravitational pull on everything. Eight months of applications, interviews conducted over video call with your best blazer over pajama pants, reference letters and work samples and personal statements, and it all comes down to whether an algorithm decides you belong in Baltimore or Nashville or, optimistically, Boston.
It also means that in approximately four months, you may be leaving Pittsburgh.
You don't examine that fact too directly. You keep it in the same folder as everything else that doesn't bear direct examination.
Jack brings it up exactly once.
It's mid-February. Your meeting has run longâyou'd gotten into it over a section of your discussion on affect labeling, the kind of argument that feels like sparring but productive sparring, where you end up sharper for it. He'd pushed back on your framing of emotion regulation as primarily effortful. You'd defended it with three citations and a pointed analogy. He'd conceded gracefully and suggested a small modification that you immediately knew was correct.
You're packing up when he says, "Have you started hearing back from programs?"
The question is casual. You match it. "A few. Three interviews so far. Couple more coming in."
"Strong ones?"
"Yes." A beat. "Hopkins. Vanderbilt. One in Chicago."
He nods slowly. "Those would be good for you."
Something in his voice. You can't name it. You glance up, but he's looking at his deskânot avoiding, just looking. His thumb traces that familiar line across his knuckle.
"Yeah," you say. "They'd be good."
The room is quiet.
You should say something else. Or he should. Something neutral and professional about internship match rates and placement history, something that closes the brackets on the conversation.
Neither of you does.
You zip your bag. Lift it to your shoulder.
"I'm going to miss this place," you say, and you intend it to sound light, offhand, a general statement about the building and the program and the years of your life you've poured into this particular institution.
But it comes out softer than that. More specific.
Jack looks up.
Your eyes meet for a moment. The lamp is on againâit's always on in winter, the days too shortâand his expression is careful and unguarded in equal measure.
"I know," he says.
Two words, weighted like a full sentence.
You nod. And go.
March arrives the way it always does: grudgingly, the cold not quite releasing its grip, the sky still the particular white-gray of a city that has forgotten what it feels like to be warm. The trees are still bare. The Allegheny is running high from snowmelt. But there's somethingâjust barelyâstarting to shift. A smell in the air. A degree or two of extra light in the mornings.
Match Day is a Friday.
You don't sleep well on Thursday. You'd known this intellectuallyâyour sleep diary for the two weeks preceding shows the progressive fragmentation of your rest as clearly as any polysomnography readoutâbut knowing it doesn't prevent the 3 a.m. staring at the ceiling, the runaway iteration over best and worst case, the quiet inventory of what your life might look like in six different cities.
By 9 a.m. you're in the clinical training suite with the rest of the fifth years, all of you gathered around a conference table with laptops and coffee and the particular energy of a group that has been under sustained pressure for so long that near-release just makes everything worse.
Samira is beside you, her knee bouncing under the tableâthe only visible tell of her own anxiety, otherwise composed as ever.
"I'm going to vomit," she says very quietly.
"You're not," you say.
"I might."
"You won't." You slide the coffee cup closer to her. "If you were going to vomit, you'd have done it on Tuesday."
She breathes out through her nose. "Thank you. This is why you're my best friend."
The match results come through at 10 a.m. Eastern.
The room is very quiet when you open the email.
You read it once. Then again.
Boston VA Healthcare System, Primary Care Mental Health Integration track.
You sit with it for a moment. Just sit with the fact of itâthe program you'd ranked fourth, the one you'd applied to thinking probably not but why not try. The one in the city where you'd done your first clinical rotation as an undergrad, where you'd walked the Charles River Esplanade in February with your coat zipped to your chin and thought: I could come back here.
Boston.
"Well?" Samira, beside you, voice tight.
You show her the screen.
She makes a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh and physically takes your face in both her hands. "Are you KIDDING me. Are you kidding me."
"I'm not kidding you."
"VA Bostonâthat's a phenomenal programâ"
"I knowâ"
"Oh my GOD, you're going to be incredibleâ" She pulls you into a hug that is immediate and fierce and slightly complicated by the fact that you both still have coffee cups in your hands. Across the table, someone else whoops. Someone else exhales in relief. Someone else is very quietly crying, which turns out to be Robby's student Ben, who matched to his first choice at Duke, and the room shifts into something softer and loud and genuinely joyful.
You let yourself feel it. You let the reality settle into your bodyâthe good reality, the one you'd practiced hoping for without quite letting yourself believe in.
Boston.
Eight months.
The department sends the mass email at 11:43 a.m., a congratulatory announcement from the training director, all matched students listed by name and placement with a brief note about what a strong cohort this has been. Standard. Warm in the institutional way.
You see your name in the list. Boston VA, Primary Care Mental Health Integration. It still looks slightly unreal in 11-point Times New Roman.
You're back at your desk by 1 p.m., the afternoon quiet settling around you, when a new message arrives.
The sender line stops you.
Abbot, J.
Not a reply-all. A separate message, written directly to you.
Subject: Congratulations Boston is an excellent programârigorous, well-resourced, strong supervisory model. You'll do well there. Congratulations. You earned it. - J.A.
You read it twice.
Nine sentences. Fourteen words if you don't count the sign-off. Entirely professional, entirely appropriate, the kind of email a committee chair sends to a student on match day.
He didn't have to send it separately. The department email covered it. Everyone got the announcement. He chose to write to you anyway.
You read it a third time.
You'll do well there.
Not it will be good for your career or strong placement or any of the other framing he could have reached for. You'll do well there. Second person. Present tense. About you, specifically.
You sit with that for a moment.
Then you write back.
Subject: Re: Congratulations Thank you. For the email, and for this year. I'll try to make it worth the committee hours.
You hover over send for approximately four seconds longer than necessary.
Then you close your laptop and tip your face up toward the window, and breathe.
The semester moves. You write. Jack reads. Your committee reconvenes. The defense date is set for early Mayâa milestone that your brain can only process in practical terms, as a series of calendar items and task lists, because if you let yourself comprehend its full meaning you will simply dissolve.
In the meantime, you are in Jack's office.
This is its own kind of milestoneâyou've been in this office more hours than you've spent in many other rooms you call significant. You know the slant of the afternoon light through the far window, the particular creak the second shelf makes when someone reaches the top, the way Jack leans back when he's about to disagree with you versus when he's genuinely thinking. You know his coffee order (black, no exceptions, one cup in the morning and one in the afternoon and a herbal tea at night that he will vehemently deny drinking if asked). You know the way his pen moves across a manuscript, the steady shorthand of his corrections.
You know the way the room changes temperature when something shifts between you.
You've spent most of this year pretending you don't know that.
It's a Thursday in late March. The forsythia trees outside his window are now legitimately doing somethingâstubborn yellow against the last of the grey, the first thing in Pittsburgh that remembers it's supposed to be spring. The late afternoon light is long and golden. You're going through the last chapter of your dissertation, which has taken on the quality of a strange old friendâsomeone you've been in close quarters with for long enough that you've stopped being able to see them clearly.
"The conclusion is too hedged," Jack says. He's looking at the page, not you. "You spend two pages caveating when you could spend one page claiming."
"I'm a scientist," you say. "We caveat."
"You're also capable of defending your argument with conviction. Thisâ" he taps the page "âsounds like you're apologizing for your own findings."
You look at the passage. He's right. You hate that he's right.
"I always do this in conclusions," you say, more to yourself than to him.
"I know." His voice is matter-of-fact, not unkind. "You hold ground in an argument but retreat when you have to claim territory for yourself."
You look up.
He's still looking at the page, turning his pen in the same slow rotation. Like it's a simple observation about writing style.
"That's..." You stop.
He glances up. Something in his expression acknowledges that he said more than he meant to.
"That's specific feedback," you say, carefully.
Jack holds your gaze for a moment. The pen stills.
"It's accurate feedback," he says, equally careful.
The room does the thing it does. The hum under the surface, the change in pressure.
You look back down at the page. Your hands are in your lap.
"I'm working on it," you say. Your voice is quieter than you intend.
"I know," Jack says. Softer this time.
You don't look up. But something crosses your chestâa warmth, a recognition, the faint ache of being seen by someone who hasn't been asked to look.
You rework the conclusion.
He doesn't say anything else.
But when you read it back, voice low and a little self-conscious, he listens with his full postureâthat lean, that attentionâand at the end he says, simply, "There she is."
You keep your eyes on the paper.
But you're smiling.
The week before your defense, you dream about the elevator.
Not the way it happenedânot the held hands, the charged silence, the doors opening. In the dream, the elevator doesn't stop. You and Jack just keep going up, floor after floor, the numbers above the door cycling past in amber, the two of you not touching, not speaking, just aware of each other in the way of people who have been circling the same sun for a long time.
You wake at 4 a.m. with the particular clarity of a mind that has processed something while the rest of you wasn't watching.
You lie there for a while.
Then you open your laptop and finish the final edits on your conclusion.
You send it to your committee at 6:15 a.m.
Jack responds at 7:02:
Jack [7:02a.m.]: Strong. See you Thursday.
Your dissertation defense is on a Thursday in the second week of May. The building is too warm. Your outfit is exactly right and somehow still slightly wrong. Robby brings a gift bag with a card signed by the entire clinical faculty that includes a pun about mixed methods you'd expect from him and will keep forever.
You stand in front of your committee in the small conference room with the recalcitrant projector, and you talk for fifty-three minutes about affective forecasting and emotion dysregulation and the particular ways people fail to predict their own future selves.
You claim your territory. Without apology.
Afterward, in the deliberation period, you sit in the hallway with Samira and Mel and two cups of terrible departmental coffee and try to remember how breathing works.
When Robby opens the door and says "Can we get Dr.â" using your full surname with theatrical solemnity, and then ruins it immediately by grinning, you feel something that you don't have a clinical term for. Not pride, exactly. Something more like the completion of a circuit you've been holding open for years.
The first hug is Samira, who says nothing because she doesn't need to.
The second is Mel, who says I'm so proud of you into your shoulder.
The third is Robby, who makes it weird in the best possible way.
You look for Jack in the room. He's at the window, standing slightly apart from the cluster of faculty who are milling about with champagne glassesâhe must have gotten the sparkling grape juice, which he will also deny doing. He's watching you.
You cross the room.
"Thank you," you say. "For this year. For all of it."
He looks at you steadily. "You did it yourself."
"You helped."
"I offered feedback on your methodology and occasionally told you to go home when you were clearly running on fumes." He tilts his head. "That's the job."
You look at him. "Jack."
He holds your gaze.
"Thank you," you say again, and you let it land without hedging, without the reflexive self-deprecation, without the pivot to professional language.
Something shifts in his expressionâsmall, almost undetectable, but you know his face too well now not to see it.
"You're welcome," he says. Quiet and direct and entirely without deflection.
Robby appears between you like a force of nature with two glasses of champagne, breaking the moment with the precise timing of someone who has absolutely no idea he's breaking a moment.
You take the glass. Drink.
Jack, across the room a moment later, meets your eyes once over the rim of his glass.
Something in his expression says: not yet. But also: eventually.
And that is enough, for now.
May becomes June. June becomes the last days before your departure.
The lab throws you a small send-off partyâresearch assistants who are better at baking than you expected, a card covered in looping handwriting, a photo taken in your office with your degrees on the wall. You cry exactly once, into the bathroom sink, and then you go back out.
Your last formal day in the department is a Thursday, because of course it is.
You don't plan to stop at Jack's office. You have your bag, you have your keys, you've said your important goodbyes. The hallway is bright and summer-warm, motes of dust in the late afternoon light.
But you stop.
The door is half-open. He's there, which you somehow knew without knowing.
You knock on the frame.
He looks up from his desk, and the particular quality of stillness that crosses his face in the first half-second tells you something you've been trying not to look at directly for the better part of a year.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
You step inside, stay near the threshold. "I justâ" You look at your hands briefly. "I wanted to say goodbye. Properly."
Jack sets down his pen. He folds his hands on the desk in that careful way, and looks at you with the full weight of his attention, the way he has always looked at you, the way that once made you recalibrate your entire emotional filing system.
"When do you leave?" he asks.
"Sunday."
He nods once.
The room is very quiet.
"I'm going toâ" You exhale. You're going to do this. You promised yourself you'd do this. "I'm going to say something, and then I'm going to go, and you don't have to say anything back."
His expression doesn't change. But the quality of his stillness shifts.
You look at him.
"That night in the elevator," you say. "I've been trying to file it away for months. And I can't. I've tried every cognitive strategy I've ever taught a client and I can't, so I'm just going to say it: I don't think it was nothing. I don't think either of us thought it was nothing."
You breathe.
"And I know the timing has been terrible, and the ethics of it are genuinely complicated, and I'm leaving on Sunday to go five hundred miles northeastâ" You stop. Try again. "I'm not asking you to do anything about it. I think I just needed to say it out loud. So that it's real somewhere outside of my head. So thatâ" Your voice is very steady, you're proud of it. "So I could be someone who claimed their territory."
The silence is not empty. It never is, with him.
Jack looks at you for a long moment. The afternoon light through the window. The slant of it across the floor.
He rises from his desk. Slowly, with the slight care of someone managing a prosthetic after a long day. He crosses the room.
He stops just in front of you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence in the visceral, full-body way you've been aware of it since October of last year.
"You're not the only one who couldn't file it away," he says.
Your breath catches.
He looks at youânot uncertain, not cautious. Just clear. That worn, grounded clarity that has always been his particular frequency.
"I called your name," he says. "When you were leaving. In November." His eyes don't waver. "I was going toâ" He pauses, the smallest compression of his jaw. "I wanted to say something. I let you walk out."
"Why?" you ask. Your voice is barely a whisper.
He exhales. "Because you were leaving in eight months, and I was your committee chair, and I'd been telling myself those reasons were sufficient." A beat. "They weren't sufficient."
You look up at him.
"They're still true," he says. "The timing. The distance. I know that." He holds your gaze. "I just think you deserve to know that they were never the whole truth."
Your chest aches. Not painfully. Just fullâthe way of a thing that has been waiting a long time to be acknowledged.
"So what do weâ" You stop. Swallow. "What does that mean?"
Jack looks at you with that quiet certaintyâno hedging, no strategy.
"It means," he says, "that you're going to be extraordinary in Boston, and you're going to do things with your research that you can't fully see yet." He pauses. "And it means that when you come backâ"
"Jackâ"
"âwhether for a conference or a visit or for good," he continues, steady, "I'd like to take you to dinner. Not as a committee chair." He holds your gaze. "If you'd want that."
You look at him.
The afternoon light.
The familiar roomâovercrowded bookshelves, the annotated manuscript stack, the office that has felt like a bunker and also, somehow, over the course of the last year, like one of the steadier places you know.
"If I want that," you repeat.
"If you want that," he confirms.
You breathe.
"That's a very open-ended variable," you say. Your voice comes out unsteady in a way you don't entirely mind.
The corner of his mouth shiftsânot a smile, but very close to one.
"I'm a fan of longitudinal designs," he says.
A laugh escapes you, broken and genuine. The tension in your chest doesn't release, exactly, but it transformsâinto something lighter. Something that feels like the particular relief of a hypothesis finally tested.
"Okay," you say. Softly. With intention. The way you said it once before, in this office, when he told you your argument was brilliant and held your gaze until you believed him.
"Okay," he echoes.
You stand there for a momentâthe two of you, in this room, on a Thursday afternoon in June with the trees finally fully green outside his window and the semester over and your whole enormous future waiting on the other side of the weekend.
You don't touch. The moment is too careful for that, too deliberate, balanced on the edge of what's been said and all the room that the future holds.
But when you finally turn to goâwhen you lift your bag and step toward the door and feel the familiar threshold of this hallway under your feetâhe says your name.
Not heyâ and a trailing off. Not a half-word swallowed by a closing door.
Your name. Fully. Quietly. Like he means it.
You stop.
You turn around.
He's standing where you left him, hands loose at his sides, his expression unhurried and unguarded in equal measureâthe face he makes when he's not performing composure, when the careful architecture of his restraint has, just briefly, stepped aside.
"Safe travels," he says.
You hold his gaze.
"I'll see you," you say. And you mean it completely.
He nods once.
You walk out into the hall, and this time when the door closes behind you, your hands don't shake.
On the drive home, the radio plays something instrumentalâno lyrics, just a pattern of notes rising and resolving. You have the windows down because it's June in Pittsburgh and the air is finally, genuinely warm, the kind of warm that feels earned after a winter that long, and it smells like cut grass and something green and the river not too far away.
You think about fear extinction. About what you told your client, back in Octoberâthe point isn't to trick you. It's to see what happens when the threat isn't real. When it's safe.
About what Jack said, once, in the dim warmth of your office: you just have to let someone sit with you in the silence.
About the elevatorâthe held hands, the held breath, the careful way you'd released his fingers. The doors closing. The look through the narrowing gap.
About all the small exposures between then and now. Every meeting, every hallway, every 8 p.m. quiet, every morning coffee remembered and carried. Every moment you'd stayed instead of filing it away. Every moment the feared outcomeârejection, exposure, the cost of being knownâsimply did not arrive.
You think about what it means that you know this already. That you understand, at a structural level, exactly what has been happening. The learning theory of it, the neural underpinnings, the way the amygdala recalibrates when a stimulus is repeatedly encountered without the expected aversive consequence.
You think about how understanding it doesn't prevent it. Only living it does.
And you thinkâwindow down, June air moving through your hairâthat this is what the last year has been. Not just a dissertation, not just an internship match, not just the careful navigation of an impossible professional-emotional situation.
It's been an experiment. An extended, uncontrolled, deeply personal study in what happens when someone offers safety and you, eventually, believe them.
Not because the risk went away.
But because you kept showing up anyway.
The music shifts. The resolution of the phrase opens into something new.
Boston waits on the other side of Sunday, and internship, and the year aheadâall of it unfamiliar and enormous and full of the kind of uncertainty that you used to hate and are beginning, slowly, to hold differently.
And somewhere behind you, in an office with too many books and not enough daylight, a man with careful hands and a worn voice and a slow, particular way of seeing is going to go home tonight. He will hang up his coat. Place his keys in the ceramic dish. Fill the kettle.
He will think of you.
You know this.
And for the first time, the knowing doesn't make you want to file it away.
You tip your head back against the headrest. Let the warm air move.
Fear isn't erased, he'd told a lecture hall once, without looking at you and entirely for you. It's overwritten.
You close your eyes for one red light.
When it turns green, you go.
to be continued in part III
p.s. she emailed him from the airport on Sunday. something small, ostensibly practical. a forwarded article about VA research initiatives, maybe, or a note about her flight delay. plausible deniability in a subject line. he replied before she boarded. she read it twice at the gate. i'll let you decide what it said.
sorry been kinda slacking and unmotivated :( post coming tomorrow đ«¶đŒ
