"As I live and breathe"

Private chefs, bodyguards and swarming entourages, chauffeur-driven sports cars. Penthouse suites, designer wardrobes. Luxury yachts. Money, paparazzi, diamonds. Those were your assumptions about Robert Floyd’s life (especially when Nicola googled his net worth after you’d admitted to the balcony escapade).

But Bob surprised you.

When you arrived at the Plaza Hotel, he was already outside, waiting. He was leaning against a sleek black Mercedes (nice, but not flashy), wearing the same outfit you’d kissed him in, with the addition of a simple black baseball cap that cast a shadow over his face. A gaggle of guests crossed your path as you made your way to him - they were chatting about the day’s matches and looked in his direction. You hovered in the shadows, expecting them to swamp this world-famous tennis player and ask for autographs and selfies, but they just walked on by, oblivious, as if Bob was invisible without a racket in his hand and didn’t exist outside the white lines of the court.

He opened the passenger door for you with courteous ease.

“You’re not staying here?”

“No. My team are, but I prefer somewhere quieter, out of the city - a house in Richmond. I was going to drive us there and order in some food. If that’s ok with you?”

So that’s what you did. He drove you away from the bright lights and out to a peaceful, well-kept suburb. The house was probably Victorian, originally. The end of a grand terrace. Still, it had been fully converted and modernised, all crisp, clean lines and polished surfaces - the interior was more like a New York apartment at the top of a skyscraper than a century-old family home.

The lights were kept low in the open-plan kitchen and living area. Bob used his phone to switch on some music, something slow but jazzy, sultry almost, before gesturing for you to sit anywhere you liked.

You opted for a stool at the breakfast bar and rested your head in your hands whilst Bob hunted down a suitable bottle of wine. He poured two glasses of red and handed one over. His fingers lingered over yours for a second, then he settled into the seat next to you.

“This is a beautiful place,” you observed, taking your first sip.

“Thank you. It was a labour of love, getting the interiors to where they are now, but it all came together perfectly in the end,” he said proudly.

You gawped at him. You’d assumed this place was a rental, an upmarket Airbnb. “This is your house?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “I stay here every year. I needed a base in London for the grass court season, and it’s a useful stop-off for the tournaments in Europe too.” He took a sip of his wine. “For the first years of my career, I just stayed in the cheapest hotels I could find. But I drove past this house one morning and fell in love with it; couldn’t get it out of my head. Then I started winning more matches and landed my first big sponsorship deal, so the next time I came back to London I walked right up to the front door and told the owners I wanted to buy it. They weren’t keen to sell, at first, but I gave them an offer they couldn't refuse. I worked up some plans, hired an architect and interior designer, and here we are."

"It’s gorgeous,” you breathed, even more in awe now you knew every detail you saw, from the striking gold light fixtures to the daring abstract art, was all down to him. You looked to the wall-to-ceiling window – you couldn’t see beyond into the darkness, only your reflections, and perhaps your imaginings of the garden were over the top. Or perhaps not.

You gestured toward the outside. “I suppose you’ve got a tennis court out there?” you said, fully expecting him to say yes.

Bob shook his head. "I didn’t see the point. When I win on Sunday, I'll get membership to the All-England Club for life. That's Wimbledon,” he added, for your benefit. “I've got a hard court at my house in the States, though, for training during the off-season. Not that tennis really has an off-season these days.”

He’d said it so matter-of-factly. After spending a few years in the upper echelons of tennis, he’d grown accustomed to wealth and success. He was comfortable in it. Confident with it, to an undeniably attractive degree. Of course he owned multiple multi-million-dollar homes, one of which had a tennis court in the garden. Of course he was going to win Wimbledon this year.  

“You must be getting hungry. There’s a good Italian place, a couple of streets away. Here’s the menu - order anything you want. The mozzarella sticks are to die for.”

He handed you his phone and let you scroll. The implicit trust in the gesture surprised you; you could have dove deep into his messages and rummaged through his photo albums, looking for something salacious to tip off the press with. You didn’t, of course. All you saw while selecting your food was a WhatsApp notification from Javy Machado – a fellow player, perhaps – congratulating Bob on his win and saying he’d see him on court down under.

You chose the arancini, mozzarella sticks, a carbonara and arrabbiata to share, a dressed salad, and tiramisu for afters.  

The food arrived quickly. All delicious, but the conversation was better.

Gradually, throughout the course of the meal, your seats had edged towards each other, and now your legs were slotted between Bob’s thighs, almost touching. At some point, He’d rested a casual hand on your knee and left it there, and you’d settled into brushing your fingers over his forearm, skimming across the sun-kissed freckles. Occasionally, you would sneak glances at your reflections in the window. Your chest would warm, and your heart would flutter – it was undeniable how natural you looked together.

Somehow, you’d landed upon the topic of childhood pets. Bob was telling you a sweet story about his grandmother making him a tennis racket-shaped cake for his 7th birthday, which was accidentally smashed by the new (yet unnamed) family puppy.

“Ma was so mad, she took one look at the dog and yelled, ‘You cannot be serious!’ which sent Pa into an absolute fit - I’ve never seen him laugh so much. He said, ‘Now I know what we should call the dog - John McEnroe!’”

He barely made it to the end of the story without chuckling to himself. It was an endearing sound, with a slightly nerdy quality that was charmingly at odds with his elite athlete persona. But you couldn’t laugh with him, despite how much you wanted to. You didn’t get the joke. It was a tennis thing; you were sure of it, but you had nowhere near the amount of sports literacy required to understand why it tickled him so.

“Bob, I have a confession to make. I don’t know anything about tennis.”

A beat of silence passed. You braced yourself for Bob’s disappointment. But then he threw his head back with laughter, and you couldn’t help but giggle along with him.

“So, you haven’t been sent by Seresin to infiltrate my camp and throw me off my game?” he asked when his laughter subsided.

“Seresin who?”

-

Bob bit back a laugh. Knowing Seresin, he’d be crushed.

“Jake Seresin will be my opponent in the final on Sunday. He beat Garcia yesterday in straight sets.” Bob explained. “He’s a self-obsessed pick. I kind of love that you’ve never heard of him; he’d hate it.”

“I’d never heard of you before today, either,” you admitted shyly.

Bob shrugged. He didn’t care. Nothing before today mattered.

“Is Seresin good? I suppose he must be, to get to the final. But he can’t be as good as you, surely.”

Bob rather enjoyed your tone. It was as if the idea of anyone being better at tennis than him was incomprehensible to you. So why spoil it by telling you otherwise? He certainly didn’t need to mention that Seresin had never lost a final.

“He calls himself ‘The Hangman’,” he said grimly, “the journalist that wrote the original headline didn’t mean it as a compliment, but Jake latched on and claims it’s because he always ‘executes’.”

You snorted at his clear disdain for his fellow player.

“First ‘Rooster’ and now ‘The Hangman’? Please tell me you don’t have a stupid nickname like that too,” you teased.

Bob shook his head. “The press doesn’t care about me enough to give me a nickname.”

You scrunched your brows. “They should care. They’ll care when you win.”

Bob smiled to himself and gave your knee a fond squeeze. He practically had to hold himself back from telling you he loved you. Because he’d been right. You understood him. Not because you were a die-hard fan of tennis or you’d followed the ups and downs of his career from the beginning. No, you’d watched the sport for the first time in your life today and seen him play without any preconceived notions about what he was like; no already made assumptions had clouded your vision of him on the court. You saw him, the real him, his every want and desire, and the lengths he would go to achieve them. His steadfastness and determination, his moments of brilliance, but also his flaws – the shots he missed, his selfishness and obstinance. The thirst and the hunger and the greed. And you believed.

“Are you nervous?” you asked. “I mean, how do you even prepare for something like this? Have you been in the final before? You must have been. God, I probably sound ridiculous, not knowing any of this. Now you’re going to tell me you’re a 5-time champion already and take me to your trophy cabinet,” you tittered.

“Depends how you’re defining champion,” Bob replied. “I have plenty of tour titles and Masters series wins. But if we’re talking Grand Slams…”

“What’s a Grand slam?”

Bob gave you an apologetic smile. He shouldn’t have assumed. He was glad you were comfortable enough to ask questions, though. He’d never want to make you feel embarrassed for not knowing.

“They’re the four biggest and most competitive tournaments each year. There’s the Australian Open, Rolland Garros in France, the US Open and Wimbledon. If you can win one of those, then you’ve pretty much proved you belong with the best. If you do the Career Slam – win all four one day, that is – then you’re in the history books for life. Since the 1960’s, only 6 men have ever done it.”

“How many – I mean – have you ever -?”

Bob thought it was endearing how you tripped over your words and tried to restart your sentence, looking for a way to ask how close he was to every tennis player’s dream without accidentally insulting him by suggesting he had more or less wins than reality.

“US Open 2019, Australian Open 2021, US Open 2021, Roland Garros 2022, Australian Open 2025. You were right. I’m a 5-time champion, and I do have a trophy cabinet. There’s room for one more, though.”

When he reeled off his wins out loud, Bob couldn’t deny it sounded good. He knocked back some more wine while you figured things out.

“You just need Wimbledon.”

“I just need Wimbledon.”

-

You were overcome with a desire to give it to him. You wanted nothing more than to see him reach his goal. There was a coolness to his tone, but you could sense the burning need beneath; the one thing that eluded him also fuelled him. Bob was in touching distance of greatness and, by association, so were you. You wanted to play a part in his success, to be the woman that inspired and powered all his future victories. He’d win the Championship for you. He’d complete tennis’s most lauded feat, the Career Slam, for you.

With Bob’s kiss, you’d experienced the surging of his passion thrumming through your veins. The dopamine, exhilaration and ecstatic thrill of the battle against Bradshaw had pulsed in your heart as well as his. You’d yearned for even just a drop of the same elixir ever since. You wanted Bob, and everything he thought, felt and endured, to fill you up so that you almost burst from the heady euphoria of it. You’d be driven insane by the loss if you were given less.

You were about to kiss him again, to lay yourself bare and confess as such, but he slipped away to clear your plates.

“Would you like another drink? There’s more wine-”

Suddenly the whole situation between you felt too… safe. Too contained. You liked this more domestic, down-to-earth side of him, yes, but you craved the Robert Floyd you’d seen on the tennis court more. The athlete who’d hunted down victory like a bloodhound. The player who’d claimed you in front of a whole Centre Court crowd and gifted you his win, like a tribute from a loyal knight to the queen of his realm. You craved the Robert Floyd who’d kissed you on a public balcony like a man possessed, not caring if the world saw.

“-Or we could settle down on the couch with something warmer -oh.”

You were out of your seat and crowding his space, a step and a half away from backing him right up against the window.

“I don’t want another drink, Bob.”

-

You were in his house. You’d had dinner together. You’d shared a drink with him. Bob wasn’t sure if you’d noticed, but at some point during the evening you’d both started sipping wine from the same glass. His hand had slipped to your knee. He’d felt the supple flesh of your thigh. He’d watched your lips, mesmerised by how they caressed your every word, and remembered how they’d caressed him merely hours ago.

He’d kept a respectable distance between you since, scared that one more kiss would confirm what, deep down, he already knew. That you would change his world forever.

But now you were close to him, pressing the lines of your body against his, wanting. Tempting. Your arms had wound themselves around his neck.

“Why haven’t you kissed me again?” you asked. Bob was certain he could hear a whine of desperation underlying your words. “You’ve had me all to yourself for hours now. I might have only ever seen one match, but it seems to me that tennis is all about waiting for the right opportunity to strike.”

“Patience.”

You scoffed, and irritation flickered across your face.

His hands tightened on your hips before you could even think of slipping away.

“I’m being patient,” he clarified. “Biding my time. It’s what I do. Earlier on the balcony was… an anomaly. I’m not usually so bold.”

For defensive players like him, who were known for their return, patience was fundamental to their game. The more patience he had, the more endurance he had, and the longer he could stay in rallies. He didn’t need to take daring risks that could lead to mistakes; he backed himself to keep sending the ball over the net, make the opposite player hit one more shot, putting the pressure on them again and again until the chances of them making an error became too great to escape. Patience was courage. Patience was a weapon.

“But you’re right,” Bob began. “On the tennis court, and in life, when I want something - I go after it. It becomes all I think about. Everything I do revolves around getting it. I’m relentless. And I want you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second I laid eyes on you. The match wasn’t about me vs Bradshaw anymore. It wasn’t even about getting me one win closer to the career slam. It was about winning for you, and only you. I have replayed our kiss a thousand times in my head and let my mind take me further than I probably should. I’m holding back because…”

Three years ago, Bob won 3 Grand Slams in a row and reached at least the semi-finals of every ATP or Masters tournament he entered (and triumphed more often than not). He won so much it got boring. For spectators, for the press, even for him. Then came the dry spell. He got knocked out in the first round of Wimbledon despite being a favourite to take the title. The years that followed were a barren wasteland. He couldn’t defend his points, and his ranking dropped off a cliff. He didn’t win a single title, even at a Challenger event, which he only entered out of desperation. His best result was reaching the quarter-finals at the US Open. Yet he couldn’t break through. He knew what winning felt like, tasted like, sounded like, smelled like. He could see each win, dangling like a carrot before his eyes. But time after time, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Until the Australian Open this year. He’d won again. Against all odds. Half the world hated him for spoiling the tennis darling’s last hurrah and casting aside an Australian ‘sensation’ in the final, but it was the greatest win of his life. And all the sweeter because he’d waited for it.

Now he was just one win away from achieving every tennis player’s dream.

“…Good things come to those who wait.”

“I see,” you said carefully, picking the tiniest bit of fluff from his shirt, then smoothing over the fabric. “Delayed gratification. The anticipation is half the fun. I can relate to that. But let me give you a little bit more to think about,” you whispered.

The hairs on the back of Bob’s neck would have stood up on their own accord if you hadn’t been gently tugging at them.

“Tonight, I’m all yours. You can kiss me, touch me, hold me… fuck me. You can do whatever you want with me.”

A choke of surprise lodged itself in Bob’s throat. Visions of the night’s possibilities flashed before his eyes… He was a patient man, yes, but opportunities were meant to be taken. There was a difference between waiting for the right chance to strike and being given an easy game on a silver platter.

He grabbed the wine bottle, took your hand and started leading you out of the kitchen and down some stairs.

“You wanted to know what I do to prepare for a final,” he said as you reached the bottom. “I swim.”

-

The house had a pool. Bob’s sleek, modernised and architecturally beautiful converted Victorian townhouse, in the middle of picture-perfect Richmond, London, had a fucking pool. A stunning one at that. It was slim, only about one and a half lanes wide, but it was long, seemingly stretching beyond the length of the house above. Bob flicked on the lights, and the water was illuminated, transforming into an inviting aquamarine oasis, gently shimmering and rippling, reflecting waves of light onto the stone-tiled walls.

Facing the pool was a seating area: two low garden-style sofas and matching armchairs, accompanied by a coffee table. Sliding glass doors could be opened behind, transforming the room into an inside-outside space on a summer’s day. There was a basket of towels, a small bar, and a sun lounger the size of a bed.

The scent of chlorine tickled your nose, but it was offset by something leafy and floral, likely from the neatly potted greenery arranged in the corners and all along the wall to your right, lining the pool. Only when admiring the array of luscious succulents did you realise the wall was a waterfall, a constant stream of crystal-clear water cascading into the pool’s edge.

“This is incredible, Bob. You designed this too?”

“I did. Means a lot that you like it.”

You knew he hadn’t designed the place with you in mind, but it didn’t stop you from imagining he had – that he loved to the point of invention. Maybe one day he would.

Bob wrapped his arms around your torso and pressed his chest against your back. Warm, strong, and bare. He’d already discarded his shirt and thrown it onto the couch. He nuzzled at your neck, and you exhaled into his embrace as he swayed you gently on the spot in time with the gentle ripples of light that danced across your feet.

He kissed your shoulder. “Care to join me?”

“I will. Soon,” you promised. “But you should go through your usual routine first,” you insisted. You didn’t want to negatively impact his preparations ahead of the final of his life. “I’ll watch for a little while.”

He understood and slipped into the adjoining washroom to change into his trunks. Then he dove cleanly into the pool and started swimming lengths.

You selected the seat that would give you the best view of the pool and took occasional swigs of wine straight from the bottle while you watched, with deep fascination, as Bob took command of the water, his long-ranging muscular arms cutting powerful strokes through the shimmering aquamarine.

Everything about Bob was precise and considered. From the way he played tennis and conducted a conversation to the way he swam and designed his home. He gave singular focus to whatever he was doing at any time; to be the best, to do it right, to achieve what he wanted. Like he said, if something was important to him, it held his full attention. You’d never forget the tennis match; his intensity and determination to win for you never wavered, right up until the final point had been played. How would such a mentality translate to love? To a relationship? To sex?

Your whole body thrummed with desire to find out, and your lust only grew every time Bob swam past, your eyes trained on his freckled athletic back. You hadn’t been counting Bob’s strokes and had no clue what number of lengths he would consider ‘enough’, but you weren’t sure you could wait much longer.

Somehow, Bob knew this.

Upon reaching the end of another length, and apparently the end of his usual routine, he settled at the edge of the pool, sitting on a ledge under the water, directly opposite you. He ran a hand through his hair, giving definition to his wet locks, then leant back, arms spread behind him, as if he was reclined on the couch. His gaze weighed heavily on your chest, expectant and daring.

Fuck. The heat growing at your core was undeniable now. The wilder side of you contemplated jumping into the water fully clothed: you didn’t want to waste time. The sooner you were straddling him and bouncing on his cock, the better. But you didn't. He wanted patience; you’d give him patience. So, you calmly held his eyes and took another lazy swig of wine, then you stood, kicked off your sandals, and slowly stepped towards the edge of the pool.

You were thankful for your underwear choice this morning: black cotton hipster briefs and a matching bandeau bra that could pass as a bikini. But even if you’d been wearing your rattiest set, it wouldn’t have mattered. Your want for Bob overshadowed all else. And you already knew how much he wanted you.

The ties of your dress were easily loosened. The fabric fell from your breasts, and, with a shimmy of your hips, the garment dropped to the floor.

-

Bob watched, mesmerised, as you lowered your almost-naked self into the pool. He was bound to the spot, unable to move a single muscle as you drew closer, drifting serenely through the water. Small, rippling waves danced sensuously around your form, reflecting the pool lights to encircle you in heavenly silver and gold.

You were a siren, captivating him with some ethereal song, even in your silence.

If, instead of straddling his lap, you’d dragged him under to drown him and feast on his soul, he’d have gone willingly. Especially if it meant he could be gifted one more kiss from your addictive lips.

“I want you to make me yours,” you pleaded. “I think I might die if you don't.”

Bob thought he might die if he did. But he granted your wish and let you drown him anyway. The kiss might have started with him, but you made it infinite, flooding his mouth with your tongue and circling his own with such fervour Bob swore he could feel you lapping at the insides of his mind, reshaping his brain. Would he remember who he used to be when he came up for the air? Would he remember how to strike a clean ball, or even which way to hold up a tennis racket? Could there ever be space in his heart or head again for anyone or anything but you?

He'd never tire of having you like this, writhing atop him, consuming him. His hands free to roam over your warm yet goose-pimpled skin and press finger dents into the curves of your arse and thighs. The pillows of your breasts against the hairs of his bare chest.

He wished he could bottle up the smell of you; keep a sample of the taste of you.

The friction of his swimming trunks strained taught against his now throbbing length was a new, maddening sensation; exacerbated further by the insistent heat of your core, bearing down on him as you endeavoured to get closer. Your grip was now so strong that Bob wondered if you were trying to climb into his skin and make a home there. God, he wished that could be true. Because he wanted the same. He wanted to live inside you too.

“Fuck me, Robert”, you demanded. There was no way you couldn't feel how thick and hard he’d grown beneath you. There was no way you weren’t aware of the dangerous spell you held him under.

Your fingers clawed into his wet curls so hard he cast his head back against the rim of the pool.

“Please, just fuck me, right here, right now.” You yanked him back towards you again.

Bob shook his head. “Need to work you open first, baby,” he said gruffly. “You'll be too tight. Won’t be able to take me.”

It thrilled him to see a shiver of anticipation ripple through you at the thought of it, the thought of the searing stretch of him breaching your velvet walls. Your mouth fell open with the sweetest of gasps, and your hand dropped to grip him through his shorts.

Your eyes widened, ravenously aflame.

In the palm of your hand, Bob had to fight with every fibre of his being to keep his composure.

Patience.

“How many fingers do you think I'll need?” he pondered. “Two? Three?”

His had wrapped around your own, coaxing you to squeeze and stroke his cock to fully appreciate what you were asking for. His other hand lifted to your lips, which you dutifully parted, and he pushed two of his digits onto your slippery tongue, letting you suck on them, knuckle deep.

The way your eyelashes fluttered and your mouth hummed around him with an indulgent moan nearly brought him to ruin.

He clung to the final shred of his dignity.  

“I guess we’ll find out… But I'll get you nice and wet and ready for me, I promise.”

You purred in his lap and somehow draped yourself over him even more than you already were, your limbs liquified by the molten heat of need that had entirely overcome you. Your soft hand caressed his cheek.

“I told you earlier, Bobby, I’m all yours. You can do anything you want to me, because it’s what I want too. I want you. I want to be so, so perfect for you.”

Bob was sure his brain was short-circuiting. Everything he desperately wanted to say but didn’t, out of fear of scaring you, rocketed around the walls of his skull like a hundred ballistic tennis balls travelling at the speed of light.

I love you. I fucking love you. I’ll win the world for you. You’re mine. All mine.

His cock twitched again under your begging palm.

“Will you coach me, Robert?”

-------------------------

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Private chefs, bodyguards and swarming entourages, chauffeur-driven sports cars. Penthouse suites, designer wardrobes. Luxury yachts. Money, paparazzi, diamonds. Those were your assumptions about Robert Floyd’s life (especially when Nicola googled his net worth after you’d admitted to the balcony escapade).

But Bob surprised you.

When you arrived at the Plaza Hotel, he was already outside, waiting. He was leaning against a sleek black Mercedes (nice, but not flashy), wearing the same outfit you’d kissed him in, with the addition of a simple black baseball cap that cast a shadow over his face. A gaggle of guests crossed your path as you made your way to him - they were chatting about the day’s matches and looked in his direction. You hovered in the shadows, expecting them to swamp this world-famous tennis player and ask for autographs and selfies, but they just walked on by, oblivious, as if Bob was invisible without a racket in his hand and didn’t exist outside the white lines of the court.

He opened the passenger door for you with courteous ease.

“You’re not staying here?”

“No. My team are, but I prefer somewhere quieter, out of the city - a house in Richmond. I was going to drive us there and order in some food. If that’s ok with you?”

So that’s what you did. He drove you away from the bright lights and out to a peaceful, well-kept suburb. The house was probably Victorian, originally. The end of a grand terrace. Still, it had been fully converted and modernised, all crisp, clean lines and polished surfaces - the interior was more like a New York apartment at the top of a skyscraper than a century-old family home.

The lights were kept low in the open-plan kitchen and living area. Bob used his phone to switch on some music, something slow but jazzy, sultry almost, before gesturing for you to sit anywhere you liked.

You opted for a stool at the breakfast bar and rested your head in your hands whilst Bob hunted down a suitable bottle of wine. He poured two glasses of red and handed one over. His fingers lingered over yours for a second, then he settled into the seat next to you.

“This is a beautiful place,” you observed, taking your first sip.

“Thank you. It was a labour of love, getting the interiors to where they are now, but it all came together perfectly in the end,” he said proudly.

You gawped at him. You’d assumed this place was a rental, an upmarket Airbnb. “This is your house?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “I stay here every year. I needed a base in London for the grass court season, and it’s a useful stop-off for the tournaments in Europe too.” He took a sip of his wine. “For the first years of my career, I just stayed in the cheapest hotels I could find. But I drove past this house one morning and fell in love with it; couldn’t get it out of my head. Then I started winning more matches and landed my first big sponsorship deal, so the next time I came back to London I walked right up to the front door and told the owners I wanted to buy it. They weren’t keen to sell, at first, but I gave them an offer they couldn't refuse. I worked up some plans, hired an architect and interior designer, and here we are."

"It’s gorgeous,” you breathed, even more in awe now you knew every detail you saw, from the striking gold light fixtures to the daring abstract art, was all down to him. You looked to the wall-to-ceiling window – you couldn’t see beyond into the darkness, only your reflections, and perhaps your imaginings of the garden were over the top. Or perhaps not.

You gestured toward the outside. “I suppose you’ve got a tennis court out there?” you said, fully expecting him to say yes.

Bob shook his head. "I didn’t see the point. When I win on Sunday, I'll get membership to the All-England Club for life. That's Wimbledon,” he added, for your benefit. “I've got a hard court at my house in the States, though, for training during the off-season. Not that tennis really has an off-season these days.”

He’d said it so matter-of-factly. After spending a few years in the upper echelons of tennis, he’d grown accustomed to wealth and success. He was comfortable in it. Confident with it, to an undeniably attractive degree. Of course he owned multiple multi-million-dollar homes, one of which had a tennis court in the garden. Of course he was going to win Wimbledon this year.  

“You must be getting hungry. There’s a good Italian place, a couple of streets away. Here’s the menu - order anything you want. The mozzarella sticks are to die for.”

He handed you his phone and let you scroll. The implicit trust in the gesture surprised you; you could have dove deep into his messages and rummaged through his photo albums, looking for something salacious to tip off the press with. You didn’t, of course. All you saw while selecting your food was a WhatsApp notification from Javy Machado – a fellow player, perhaps – congratulating Bob on his win and saying he’d see him on court down under.

You chose the arancini, mozzarella sticks, a carbonara and arrabbiata to share, a dressed salad, and tiramisu for afters.  

The food arrived quickly. All delicious, but the conversation was better.

Gradually, throughout the course of the meal, your seats had edged towards each other, and now your legs were slotted between Bob’s thighs, almost touching. At some point, He’d rested a casual hand on your knee and left it there, and you’d settled into brushing your fingers over his forearm, skimming across the sun-kissed freckles. Occasionally, you would sneak glances at your reflections in the window. Your chest would warm, and your heart would flutter – it was undeniable how natural you looked together.

Somehow, you’d landed upon the topic of childhood pets. Bob was telling you a sweet story about his grandmother making him a tennis racket-shaped cake for his 7th birthday, which was accidentally smashed by the new (yet unnamed) family puppy.

“Ma was so mad, she took one look at the dog and yelled, ‘You cannot be serious!’ which sent Pa into an absolute fit - I’ve never seen him laugh so much. He said, ‘Now I know what we should call the dog - John McEnroe!’”

He barely made it to the end of the story without chuckling to himself. It was an endearing sound, with a slightly nerdy quality that was charmingly at odds with his elite athlete persona. But you couldn’t laugh with him, despite how much you wanted to. You didn’t get the joke. It was a tennis thing; you were sure of it, but you had nowhere near the amount of sports literacy required to understand why it tickled him so.

“Bob, I have a confession to make. I don’t know anything about tennis.”

A beat of silence passed. You braced yourself for Bob’s disappointment. But then he threw his head back with laughter, and you couldn’t help but giggle along with him.

“So, you haven’t been sent by Seresin to infiltrate my camp and throw me off my game?” he asked when his laughter subsided.

“Seresin who?”

-

Bob bit back a laugh. Knowing Seresin, he’d be crushed.

“Jake Seresin will be my opponent in the final on Sunday. He beat Garcia yesterday in straight sets.” Bob explained. “He’s a self-obsessed pick. I kind of love that you’ve never heard of him; he’d hate it.”

“I’d never heard of you before today, either,” you admitted shyly.

Bob shrugged. He didn’t care. Nothing before today mattered.

“Is Seresin good? I suppose he must be, to get to the final. But he can’t be as good as you, surely.”

Bob rather enjoyed your tone. It was as if the idea of anyone being better at tennis than him was incomprehensible to you. So why spoil it by telling you otherwise? He certainly didn’t need to mention that Seresin had never lost a final.

“He calls himself ‘The Hangman’,” he said grimly, “the journalist that wrote the original headline didn’t mean it as a compliment, but Jake latched on and claims it’s because he always ‘executes’.”

You snorted at his clear disdain for his fellow player.

“First ‘Rooster’ and now ‘The Hangman’? Please tell me you don’t have a stupid nickname like that too,” you teased.

Bob shook his head. “The press doesn’t care about me enough to give me a nickname.”

You scrunched your brows. “They should care. They’ll care when you win.”

Bob smiled to himself and gave your knee a fond squeeze. He practically had to hold himself back from telling you he loved you. Because he’d been right. You understood him. Not because you were a die-hard fan of tennis or you’d followed the ups and downs of his career from the beginning. No, you’d watched the sport for the first time in your life today and seen him play without any preconceived notions about what he was like; no already made assumptions had clouded your vision of him on the court. You saw him, the real him, his every want and desire, and the lengths he would go to achieve them. His steadfastness and determination, his moments of brilliance, but also his flaws – the shots he missed, his selfishness and obstinance. The thirst and the hunger and the greed. And you believed.

“Are you nervous?” you asked. “I mean, how do you even prepare for something like this? Have you been in the final before? You must have been. God, I probably sound ridiculous, not knowing any of this. Now you’re going to tell me you’re a 5-time champion already and take me to your trophy cabinet,” you tittered.

“Depends how you’re defining champion,” Bob replied. “I have plenty of tour titles and Masters series wins. But if we’re talking Grand Slams…”

“What’s a Grand slam?”

Bob gave you an apologetic smile. He shouldn’t have assumed. He was glad you were comfortable enough to ask questions, though. He’d never want to make you feel embarrassed for not knowing.

“They’re the four biggest and most competitive tournaments each year. There’s the Australian Open, Rolland Garros in France, the US Open and Wimbledon. If you can win one of those, then you’ve pretty much proved you belong with the best. If you do the Career Slam – win all four one day, that is – then you’re in the history books for life. Since the 1960’s, only 6 men have ever done it.”

“How many – I mean – have you ever -?”

Bob thought it was endearing how you tripped over your words and tried to restart your sentence, looking for a way to ask how close he was to every tennis player’s dream without accidentally insulting him by suggesting he had more or less wins than reality.

“US Open 2019, Australian Open 2021, US Open 2021, Roland Garros 2022, Australian Open 2025. You were right. I’m a 5-time champion, and I do have a trophy cabinet. There’s room for one more, though.”

When he reeled off his wins out loud, Bob couldn’t deny it sounded good. He knocked back some more wine while you figured things out.

“You just need Wimbledon.”

“I just need Wimbledon.”

-

You were overcome with a desire to give it to him. You wanted nothing more than to see him reach his goal. There was a coolness to his tone, but you could sense the burning need beneath; the one thing that eluded him also fuelled him. Bob was in touching distance of greatness and, by association, so were you. You wanted to play a part in his success, to be the woman that inspired and powered all his future victories. He’d win the Championship for you. He’d complete tennis’s most lauded feat, the Career Slam, for you.

With Bob’s kiss, you’d experienced the surging of his passion thrumming through your veins. The dopamine, exhilaration and ecstatic thrill of the battle against Bradshaw had pulsed in your heart as well as his. You’d yearned for even just a drop of the same elixir ever since. You wanted Bob, and everything he thought, felt and endured, to fill you up so that you almost burst from the heady euphoria of it. You’d be driven insane by the loss if you were given less.

You were about to kiss him again, to lay yourself bare and confess as such, but he slipped away to clear your plates.

“Would you like another drink? There’s more wine-”

Suddenly the whole situation between you felt too… safe. Too contained. You liked this more domestic, down-to-earth side of him, yes, but you craved the Robert Floyd you’d seen on the tennis court more. The athlete who’d hunted down victory like a bloodhound. The player who’d claimed you in front of a whole Centre Court crowd and gifted you his win, like a tribute from a loyal knight to the queen of his realm. You craved the Robert Floyd who’d kissed you on a public balcony like a man possessed, not caring if the world saw.

“-Or we could settle down on the couch with something warmer -oh.”

You were out of your seat and crowding his space, a step and a half away from backing him right up against the window.

“I don’t want another drink, Bob.”

-

You were in his house. You’d had dinner together. You’d shared a drink with him. Bob wasn’t sure if you’d noticed, but at some point during the evening you’d both started sipping wine from the same glass. His hand had slipped to your knee. He’d felt the supple flesh of your thigh. He’d watched your lips, mesmerised by how they caressed your every word, and remembered how they’d caressed him merely hours ago.

He’d kept a respectable distance between you since, scared that one more kiss would confirm what, deep down, he already knew. That you would change his world forever.

But now you were close to him, pressing the lines of your body against his, wanting. Tempting. Your arms had wound themselves around his neck.

“Why haven’t you kissed me again?” you asked. Bob was certain he could hear a whine of desperation underlying your words. “You’ve had me all to yourself for hours now. I might have only ever seen one match, but it seems to me that tennis is all about waiting for the right opportunity to strike.”

“Patience.”

You scoffed, and irritation flickered across your face.

His hands tightened on your hips before you could even think of slipping away.

“I’m being patient,” he clarified. “Biding my time. It’s what I do. Earlier on the balcony was… an anomaly. I’m not usually so bold.”

For defensive players like him, who were known for their return, patience was fundamental to their game. The more patience he had, the more endurance he had, and the longer he could stay in rallies. He didn’t need to take daring risks that could lead to mistakes; he backed himself to keep sending the ball over the net, make the opposite player hit one more shot, putting the pressure on them again and again until the chances of them making an error became too great to escape. Patience was courage. Patience was a weapon.

“But you’re right,” Bob began. “On the tennis court, and in life, when I want something - I go after it. It becomes all I think about. Everything I do revolves around getting it. I’m relentless. And I want you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second I laid eyes on you. The match wasn’t about me vs Bradshaw anymore. It wasn’t even about getting me one win closer to the career slam. It was about winning for you, and only you. I have replayed our kiss a thousand times in my head and let my mind take me further than I probably should. I’m holding back because…”

Three years ago, Bob won 3 Grand Slams in a row and reached at least the semi-finals of every ATP or Masters tournament he entered (and triumphed more often than not). He won so much it got boring. For spectators, for the press, even for him. Then came the dry spell. He got knocked out in the first round of Wimbledon despite being a favourite to take the title. The years that followed were a barren wasteland. He couldn’t defend his points, and his ranking dropped off a cliff. He didn’t win a single title, even at a Challenger event, which he only entered out of desperation. His best result was reaching the quarter-finals at the US Open. Yet he couldn’t break through. He knew what winning felt like, tasted like, sounded like, smelled like. He could see each win, dangling like a carrot before his eyes. But time after time, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Until the Australian Open this year. He’d won again. Against all odds. Half the world hated him for spoiling the tennis darling’s last hurrah and casting aside an Australian ‘sensation’ in the final, but it was the greatest win of his life. And all the sweeter because he’d waited for it.

Now he was just one win away from achieving every tennis player’s dream.

“…Good things come to those who wait.”

“I see,” you said carefully, picking the tiniest bit of fluff from his shirt, then smoothing over the fabric. “Delayed gratification. The anticipation is half the fun. I can relate to that. But let me give you a little bit more to think about,” you whispered.

The hairs on the back of Bob’s neck would have stood up on their own accord if you hadn’t been gently tugging at them.

“Tonight, I’m all yours. You can kiss me, touch me, hold me… fuck me. You can do whatever you want with me.”

A choke of surprise lodged itself in Bob’s throat. Visions of the night’s possibilities flashed before his eyes… He was a patient man, yes, but opportunities were meant to be taken. There was a difference between waiting for the right chance to strike and being given an easy game on a silver platter.

He grabbed the wine bottle, took your hand and started leading you out of the kitchen and down some stairs.

“You wanted to know what I do to prepare for a final,” he said as you reached the bottom. “I swim.”

-

The house had a pool. Bob’s sleek, modernised and architecturally beautiful converted Victorian townhouse, in the middle of picture-perfect Richmond, London, had a fucking pool. A stunning one at that. It was slim, only about one and a half lanes wide, but it was long, seemingly stretching beyond the length of the house above. Bob flicked on the lights, and the water was illuminated, transforming into an inviting aquamarine oasis, gently shimmering and rippling, reflecting waves of light onto the stone-tiled walls.

Facing the pool was a seating area: two low garden-style sofas and matching armchairs, accompanied by a coffee table. Sliding glass doors could be opened behind, transforming the room into an inside-outside space on a summer’s day. There was a basket of towels, a small bar, and a sun lounger the size of a bed.

The scent of chlorine tickled your nose, but it was offset by something leafy and floral, likely from the neatly potted greenery arranged in the corners and all along the wall to your right, lining the pool. Only when admiring the array of luscious succulents did you realise the wall was a waterfall, a constant stream of crystal-clear water cascading into the pool’s edge.

“This is incredible, Bob. You designed this too?”

“I did. Means a lot that you like it.”

You knew he hadn’t designed the place with you in mind, but it didn’t stop you from imagining he had – that he loved to the point of invention. Maybe one day he would.

Bob wrapped his arms around your torso and pressed his chest against your back. Warm, strong, and bare. He’d already discarded his shirt and thrown it onto the couch. He nuzzled at your neck, and you exhaled into his embrace as he swayed you gently on the spot in time with the gentle ripples of light that danced across your feet.

He kissed your shoulder. “Care to join me?”

“I will. Soon,” you promised. “But you should go through your usual routine first,” you insisted. You didn’t want to negatively impact his preparations ahead of the final of his life. “I’ll watch for a little while.”

He understood and slipped into the adjoining washroom to change into his trunks. Then he dove cleanly into the pool and started swimming lengths.

You selected the seat that would give you the best view of the pool and took occasional swigs of wine straight from the bottle while you watched, with deep fascination, as Bob took command of the water, his long-ranging muscular arms cutting powerful strokes through the shimmering aquamarine.

Everything about Bob was precise and considered. From the way he played tennis and conducted a conversation to the way he swam and designed his home. He gave singular focus to whatever he was doing at any time; to be the best, to do it right, to achieve what he wanted. Like he said, if something was important to him, it held his full attention. You’d never forget the tennis match; his intensity and determination to win for you never wavered, right up until the final point had been played. How would such a mentality translate to love? To a relationship? To sex?

Your whole body thrummed with desire to find out, and your lust only grew every time Bob swam past, your eyes trained on his freckled athletic back. You hadn’t been counting Bob’s strokes and had no clue what number of lengths he would consider ‘enough’, but you weren’t sure you could wait much longer.

Somehow, Bob knew this.

Upon reaching the end of another length, and apparently the end of his usual routine, he settled at the edge of the pool, sitting on a ledge under the water, directly opposite you. He ran a hand through his hair, giving definition to his wet locks, then leant back, arms spread behind him, as if he was reclined on the couch. His gaze weighed heavily on your chest, expectant and daring.

Fuck. The heat growing at your core was undeniable now. The wilder side of you contemplated jumping into the water fully clothed: you didn’t want to waste time. The sooner you were straddling him and bouncing on his cock, the better. But you didn't. He wanted patience; you’d give him patience. So, you calmly held his eyes and took another lazy swig of wine, then you stood, kicked off your sandals, and slowly stepped towards the edge of the pool.

You were thankful for your underwear choice this morning: black cotton hipster briefs and a matching bandeau bra that could pass as a bikini. But even if you’d been wearing your rattiest set, it wouldn’t have mattered. Your want for Bob overshadowed all else. And you already knew how much he wanted you.

The ties of your dress were easily loosened. The fabric fell from your breasts, and, with a shimmy of your hips, the garment dropped to the floor.

-

Bob watched, mesmerised, as you lowered your almost-naked self into the pool. He was bound to the spot, unable to move a single muscle as you drew closer, drifting serenely through the water. Small, rippling waves danced sensuously around your form, reflecting the pool lights to encircle you in heavenly silver and gold.

You were a siren, captivating him with some ethereal song, even in your silence.

If, instead of straddling his lap, you’d dragged him under to drown him and feast on his soul, he’d have gone willingly. Especially if it meant he could be gifted one more kiss from your addictive lips.

“I want you to make me yours,” you pleaded. “I think I might die if you don't.”

Bob thought he might die if he did. But he granted your wish and let you drown him anyway. The kiss might have started with him, but you made it infinite, flooding his mouth with your tongue and circling his own with such fervour Bob swore he could feel you lapping at the insides of his mind, reshaping his brain. Would he remember who he used to be when he came up for the air? Would he remember how to strike a clean ball, or even which way to hold up a tennis racket? Could there ever be space in his heart or head again for anyone or anything but you?

He'd never tire of having you like this, writhing atop him, consuming him. His hands free to roam over your warm yet goose-pimpled skin and press finger dents into the curves of your arse and thighs. The pillows of your breasts against the hairs of his bare chest.

He wished he could bottle up the smell of you; keep a sample of the taste of you.

The friction of his swimming trunks strained taught against his now throbbing length was a new, maddening sensation; exacerbated further by the insistent heat of your core, bearing down on him as you endeavoured to get closer. Your grip was now so strong that Bob wondered if you were trying to climb into his skin and make a home there. God, he wished that could be true. Because he wanted the same. He wanted to live inside you too.

“Fuck me, Robert”, you demanded. There was no way you couldn't feel how thick and hard he’d grown beneath you. There was no way you weren’t aware of the dangerous spell you held him under.

Your fingers clawed into his wet curls so hard he cast his head back against the rim of the pool.

“Please, just fuck me, right here, right now.” You yanked him back towards you again.

Bob shook his head. “Need to work you open first, baby,” he said gruffly. “You'll be too tight. Won’t be able to take me.”

It thrilled him to see a shiver of anticipation ripple through you at the thought of it, the thought of the searing stretch of him breaching your velvet walls. Your mouth fell open with the sweetest of gasps, and your hand dropped to grip him through his shorts.

Your eyes widened, ravenously aflame.

In the palm of your hand, Bob had to fight with every fibre of his being to keep his composure.

Patience.

“How many fingers do you think I'll need?” he pondered. “Two? Three?”

His had wrapped around your own, coaxing you to squeeze and stroke his cock to fully appreciate what you were asking for. His other hand lifted to your lips, which you dutifully parted, and he pushed two of his digits onto your slippery tongue, letting you suck on them, knuckle deep.

The way your eyelashes fluttered and your mouth hummed around him with an indulgent moan nearly brought him to ruin.

He clung to the final shred of his dignity.  

“I guess we’ll find out… But I'll get you nice and wet and ready for me, I promise.”

You purred in his lap and somehow draped yourself over him even more than you already were, your limbs liquified by the molten heat of need that had entirely overcome you. Your soft hand caressed his cheek.

“I told you earlier, Bobby, I’m all yours. You can do anything you want to me, because it’s what I want too. I want you. I want to be so, so perfect for you.”

Bob was sure his brain was short-circuiting. Everything he desperately wanted to say but didn’t, out of fear of scaring you, rocketed around the walls of his skull like a hundred ballistic tennis balls travelling at the speed of light.

I love you. I fucking love you. I’ll win the world for you. You’re mine. All mine.

His cock twitched again under your begging palm.

“Will you coach me, Robert?”

-------------------------

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Private chefs, bodyguards and swarming entourages, chauffeur-driven sports cars. Penthouse suites, designer wardrobes. Luxury yachts. Money, paparazzi, diamonds. Those were your assumptions about Robert Floyd’s life (especially when Nicola googled his net worth after you’d admitted to the balcony escapade).

But Bob surprised you.

When you arrived at the Plaza Hotel, he was already outside, waiting. He was leaning against a sleek black Mercedes (nice, but not flashy), wearing the same outfit you’d kissed him in, with the addition of a simple black baseball cap that cast a shadow over his face. A gaggle of guests crossed your path as you made your way to him - they were chatting about the day’s matches and looked in his direction. You hovered in the shadows, expecting them to swamp this world-famous tennis player and ask for autographs and selfies, but they just walked on by, oblivious, as if Bob was invisible without a racket in his hand and didn’t exist outside the white lines of the court.

He opened the passenger door for you with courteous ease.

“You’re not staying here?”

“No. My team are, but I prefer somewhere quieter, out of the city - a house in Richmond. I was going to drive us there and order in some food. If that’s ok with you?”

So that’s what you did. He drove you away from the bright lights and out to a peaceful, well-kept suburb. The house was probably Victorian, originally. The end of a grand terrace. Still, it had been fully converted and modernised, all crisp, clean lines and polished surfaces - the interior was more like a New York apartment at the top of a skyscraper than a century-old family home.

The lights were kept low in the open-plan kitchen and living area. Bob used his phone to switch on some music, something slow but jazzy, sultry almost, before gesturing for you to sit anywhere you liked.

You opted for a stool at the breakfast bar and rested your head in your hands whilst Bob hunted down a suitable bottle of wine. He poured two glasses of red and handed one over. His fingers lingered over yours for a second, then he settled into the seat next to you.

“This is a beautiful place,” you observed, taking your first sip.

“Thank you. It was a labour of love, getting the interiors to where they are now, but it all came together perfectly in the end,” he said proudly.

You gawped at him. You’d assumed this place was a rental, an upmarket Airbnb. “This is your house?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “I stay here every year. I needed a base in London for the grass court season, and it’s a useful stop-off for the tournaments in Europe too.” He took a sip of his wine. “For the first years of my career, I just stayed in the cheapest hotels I could find. But I drove past this house one morning and fell in love with it; couldn’t get it out of my head. Then I started winning more matches and landed my first big sponsorship deal, so the next time I came back to London I walked right up to the front door and told the owners I wanted to buy it. They weren’t keen to sell, at first, but I gave them an offer they couldn't refuse. I worked up some plans, hired an architect and interior designer, and here we are."

"It’s gorgeous,” you breathed, even more in awe now you knew every detail you saw, from the striking gold light fixtures to the daring abstract art, was all down to him. You looked to the wall-to-ceiling window – you couldn’t see beyond into the darkness, only your reflections, and perhaps your imaginings of the garden were over the top. Or perhaps not.

You gestured toward the outside. “I suppose you’ve got a tennis court out there?” you said, fully expecting him to say yes.

Bob shook his head. "I didn’t see the point. When I win on Sunday, I'll get membership to the All-England Club for life. That's Wimbledon,” he added, for your benefit. “I've got a hard court at my house in the States, though, for training during the off-season. Not that tennis really has an off-season these days.”

He’d said it so matter-of-factly. After spending a few years in the upper echelons of tennis, he’d grown accustomed to wealth and success. He was comfortable in it. Confident with it, to an undeniably attractive degree. Of course he owned multiple multi-million-dollar homes, one of which had a tennis court in the garden. Of course he was going to win Wimbledon this year.  

“You must be getting hungry. There’s a good Italian place, a couple of streets away. Here’s the menu - order anything you want. The mozzarella sticks are to die for.”

He handed you his phone and let you scroll. The implicit trust in the gesture surprised you; you could have dove deep into his messages and rummaged through his photo albums, looking for something salacious to tip off the press with. You didn’t, of course. All you saw while selecting your food was a WhatsApp notification from Javy Machado – a fellow player, perhaps – congratulating Bob on his win and saying he’d see him on court down under.

You chose the arancini, mozzarella sticks, a carbonara and arrabbiata to share, a dressed salad, and tiramisu for afters.  

The food arrived quickly. All delicious, but the conversation was better.

Gradually, throughout the course of the meal, your seats had edged towards each other, and now your legs were slotted between Bob’s thighs, almost touching. At some point, He’d rested a casual hand on your knee and left it there, and you’d settled into brushing your fingers over his forearm, skimming across the sun-kissed freckles. Occasionally, you would sneak glances at your reflections in the window. Your chest would warm, and your heart would flutter – it was undeniable how natural you looked together.

Somehow, you’d landed upon the topic of childhood pets. Bob was telling you a sweet story about his grandmother making him a tennis racket-shaped cake for his 7th birthday, which was accidentally smashed by the new (yet unnamed) family puppy.

“Ma was so mad, she took one look at the dog and yelled, ‘You cannot be serious!’ which sent Pa into an absolute fit - I’ve never seen him laugh so much. He said, ‘Now I know what we should call the dog - John McEnroe!’”

He barely made it to the end of the story without chuckling to himself. It was an endearing sound, with a slightly nerdy quality that was charmingly at odds with his elite athlete persona. But you couldn’t laugh with him, despite how much you wanted to. You didn’t get the joke. It was a tennis thing; you were sure of it, but you had nowhere near the amount of sports literacy required to understand why it tickled him so.

“Bob, I have a confession to make. I don’t know anything about tennis.”

A beat of silence passed. You braced yourself for Bob’s disappointment. But then he threw his head back with laughter, and you couldn’t help but giggle along with him.

“So, you haven’t been sent by Seresin to infiltrate my camp and throw me off my game?” he asked when his laughter subsided.

“Seresin who?”

-

Bob bit back a laugh. Knowing Seresin, he’d be crushed.

“Jake Seresin will be my opponent in the final on Sunday. He beat Garcia yesterday in straight sets.” Bob explained. “He’s a self-obsessed pick. I kind of love that you’ve never heard of him; he’d hate it.”

“I’d never heard of you before today, either,” you admitted shyly.

Bob shrugged. He didn’t care. Nothing before today mattered.

“Is Seresin good? I suppose he must be, to get to the final. But he can’t be as good as you, surely.”

Bob rather enjoyed your tone. It was as if the idea of anyone being better at tennis than him was incomprehensible to you. So why spoil it by telling you otherwise? He certainly didn’t need to mention that Seresin had never lost a final.

“He calls himself ‘The Hangman’,” he said grimly, “the journalist that wrote the original headline didn’t mean it as a compliment, but Jake latched on and claims it’s because he always ‘executes’.”

You snorted at his clear disdain for his fellow player.

“First ‘Rooster’ and now ‘The Hangman’? Please tell me you don’t have a stupid nickname like that too,” you teased.

Bob shook his head. “The press doesn’t care about me enough to give me a nickname.”

You scrunched your brows. “They should care. They’ll care when you win.”

Bob smiled to himself and gave your knee a fond squeeze. He practically had to hold himself back from telling you he loved you. Because he’d been right. You understood him. Not because you were a die-hard fan of tennis or you’d followed the ups and downs of his career from the beginning. No, you’d watched the sport for the first time in your life today and seen him play without any preconceived notions about what he was like; no already made assumptions had clouded your vision of him on the court. You saw him, the real him, his every want and desire, and the lengths he would go to achieve them. His steadfastness and determination, his moments of brilliance, but also his flaws – the shots he missed, his selfishness and obstinance. The thirst and the hunger and the greed. And you believed.

“Are you nervous?” you asked. “I mean, how do you even prepare for something like this? Have you been in the final before? You must have been. God, I probably sound ridiculous, not knowing any of this. Now you’re going to tell me you’re a 5-time champion already and take me to your trophy cabinet,” you tittered.

“Depends how you’re defining champion,” Bob replied. “I have plenty of tour titles and Masters series wins. But if we’re talking Grand Slams…”

“What’s a Grand slam?”

Bob gave you an apologetic smile. He shouldn’t have assumed. He was glad you were comfortable enough to ask questions, though. He’d never want to make you feel embarrassed for not knowing.

“They’re the four biggest and most competitive tournaments each year. There’s the Australian Open, Rolland Garros in France, the US Open and Wimbledon. If you can win one of those, then you’ve pretty much proved you belong with the best. If you do the Career Slam – win all four one day, that is – then you’re in the history books for life. Since the 1960’s, only 6 men have ever done it.”

“How many – I mean – have you ever -?”

Bob thought it was endearing how you tripped over your words and tried to restart your sentence, looking for a way to ask how close he was to every tennis player’s dream without accidentally insulting him by suggesting he had more or less wins than reality.

“US Open 2019, Australian Open 2021, US Open 2021, Roland Garros 2022, Australian Open 2025. You were right. I’m a 5-time champion, and I do have a trophy cabinet. There’s room for one more, though.”

When he reeled off his wins out loud, Bob couldn’t deny it sounded good. He knocked back some more wine while you figured things out.

“You just need Wimbledon.”

“I just need Wimbledon.”

-

You were overcome with a desire to give it to him. You wanted nothing more than to see him reach his goal. There was a coolness to his tone, but you could sense the burning need beneath; the one thing that eluded him also fuelled him. Bob was in touching distance of greatness and, by association, so were you. You wanted to play a part in his success, to be the woman that inspired and powered all his future victories. He’d win the Championship for you. He’d complete tennis’s most lauded feat, the Career Slam, for you.

With Bob’s kiss, you’d experienced the surging of his passion thrumming through your veins. The dopamine, exhilaration and ecstatic thrill of the battle against Bradshaw had pulsed in your heart as well as his. You’d yearned for even just a drop of the same elixir ever since. You wanted Bob, and everything he thought, felt and endured, to fill you up so that you almost burst from the heady euphoria of it. You’d be driven insane by the loss if you were given less.

You were about to kiss him again, to lay yourself bare and confess as such, but he slipped away to clear your plates.

“Would you like another drink? There’s more wine-”

Suddenly the whole situation between you felt too… safe. Too contained. You liked this more domestic, down-to-earth side of him, yes, but you craved the Robert Floyd you’d seen on the tennis court more. The athlete who’d hunted down victory like a bloodhound. The player who’d claimed you in front of a whole Centre Court crowd and gifted you his win, like a tribute from a loyal knight to the queen of his realm. You craved the Robert Floyd who’d kissed you on a public balcony like a man possessed, not caring if the world saw.

“-Or we could settle down on the couch with something warmer -oh.”

You were out of your seat and crowding his space, a step and a half away from backing him right up against the window.

“I don’t want another drink, Bob.”

-

You were in his house. You’d had dinner together. You’d shared a drink with him. Bob wasn’t sure if you’d noticed, but at some point during the evening you’d both started sipping wine from the same glass. His hand had slipped to your knee. He’d felt the supple flesh of your thigh. He’d watched your lips, mesmerised by how they caressed your every word, and remembered how they’d caressed him merely hours ago.

He’d kept a respectable distance between you since, scared that one more kiss would confirm what, deep down, he already knew. That you would change his world forever.

But now you were close to him, pressing the lines of your body against his, wanting. Tempting. Your arms had wound themselves around his neck.

“Why haven’t you kissed me again?” you asked. Bob was certain he could hear a whine of desperation underlying your words. “You’ve had me all to yourself for hours now. I might have only ever seen one match, but it seems to me that tennis is all about waiting for the right opportunity to strike.”

“Patience.”

You scoffed, and irritation flickered across your face.

His hands tightened on your hips before you could even think of slipping away.

“I’m being patient,” he clarified. “Biding my time. It’s what I do. Earlier on the balcony was… an anomaly. I’m not usually so bold.”

For defensive players like him, who were known for their return, patience was fundamental to their game. The more patience he had, the more endurance he had, and the longer he could stay in rallies. He didn’t need to take daring risks that could lead to mistakes; he backed himself to keep sending the ball over the net, make the opposite player hit one more shot, putting the pressure on them again and again until the chances of them making an error became too great to escape. Patience was courage. Patience was a weapon.

“But you’re right,” Bob began. “On the tennis court, and in life, when I want something - I go after it. It becomes all I think about. Everything I do revolves around getting it. I’m relentless. And I want you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second I laid eyes on you. The match wasn’t about me vs Bradshaw anymore. It wasn’t even about getting me one win closer to the career slam. It was about winning for you, and only you. I have replayed our kiss a thousand times in my head and let my mind take me further than I probably should. I’m holding back because…”

Three years ago, Bob won 3 Grand Slams in a row and reached at least the semi-finals of every ATP or Masters tournament he entered (and triumphed more often than not). He won so much it got boring. For spectators, for the press, even for him. Then came the dry spell. He got knocked out in the first round of Wimbledon despite being a favourite to take the title. The years that followed were a barren wasteland. He couldn’t defend his points, and his ranking dropped off a cliff. He didn’t win a single title, even at a Challenger event, which he only entered out of desperation. His best result was reaching the quarter-finals at the US Open. Yet he couldn’t break through. He knew what winning felt like, tasted like, sounded like, smelled like. He could see each win, dangling like a carrot before his eyes. But time after time, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Until the Australian Open this year. He’d won again. Against all odds. Half the world hated him for spoiling the tennis darling’s last hurrah and casting aside an Australian ‘sensation’ in the final, but it was the greatest win of his life. And all the sweeter because he’d waited for it.

Now he was just one win away from achieving every tennis player’s dream.

“…Good things come to those who wait.”

“I see,” you said carefully, picking the tiniest bit of fluff from his shirt, then smoothing over the fabric. “Delayed gratification. The anticipation is half the fun. I can relate to that. But let me give you a little bit more to think about,” you whispered.

The hairs on the back of Bob’s neck would have stood up on their own accord if you hadn’t been gently tugging at them.

“Tonight, I’m all yours. You can kiss me, touch me, hold me… fuck me. You can do whatever you want with me.”

A choke of surprise lodged itself in Bob’s throat. Visions of the night’s possibilities flashed before his eyes… He was a patient man, yes, but opportunities were meant to be taken. There was a difference between waiting for the right chance to strike and being given an easy game on a silver platter.

He grabbed the wine bottle, took your hand and started leading you out of the kitchen and down some stairs.

“You wanted to know what I do to prepare for a final,” he said as you reached the bottom. “I swim.”

-

The house had a pool. Bob’s sleek, modernised and architecturally beautiful converted Victorian townhouse, in the middle of picture-perfect Richmond, London, had a fucking pool. A stunning one at that. It was slim, only about one and a half lanes wide, but it was long, seemingly stretching beyond the length of the house above. Bob flicked on the lights, and the water was illuminated, transforming into an inviting aquamarine oasis, gently shimmering and rippling, reflecting waves of light onto the stone-tiled walls.

Facing the pool was a seating area: two low garden-style sofas and matching armchairs, accompanied by a coffee table. Sliding glass doors could be opened behind, transforming the room into an inside-outside space on a summer’s day. There was a basket of towels, a small bar, and a sun lounger the size of a bed.

The scent of chlorine tickled your nose, but it was offset by something leafy and floral, likely from the neatly potted greenery arranged in the corners and all along the wall to your right, lining the pool. Only when admiring the array of luscious succulents did you realise the wall was a waterfall, a constant stream of crystal-clear water cascading into the pool’s edge.

“This is incredible, Bob. You designed this too?”

“I did. Means a lot that you like it.”

You knew he hadn’t designed the place with you in mind, but it didn’t stop you from imagining he had – that he loved to the point of invention. Maybe one day he would.

Bob wrapped his arms around your torso and pressed his chest against your back. Warm, strong, and bare. He’d already discarded his shirt and thrown it onto the couch. He nuzzled at your neck, and you exhaled into his embrace as he swayed you gently on the spot in time with the gentle ripples of light that danced across your feet.

He kissed your shoulder. “Care to join me?”

“I will. Soon,” you promised. “But you should go through your usual routine first,” you insisted. You didn’t want to negatively impact his preparations ahead of the final of his life. “I’ll watch for a little while.”

He understood and slipped into the adjoining washroom to change into his trunks. Then he dove cleanly into the pool and started swimming lengths.

You selected the seat that would give you the best view of the pool and took occasional swigs of wine straight from the bottle while you watched, with deep fascination, as Bob took command of the water, his long-ranging muscular arms cutting powerful strokes through the shimmering aquamarine.

Everything about Bob was precise and considered. From the way he played tennis and conducted a conversation to the way he swam and designed his home. He gave singular focus to whatever he was doing at any time; to be the best, to do it right, to achieve what he wanted. Like he said, if something was important to him, it held his full attention. You’d never forget the tennis match; his intensity and determination to win for you never wavered, right up until the final point had been played. How would such a mentality translate to love? To a relationship? To sex?

Your whole body thrummed with desire to find out, and your lust only grew every time Bob swam past, your eyes trained on his freckled athletic back. You hadn’t been counting Bob’s strokes and had no clue what number of lengths he would consider ‘enough’, but you weren’t sure you could wait much longer.

Somehow, Bob knew this.

Upon reaching the end of another length, and apparently the end of his usual routine, he settled at the edge of the pool, sitting on a ledge under the water, directly opposite you. He ran a hand through his hair, giving definition to his wet locks, then leant back, arms spread behind him, as if he was reclined on the couch. His gaze weighed heavily on your chest, expectant and daring.

Fuck. The heat growing at your core was undeniable now. The wilder side of you contemplated jumping into the water fully clothed: you didn’t want to waste time. The sooner you were straddling him and bouncing on his cock, the better. But you didn't. He wanted patience; you’d give him patience. So, you calmly held his eyes and took another lazy swig of wine, then you stood, kicked off your sandals, and slowly stepped towards the edge of the pool.

You were thankful for your underwear choice this morning: black cotton hipster briefs and a matching bandeau bra that could pass as a bikini. But even if you’d been wearing your rattiest set, it wouldn’t have mattered. Your want for Bob overshadowed all else. And you already knew how much he wanted you.

The ties of your dress were easily loosened. The fabric fell from your breasts, and, with a shimmy of your hips, the garment dropped to the floor.

-

Bob watched, mesmerised, as you lowered your almost-naked self into the pool. He was bound to the spot, unable to move a single muscle as you drew closer, drifting serenely through the water. Small, rippling waves danced sensuously around your form, reflecting the pool lights to encircle you in heavenly silver and gold.

You were a siren, captivating him with some ethereal song, even in your silence.

If, instead of straddling his lap, you’d dragged him under to drown him and feast on his soul, he’d have gone willingly. Especially if it meant he could be gifted one more kiss from your addictive lips.

“I want you to make me yours,” you pleaded. “I think I might die if you don't.”

Bob thought he might die if he did. But he granted your wish and let you drown him anyway. The kiss might have started with him, but you made it infinite, flooding his mouth with your tongue and circling his own with such fervour Bob swore he could feel you lapping at the insides of his mind, reshaping his brain. Would he remember who he used to be when he came up for the air? Would he remember how to strike a clean ball, or even which way to hold up a tennis racket? Could there ever be space in his heart or head again for anyone or anything but you?

He'd never tire of having you like this, writhing atop him, consuming him. His hands free to roam over your warm yet goose-pimpled skin and press finger dents into the curves of your arse and thighs. The pillows of your breasts against the hairs of his bare chest.

He wished he could bottle up the smell of you; keep a sample of the taste of you.

The friction of his swimming trunks strained taught against his now throbbing length was a new, maddening sensation; exacerbated further by the insistent heat of your core, bearing down on him as you endeavoured to get closer. Your grip was now so strong that Bob wondered if you were trying to climb into his skin and make a home there. God, he wished that could be true. Because he wanted the same. He wanted to live inside you too.

“Fuck me, Robert”, you demanded. There was no way you couldn't feel how thick and hard he’d grown beneath you. There was no way you weren’t aware of the dangerous spell you held him under.

Your fingers clawed into his wet curls so hard he cast his head back against the rim of the pool.

“Please, just fuck me, right here, right now.” You yanked him back towards you again.

Bob shook his head. “Need to work you open first, baby,” he said gruffly. “You'll be too tight. Won’t be able to take me.”

It thrilled him to see a shiver of anticipation ripple through you at the thought of it, the thought of the searing stretch of him breaching your velvet walls. Your mouth fell open with the sweetest of gasps, and your hand dropped to grip him through his shorts.

Your eyes widened, ravenously aflame.

In the palm of your hand, Bob had to fight with every fibre of his being to keep his composure.

Patience.

“How many fingers do you think I'll need?” he pondered. “Two? Three?”

His had wrapped around your own, coaxing you to squeeze and stroke his cock to fully appreciate what you were asking for. His other hand lifted to your lips, which you dutifully parted, and he pushed two of his digits onto your slippery tongue, letting you suck on them, knuckle deep.

The way your eyelashes fluttered and your mouth hummed around him with an indulgent moan nearly brought him to ruin.

He clung to the final shred of his dignity.  

“I guess we’ll find out… But I'll get you nice and wet and ready for me, I promise.”

You purred in his lap and somehow draped yourself over him even more than you already were, your limbs liquified by the molten heat of need that had entirely overcome you. Your soft hand caressed his cheek.

“I told you earlier, Bobby, I’m all yours. You can do anything you want to me, because it’s what I want too. I want you. I want to be so, so perfect for you.”

Bob was sure his brain was short-circuiting. Everything he desperately wanted to say but didn’t, out of fear of scaring you, rocketed around the walls of his skull like a hundred ballistic tennis balls travelling at the speed of light.

I love you. I fucking love you. I’ll win the world for you. You’re mine. All mine.

His cock twitched again under your begging palm.

“Will you coach me, Robert?”

-------------------------

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Private chefs, bodyguards and swarming entourages, chauffeur-driven sports cars. Penthouse suites, designer wardrobes. Luxury yachts. Money, paparazzi, diamonds. Those were your assumptions about Robert Floyd’s life (especially when Nicola googled his net worth after you’d admitted to the balcony escapade).

But Bob surprised you.

When you arrived at the Plaza Hotel, he was already outside, waiting. He was leaning against a sleek black Mercedes (nice, but not flashy), wearing the same outfit you’d kissed him in, with the addition of a simple black baseball cap that cast a shadow over his face. A gaggle of guests crossed your path as you made your way to him - they were chatting about the day’s matches and looked in his direction. You hovered in the shadows, expecting them to swamp this world-famous tennis player and ask for autographs and selfies, but they just walked on by, oblivious, as if Bob was invisible without a racket in his hand and didn’t exist outside the white lines of the court.

He opened the passenger door for you with courteous ease.

“You’re not staying here?”

“No. My team are, but I prefer somewhere quieter, out of the city - a house in Richmond. I was going to drive us there and order in some food. If that’s ok with you?”

So that’s what you did. He drove you away from the bright lights and out to a peaceful, well-kept suburb. The house was probably Victorian, originally. The end of a grand terrace. Still, it had been fully converted and modernised, all crisp, clean lines and polished surfaces - the interior was more like a New York apartment at the top of a skyscraper than a century-old family home.

The lights were kept low in the open-plan kitchen and living area. Bob used his phone to switch on some music, something slow but jazzy, sultry almost, before gesturing for you to sit anywhere you liked.

You opted for a stool at the breakfast bar and rested your head in your hands whilst Bob hunted down a suitable bottle of wine. He poured two glasses of red and handed one over. His fingers lingered over yours for a second, then he settled into the seat next to you.

“This is a beautiful place,” you observed, taking your first sip.

“Thank you. It was a labour of love, getting the interiors to where they are now, but it all came together perfectly in the end,” he said proudly.

You gawped at him. You’d assumed this place was a rental, an upmarket Airbnb. “This is your house?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “I stay here every year. I needed a base in London for the grass court season, and it’s a useful stop-off for the tournaments in Europe too.” He took a sip of his wine. “For the first years of my career, I just stayed in the cheapest hotels I could find. But I drove past this house one morning and fell in love with it; couldn’t get it out of my head. Then I started winning more matches and landed my first big sponsorship deal, so the next time I came back to London I walked right up to the front door and told the owners I wanted to buy it. They weren’t keen to sell, at first, but I gave them an offer they couldn't refuse. I worked up some plans, hired an architect and interior designer, and here we are."

"It’s gorgeous,” you breathed, even more in awe now you knew every detail you saw, from the striking gold light fixtures to the daring abstract art, was all down to him. You looked to the wall-to-ceiling window – you couldn’t see beyond into the darkness, only your reflections, and perhaps your imaginings of the garden were over the top. Or perhaps not.

You gestured toward the outside. “I suppose you’ve got a tennis court out there?” you said, fully expecting him to say yes.

Bob shook his head. "I didn’t see the point. When I win on Sunday, I'll get membership to the All-England Club for life. That's Wimbledon,” he added, for your benefit. “I've got a hard court at my house in the States, though, for training during the off-season. Not that tennis really has an off-season these days.”

He’d said it so matter-of-factly. After spending a few years in the upper echelons of tennis, he’d grown accustomed to wealth and success. He was comfortable in it. Confident with it, to an undeniably attractive degree. Of course he owned multiple multi-million-dollar homes, one of which had a tennis court in the garden. Of course he was going to win Wimbledon this year.  

“You must be getting hungry. There’s a good Italian place, a couple of streets away. Here’s the menu - order anything you want. The mozzarella sticks are to die for.”

He handed you his phone and let you scroll. The implicit trust in the gesture surprised you; you could have dove deep into his messages and rummaged through his photo albums, looking for something salacious to tip off the press with. You didn’t, of course. All you saw while selecting your food was a WhatsApp notification from Javy Machado – a fellow player, perhaps – congratulating Bob on his win and saying he’d see him on court down under.

You chose the arancini, mozzarella sticks, a carbonara and arrabbiata to share, a dressed salad, and tiramisu for afters.  

The food arrived quickly. All delicious, but the conversation was better.

Gradually, throughout the course of the meal, your seats had edged towards each other, and now your legs were slotted between Bob’s thighs, almost touching. At some point, He’d rested a casual hand on your knee and left it there, and you’d settled into brushing your fingers over his forearm, skimming across the sun-kissed freckles. Occasionally, you would sneak glances at your reflections in the window. Your chest would warm, and your heart would flutter – it was undeniable how natural you looked together.

Somehow, you’d landed upon the topic of childhood pets. Bob was telling you a sweet story about his grandmother making him a tennis racket-shaped cake for his 7th birthday, which was accidentally smashed by the new (yet unnamed) family puppy.

“Ma was so mad, she took one look at the dog and yelled, ‘You cannot be serious!’ which sent Pa into an absolute fit - I’ve never seen him laugh so much. He said, ‘Now I know what we should call the dog - John McEnroe!’”

He barely made it to the end of the story without chuckling to himself. It was an endearing sound, with a slightly nerdy quality that was charmingly at odds with his elite athlete persona. But you couldn’t laugh with him, despite how much you wanted to. You didn’t get the joke. It was a tennis thing; you were sure of it, but you had nowhere near the amount of sports literacy required to understand why it tickled him so.

“Bob, I have a confession to make. I don’t know anything about tennis.”

A beat of silence passed. You braced yourself for Bob’s disappointment. But then he threw his head back with laughter, and you couldn’t help but giggle along with him.

“So, you haven’t been sent by Seresin to infiltrate my camp and throw me off my game?” he asked when his laughter subsided.

“Seresin who?”

-

Bob bit back a laugh. Knowing Seresin, he’d be crushed.

“Jake Seresin will be my opponent in the final on Sunday. He beat Garcia yesterday in straight sets.” Bob explained. “He’s a self-obsessed pick. I kind of love that you’ve never heard of him; he’d hate it.”

“I’d never heard of you before today, either,” you admitted shyly.

Bob shrugged. He didn’t care. Nothing before today mattered.

“Is Seresin good? I suppose he must be, to get to the final. But he can’t be as good as you, surely.”

Bob rather enjoyed your tone. It was as if the idea of anyone being better at tennis than him was incomprehensible to you. So why spoil it by telling you otherwise? He certainly didn’t need to mention that Seresin had never lost a final.

“He calls himself ‘The Hangman’,” he said grimly, “the journalist that wrote the original headline didn’t mean it as a compliment, but Jake latched on and claims it’s because he always ‘executes’.”

You snorted at his clear disdain for his fellow player.

“First ‘Rooster’ and now ‘The Hangman’? Please tell me you don’t have a stupid nickname like that too,” you teased.

Bob shook his head. “The press doesn’t care about me enough to give me a nickname.”

You scrunched your brows. “They should care. They’ll care when you win.”

Bob smiled to himself and gave your knee a fond squeeze. He practically had to hold himself back from telling you he loved you. Because he’d been right. You understood him. Not because you were a die-hard fan of tennis or you’d followed the ups and downs of his career from the beginning. No, you’d watched the sport for the first time in your life today and seen him play without any preconceived notions about what he was like; no already made assumptions had clouded your vision of him on the court. You saw him, the real him, his every want and desire, and the lengths he would go to achieve them. His steadfastness and determination, his moments of brilliance, but also his flaws – the shots he missed, his selfishness and obstinance. The thirst and the hunger and the greed. And you believed.

“Are you nervous?” you asked. “I mean, how do you even prepare for something like this? Have you been in the final before? You must have been. God, I probably sound ridiculous, not knowing any of this. Now you’re going to tell me you’re a 5-time champion already and take me to your trophy cabinet,” you tittered.

“Depends how you’re defining champion,” Bob replied. “I have plenty of tour titles and Masters series wins. But if we’re talking Grand Slams…”

“What’s a Grand slam?”

Bob gave you an apologetic smile. He shouldn’t have assumed. He was glad you were comfortable enough to ask questions, though. He’d never want to make you feel embarrassed for not knowing.

“They’re the four biggest and most competitive tournaments each year. There’s the Australian Open, Rolland Garros in France, the US Open and Wimbledon. If you can win one of those, then you’ve pretty much proved you belong with the best. If you do the Career Slam – win all four one day, that is – then you’re in the history books for life. Since the 1960’s, only 6 men have ever done it.”

“How many – I mean – have you ever -?”

Bob thought it was endearing how you tripped over your words and tried to restart your sentence, looking for a way to ask how close he was to every tennis player’s dream without accidentally insulting him by suggesting he had more or less wins than reality.

“US Open 2019, Australian Open 2021, US Open 2021, Roland Garros 2022, Australian Open 2025. You were right. I’m a 5-time champion, and I do have a trophy cabinet. There’s room for one more, though.”

When he reeled off his wins out loud, Bob couldn’t deny it sounded good. He knocked back some more wine while you figured things out.

“You just need Wimbledon.”

“I just need Wimbledon.”

-

You were overcome with a desire to give it to him. You wanted nothing more than to see him reach his goal. There was a coolness to his tone, but you could sense the burning need beneath; the one thing that eluded him also fuelled him. Bob was in touching distance of greatness and, by association, so were you. You wanted to play a part in his success, to be the woman that inspired and powered all his future victories. He’d win the Championship for you. He’d complete tennis’s most lauded feat, the Career Slam, for you.

With Bob’s kiss, you’d experienced the surging of his passion thrumming through your veins. The dopamine, exhilaration and ecstatic thrill of the battle against Bradshaw had pulsed in your heart as well as his. You’d yearned for even just a drop of the same elixir ever since. You wanted Bob, and everything he thought, felt and endured, to fill you up so that you almost burst from the heady euphoria of it. You’d be driven insane by the loss if you were given less.

You were about to kiss him again, to lay yourself bare and confess as such, but he slipped away to clear your plates.

“Would you like another drink? There’s more wine-”

Suddenly the whole situation between you felt too… safe. Too contained. You liked this more domestic, down-to-earth side of him, yes, but you craved the Robert Floyd you’d seen on the tennis court more. The athlete who’d hunted down victory like a bloodhound. The player who’d claimed you in front of a whole Centre Court crowd and gifted you his win, like a tribute from a loyal knight to the queen of his realm. You craved the Robert Floyd who’d kissed you on a public balcony like a man possessed, not caring if the world saw.

“-Or we could settle down on the couch with something warmer -oh.”

You were out of your seat and crowding his space, a step and a half away from backing him right up against the window.

“I don’t want another drink, Bob.”

-

You were in his house. You’d had dinner together. You’d shared a drink with him. Bob wasn’t sure if you’d noticed, but at some point during the evening you’d both started sipping wine from the same glass. His hand had slipped to your knee. He’d felt the supple flesh of your thigh. He’d watched your lips, mesmerised by how they caressed your every word, and remembered how they’d caressed him merely hours ago.

He’d kept a respectable distance between you since, scared that one more kiss would confirm what, deep down, he already knew. That you would change his world forever.

But now you were close to him, pressing the lines of your body against his, wanting. Tempting. Your arms had wound themselves around his neck.

“Why haven’t you kissed me again?” you asked. Bob was certain he could hear a whine of desperation underlying your words. “You’ve had me all to yourself for hours now. I might have only ever seen one match, but it seems to me that tennis is all about waiting for the right opportunity to strike.”

“Patience.”

You scoffed, and irritation flickered across your face.

His hands tightened on your hips before you could even think of slipping away.

“I’m being patient,” he clarified. “Biding my time. It’s what I do. Earlier on the balcony was… an anomaly. I’m not usually so bold.”

For defensive players like him, who were known for their return, patience was fundamental to their game. The more patience he had, the more endurance he had, and the longer he could stay in rallies. He didn’t need to take daring risks that could lead to mistakes; he backed himself to keep sending the ball over the net, make the opposite player hit one more shot, putting the pressure on them again and again until the chances of them making an error became too great to escape. Patience was courage. Patience was a weapon.

“But you’re right,” Bob began. “On the tennis court, and in life, when I want something - I go after it. It becomes all I think about. Everything I do revolves around getting it. I’m relentless. And I want you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second I laid eyes on you. The match wasn’t about me vs Bradshaw anymore. It wasn’t even about getting me one win closer to the career slam. It was about winning for you, and only you. I have replayed our kiss a thousand times in my head and let my mind take me further than I probably should. I’m holding back because…”

Three years ago, Bob won 3 Grand Slams in a row and reached at least the semi-finals of every ATP or Masters tournament he entered (and triumphed more often than not). He won so much it got boring. For spectators, for the press, even for him. Then came the dry spell. He got knocked out in the first round of Wimbledon despite being a favourite to take the title. The years that followed were a barren wasteland. He couldn’t defend his points, and his ranking dropped off a cliff. He didn’t win a single title, even at a Challenger event, which he only entered out of desperation. His best result was reaching the quarter-finals at the US Open. Yet he couldn’t break through. He knew what winning felt like, tasted like, sounded like, smelled like. He could see each win, dangling like a carrot before his eyes. But time after time, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Until the Australian Open this year. He’d won again. Against all odds. Half the world hated him for spoiling the tennis darling’s last hurrah and casting aside an Australian ‘sensation’ in the final, but it was the greatest win of his life. And all the sweeter because he’d waited for it.

Now he was just one win away from achieving every tennis player’s dream.

“…Good things come to those who wait.”

“I see,” you said carefully, picking the tiniest bit of fluff from his shirt, then smoothing over the fabric. “Delayed gratification. The anticipation is half the fun. I can relate to that. But let me give you a little bit more to think about,” you whispered.

The hairs on the back of Bob’s neck would have stood up on their own accord if you hadn’t been gently tugging at them.

“Tonight, I’m all yours. You can kiss me, touch me, hold me… fuck me. You can do whatever you want with me.”

A choke of surprise lodged itself in Bob’s throat. Visions of the night’s possibilities flashed before his eyes… He was a patient man, yes, but opportunities were meant to be taken. There was a difference between waiting for the right chance to strike and being given an easy game on a silver platter.

He grabbed the wine bottle, took your hand and started leading you out of the kitchen and down some stairs.

“You wanted to know what I do to prepare for a final,” he said as you reached the bottom. “I swim.”

-

The house had a pool. Bob’s sleek, modernised and architecturally beautiful converted Victorian townhouse, in the middle of picture-perfect Richmond, London, had a fucking pool. A stunning one at that. It was slim, only about one and a half lanes wide, but it was long, seemingly stretching beyond the length of the house above. Bob flicked on the lights, and the water was illuminated, transforming into an inviting aquamarine oasis, gently shimmering and rippling, reflecting waves of light onto the stone-tiled walls.

Facing the pool was a seating area: two low garden-style sofas and matching armchairs, accompanied by a coffee table. Sliding glass doors could be opened behind, transforming the room into an inside-outside space on a summer’s day. There was a basket of towels, a small bar, and a sun lounger the size of a bed.

The scent of chlorine tickled your nose, but it was offset by something leafy and floral, likely from the neatly potted greenery arranged in the corners and all along the wall to your right, lining the pool. Only when admiring the array of luscious succulents did you realise the wall was a waterfall, a constant stream of crystal-clear water cascading into the pool’s edge.

“This is incredible, Bob. You designed this too?”

“I did. Means a lot that you like it.”

You knew he hadn’t designed the place with you in mind, but it didn’t stop you from imagining he had – that he loved to the point of invention. Maybe one day he would.

Bob wrapped his arms around your torso and pressed his chest against your back. Warm, strong, and bare. He’d already discarded his shirt and thrown it onto the couch. He nuzzled at your neck, and you exhaled into his embrace as he swayed you gently on the spot in time with the gentle ripples of light that danced across your feet.

He kissed your shoulder. “Care to join me?”

“I will. Soon,” you promised. “But you should go through your usual routine first,” you insisted. You didn’t want to negatively impact his preparations ahead of the final of his life. “I’ll watch for a little while.”

He understood and slipped into the adjoining washroom to change into his trunks. Then he dove cleanly into the pool and started swimming lengths.

You selected the seat that would give you the best view of the pool and took occasional swigs of wine straight from the bottle while you watched, with deep fascination, as Bob took command of the water, his long-ranging muscular arms cutting powerful strokes through the shimmering aquamarine.

Everything about Bob was precise and considered. From the way he played tennis and conducted a conversation to the way he swam and designed his home. He gave singular focus to whatever he was doing at any time; to be the best, to do it right, to achieve what he wanted. Like he said, if something was important to him, it held his full attention. You’d never forget the tennis match; his intensity and determination to win for you never wavered, right up until the final point had been played. How would such a mentality translate to love? To a relationship? To sex?

Your whole body thrummed with desire to find out, and your lust only grew every time Bob swam past, your eyes trained on his freckled athletic back. You hadn’t been counting Bob’s strokes and had no clue what number of lengths he would consider ‘enough’, but you weren’t sure you could wait much longer.

Somehow, Bob knew this.

Upon reaching the end of another length, and apparently the end of his usual routine, he settled at the edge of the pool, sitting on a ledge under the water, directly opposite you. He ran a hand through his hair, giving definition to his wet locks, then leant back, arms spread behind him, as if he was reclined on the couch. His gaze weighed heavily on your chest, expectant and daring.

Fuck. The heat growing at your core was undeniable now. The wilder side of you contemplated jumping into the water fully clothed: you didn’t want to waste time. The sooner you were straddling him and bouncing on his cock, the better. But you didn't. He wanted patience; you’d give him patience. So, you calmly held his eyes and took another lazy swig of wine, then you stood, kicked off your sandals, and slowly stepped towards the edge of the pool.

You were thankful for your underwear choice this morning: black cotton hipster briefs and a matching bandeau bra that could pass as a bikini. But even if you’d been wearing your rattiest set, it wouldn’t have mattered. Your want for Bob overshadowed all else. And you already knew how much he wanted you.

The ties of your dress were easily loosened. The fabric fell from your breasts, and, with a shimmy of your hips, the garment dropped to the floor.

-

Bob watched, mesmerised, as you lowered your almost-naked self into the pool. He was bound to the spot, unable to move a single muscle as you drew closer, drifting serenely through the water. Small, rippling waves danced sensuously around your form, reflecting the pool lights to encircle you in heavenly silver and gold.

You were a siren, captivating him with some ethereal song, even in your silence.

If, instead of straddling his lap, you’d dragged him under to drown him and feast on his soul, he’d have gone willingly. Especially if it meant he could be gifted one more kiss from your addictive lips.

“I want you to make me yours,” you pleaded. “I think I might die if you don't.”

Bob thought he might die if he did. But he granted your wish and let you drown him anyway. The kiss might have started with him, but you made it infinite, flooding his mouth with your tongue and circling his own with such fervour Bob swore he could feel you lapping at the insides of his mind, reshaping his brain. Would he remember who he used to be when he came up for the air? Would he remember how to strike a clean ball, or even which way to hold up a tennis racket? Could there ever be space in his heart or head again for anyone or anything but you?

He'd never tire of having you like this, writhing atop him, consuming him. His hands free to roam over your warm yet goose-pimpled skin and press finger dents into the curves of your arse and thighs. The pillows of your breasts against the hairs of his bare chest.

He wished he could bottle up the smell of you; keep a sample of the taste of you.

The friction of his swimming trunks strained taught against his now throbbing length was a new, maddening sensation; exacerbated further by the insistent heat of your core, bearing down on him as you endeavoured to get closer. Your grip was now so strong that Bob wondered if you were trying to climb into his skin and make a home there. God, he wished that could be true. Because he wanted the same. He wanted to live inside you too.

“Fuck me, Robert”, you demanded. There was no way you couldn't feel how thick and hard he’d grown beneath you. There was no way you weren’t aware of the dangerous spell you held him under.

Your fingers clawed into his wet curls so hard he cast his head back against the rim of the pool.

“Please, just fuck me, right here, right now.” You yanked him back towards you again.

Bob shook his head. “Need to work you open first, baby,” he said gruffly. “You'll be too tight. Won’t be able to take me.”

It thrilled him to see a shiver of anticipation ripple through you at the thought of it, the thought of the searing stretch of him breaching your velvet walls. Your mouth fell open with the sweetest of gasps, and your hand dropped to grip him through his shorts.

Your eyes widened, ravenously aflame.

In the palm of your hand, Bob had to fight with every fibre of his being to keep his composure.

Patience.

“How many fingers do you think I'll need?” he pondered. “Two? Three?”

His had wrapped around your own, coaxing you to squeeze and stroke his cock to fully appreciate what you were asking for. His other hand lifted to your lips, which you dutifully parted, and he pushed two of his digits onto your slippery tongue, letting you suck on them, knuckle deep.

The way your eyelashes fluttered and your mouth hummed around him with an indulgent moan nearly brought him to ruin.

He clung to the final shred of his dignity.  

“I guess we’ll find out… But I'll get you nice and wet and ready for me, I promise.”

You purred in his lap and somehow draped yourself over him even more than you already were, your limbs liquified by the molten heat of need that had entirely overcome you. Your soft hand caressed his cheek.

“I told you earlier, Bobby, I’m all yours. You can do anything you want to me, because it’s what I want too. I want you. I want to be so, so perfect for you.”

Bob was sure his brain was short-circuiting. Everything he desperately wanted to say but didn’t, out of fear of scaring you, rocketed around the walls of his skull like a hundred ballistic tennis balls travelling at the speed of light.

I love you. I fucking love you. I’ll win the world for you. You’re mine. All mine.

His cock twitched again under your begging palm.

“Will you coach me, Robert?”

-------------------------

Next chapter promises to be smut smut smut!

Want more Top Gun Maverick fics? Take a look at my masterlist.

Please comment and reblog and share your thoughts 🥰

Tagging people who interacted with Part 1:

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]

PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]

⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]

PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]

PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]

PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]

PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]

PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]

PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen. [13.4k]

─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆

TBA

─── ⋆ MISC ⋆

#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)

SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

It’s all it takes for all four pairs of eyes to land on you and widen. Bella, naturally, is the first to smirk. An expression that is very quickly mirrored by Leone, Chloe and Karis. You raise a palm to stop them before anyone can try to say something stupid or inappropriate. 

“You are all to be on your best behavior and not stare at him like he’s some sort of zoo animal.” 

Their smirks collectively turn into feline grins at your words. “Jesus, we’re not that bad.” Karis defends, though really she’s only actually speaking for herself. 

You huff. “He’s just a friend and he’s Phoebe’s favorite person. Please don’t be weird and please do not bring up my pelvic exam.”

Karis giggles at that, her short brown bob swaying with the movement of her shoulders. Her reaction is much more innocent than the crazed smirks of the others. She’s always been the prude one of the friend group, never openly engaging in sex talk or sharing personal experiences. She’s just a bit of a quieter, more timid soul. Engaged to her lovely fiance, Ricky, and four months pregnant with her first.

Bella feigns an offended sigh, leaning across the kitchen island on her forearms. Her palms clap together gently, the chunky rings on her fingers clicking. “We promise to behave.”

You squint at her, unconvinced. Bella will be the biggest problem. Single, flirty and has no real sense of shame or embarrassment. That’s probably why she’s your favorite.

Your eyes flicker over to Leone and Chloe who are honestly the least of your concerns. “Don’t look at us.” They spend so much time together that the words slip from their mouths at the same time. 

Anyone who meets them assumes they're in the honeymoon period, freshly smitten. But in reality, they’ve been together since high school. When they were told it was just a phase. When they got bullied by girls and sexualized by boys. You’ll forever have the memory of the time you broke Henry Stevenson's nose when he called them dykes and asked them both to scissor in front of him. 

You feel a palm on your lower back, a presence at your shoulder. Your mom stands beside you, unwrapping the rest of the party food that’s plated on the island. “Tom not coming?”

You scoff at her joke. “Nope. I invited him for Pheebs, but he said he has plans.”

She pauses, turns to you. “But it’s her birthday.” 

With a sigh, you purse your lips and drop your shoulders. You can’t help but look across to Phoebe; playing with Bella’s daughter, Florence, and some of her other friends from preschool. It makes your heart ache to watch her laugh with excitement and grin in happiness and know that Tom doesn’t love her the way he should. The way she deserves. 

“Don’t worry about it, honey. She's got everyone she needs right here.” It’s your dad’s hands that land comfortingly on your shoulder, a grounding touch and a blanket of reassurance and love. 

You sink into it a little, let him wrap you in his arms. No matter how old you are, it always makes you feel like a teenager again. Safe in your fathers hold, knowing that he will never let anything touch or harm you. 

“Besides,” Bella begins with a grin, “I’m sure she’ll forget all about Tom when Jack gets here.”

Your moms head whips to you, eyes wide and sparkling as her lips curl in intrigue. “The silver fox?”

You feel your dad still slightly as he pulls away from you, cocking a brow at your mom in what can only be playful from him. She swats his rounding tummy in jest and wraps herself around him. But your dad…he turns to you with raised brows, a silent question as to what the fuck your mother is talking about. 

“You’re seeing someone? Someone older?”

A groan tumbles from your lips. “No. He’s a neighbor. A friend.”

“For now.” Chloe murmurs over the rim of her glass, eyes shining something mischievous. 

He looks at Chloe, then back to you. Your mom pats his stomach, one arm around his waist. “David, you’re not allowed to feel any type of way about this. You’re nineteen years older than me!”

A huff falls from you but you can’t help the laugh that follows. “There is nothing to feel about anything because Jack is a friend.” It’s like you speak in an alien tongue, because they all blink at you blankly. 

Your dad rolls his shoulders, clears his throat like the subject has made him uncomfortable. If he’s honest with himself, it has. He’s never liked the topic of you having a boyfriend or a partner. He hated it as a teenager and now you’re almost thirty…it still hasn’t gotten easier to come to terms with.

That you, his little girl, isn’t a little girl anymore. David often has to remind himself that you’re an adult, a mother. And that despite how uneasy he feels about you potentially being interested in an older man, Prue is right. He is nineteen years older than her. He has no place to judge, only has room for validated fatherly concern. 

He clears his throat, focuses his attention on you. “How old is this Jack, exactly?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek. There is absolutely no need to be having the conversation, and yet you find yourself quietly indulging your father anyway. “Forty-four.”

Your father blinks and you know he’s mentally calculating an age difference. He has the same look in your eye that you did when you were staring at your reflection the night after the ED visit, calculating the gap yourself. 

Sixteen years. 

David looses a breath and there’s a stillness in the kitchen. Phoebe and her friends continue to play, unaware of the turmoil he’s mentally battling. He reminds himself that you’re a big girl now, that you can make your own decisions. That he knows Phoebe is your priority always. 

But David knows what an age difference looks like. There’s a worry that wedges itself deep beneath his ribcage for you. Because while an older man may be able to offer you more, he can’t offer everything. At seventy-five years old, he knows he’s lucky if he’s got another ten years in him. That he’ll be leaving Prue a widow at sixty-six. That he won’t make it to see Phoebe become an adult, won’t make it to meet his grandchildren if she grows to have any. 

It doesn’t matter how fit and healthy he is, or how good he looks for his age. David is old, getting older. He can’t do the things that Prue can. He doesn’t want that life for you. 

The tension in the kitchen makes the next part even harder. And you don’t look at anyone when you utter words that make your father tense even further. “If you see his wedding band, don’t ask about it.”

An even thicker silence settles over the room at that. Partly because you’d never told them he was married, but also because they all seemed to get the hint that his wife is no longer here.

It makes David’s chest feel tight. Like history is repeating itself. Because before Prue, he was also a widow. 

Before any other questions can be asked, Phoebe is shrieking in delight as she tears open another gift. It’s all that’s needed for everyone to swiftly move past the doomed conversation. You avoid your mothers sympathetic gaze as you reach Phoebe, grinning as she slips her feet into a pair of plastic heels. 

There’s wrapping paper everywhere, toys and books and dress-up outfits. She’s torn through the majority of her gifts, screaming at Alexa to play Ain’t It Fun by Paramore. She’s no longer wearing the pretty dress you picked out for her; replacing it sometime ten minutes ago with a bright pink tutu and a Def Leopard t-shirt. 

After a round of musical statues and beating the shit out of a pinata, there’s a firm knock at the front door and Phoebe is moving toward it before you can say otherwise. 

The excitement in her screech is ear shattering as she throws the door wide open and bounces on the spot. Jack grins down at her widely, a large box wrapped in funky paper tucked under a muscular arm. 

“Hey, birthday girl.” 

“Jack! You came! Look, I'm having a party.” Phoebe doesn’t wait for Jack to respond, wraps her hand around his fingers and drags him into the apartment with far too much excitement. 

You watch with pursed lips, desperately trying to hide your grin at the sight. Jack’s eyes find yours amongst the chaos of hyperactive children and wayward adults, his gaze softening but the edges are lined with amusement. 

No more navy scrubs, but a pair of dark wash jeans and a white t-shirt that’s far too tight around his biceps. The slightly salt and pepper hair sits in what you can only assume to be their natural curls, and you have to remind yourself not to stare. 

You offer a wave, stepping over toys and little feet to reach him. It’s far too natural in how his free arm opens to pull you into a casual hug, your front pressing against his side for a brief moment in greeting before you both pull away. 

“Looks crazy in here,” he observes with a fond tone. 

You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you couldn’t have arrived at a more chaotic time.” 

Phoebe pulls on Jack's pants, eager for his attention again. He gives it to her without another thought, crouches with a soft groan and about as much fluidity as a rusty pole. But he offers the gift to a bright eyed girl and she tears the paper off it within seconds.

Another shriek of delight echoes through the room and you watch with raised brows as Phoebe jumps and shakes the box. “Mommy! I’m just like Jack!” 

She shoves the box to the ground and frantically begins to rip into it. It’s a medical kit. Complete with a doctor's case, plastic medical equipment, a pretend ID badge and blue scrubs that match Jack’s a little too well. 

You blink at him, lips parted slightly in surprise. It was only yesterday that Phoebe told him she wanted to be a doctor when she grows up. And somehow, he’s found the most perfect gift between then and now. 

“This is the bestest present ever! Thank you, Jack.” Phoebe throws herself at him again, arms wrapping around his neck and he smiles softly as he holds her with a gentle palm on her back. 

“You’re so welcome, kid.” 

He rises with another soft groan when Phoebe finally releases him from her clutches, and you both watch as she struggles to put the top on over her current one and step into the pants beneath the tutu. She’s grinning wide when she wraps the stethoscope around her neck and shoves the rest of the medical tools in her little bag. 

You have to stifle a laugh when she orders one of her friends to pretend to be sick and Jack follows you toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a drink. You didn’t have to get her a gift.”

He scoffs, like he’s offended. “And show up to a diva's birthday party empty-handed?” 

A laugh falls from your lips but lodges in your throat the moment you approach the kitchen island and realize all eyes are on you. Well, not you. On Jack. 

He stands with a polite smile, hands behind his back and a slight stiffness in his shoulders like he’s about to be interrogated for something he absolutely has not done yet. 

You clear your throat. “Um, Jack, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Jack. Our neighbor and Phoebe’s best friend.”

He laughs softly at that, a brief blush of pinkness dusting across his cheeks at your introduction. Bella is the first to introduce herself as your best friend. Then Karis, who’s a little more polite about it. Both Leone and Chloe offer smirks and a wave, no words to tell him their names. 

But your mom and dad… they approach Jack slowly. Your mother with a warm smile and your father with a slight squint in his eyes. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m Y/N’s mom, Prue. And this is my husband, David. Phoebe does not shut up about her favorite doctor.” 

Jack’s laugh is a bit nervous, a bit self-deprecating. But he offers a warm handshake to your parents and you take that moment to shoot a glare and a silent shut the fuck up to your grinning friends. 

“Ah, nothing too special about me but she’s a pretty cool kid.” He deflects it easily, casually. 

Your mom makes a sound of disagreement. “She’s a strongheaded girl, like her mom. I trust her judge of character more than my own sometimes, and I’ve been a lawyer for thirty years.” She laughs and Jack dips his head a bit bashfully. 

“Yeah, I heard you retired recently. Congratulations.” 

She waves him off with a grin. “Is a lawyer ever truly retired? You ever need a defence attorney for anything outside of the hospital, you let me know.” 

He grins appreciatively at the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Prue.” 

“You always been a doctor, Jack?” David asks it casually enough but there’s a slight accusing tone to his voice that’s completely unwarranted. 

But Jack just shrugs with a slight nod. “I’ve been in medicine most of my life. I served three tours as a combat medic before I went into emergency medicine.” 

Your dad pauses, stares at your neighbor and you quickly take note of the wide eyes of your friends. You’d missed that tidbit of information when they were grilling you about him. And you’re yet to let them know about his little SWAT hobby.

There’s a hint of approval in your dad’s eyes at that and you visibly watch the way his shoulders relax slightly. “I did four tours back in my day. The medics are the real heroes… PTMC is lucky to have you.”

It’s about as much outright approval David has ever given a man that’s come into your life. It’s something that makes you feel sick and happy all at once. He’s just your fucking neighbor, why is everyone treating him like he’s your boyfriend? 

Phoebe is bouncing into the kitchen before much more can be said, complaining about the lack of food she’s eaten and your parents and friends make quick work of moving the food to the small table set up in the lounge. You take that moment as a breather as they set the kids up for dinner and busy your hands with making a drink for Jack.

“Sorry, you kind of got thrown in the deep end there.” You apologize with a fond laugh.

Jack sits at the island, shrugging a shoulder and lazily waving a hand to brush it off. “They all seem nice. Phoebe had a good day?”

You nod with a tired smile as you slide a plastic cup toward him. He probably shouldn’t trust you as blindly as he does because he lifts the cup to take a sip before even checking what’s inside it, and swallows with brows raised. 

“Beer at a kids party?”

You lean across the island to clink your cup to his. “I won’t tell if you won't."

Jack laughs but nods his head, taking another gulp before twisting in his seat to watch Phoebe help her friends put party hats on their heads and hold a mini speech to thank everyone for coming.

Your head falls between your arms as you laugh at the sight, a loud chuckle falling from Jack as he watches her with a wide grin and an ache in his chest. 

For a moment, you just watch him watch her. Notice the way his grin softens into something fond and caring. Your throat dries up and you have to clear it with a cough. “Thank you for coming and for her gift. She’s a bit crazy about you at the minute.”

His eyes remain on Phoebe when he speaks. “Yeah, I've got a soft spot for her, too.” And when he turns back to you, his expression morphs into something slightly more intense. “And her mom.” 

You swallow around the dryness in your throat, pray to fucking God that he doesn’t notice the heat that crawls up your neck and sits on the apples of your cheeks. You feel warm and fuzzy all over at his words, at the potential implications of them. The actual meaning.

You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything at all. Your lips roll between your teeth to conceal a growing smile and you try your best to maintain his eye contact as you bring your cup to your lips again to take another sip.

Jack doesn’t get to spend much more time with you for the rest of the party. You’re either pulled away by duties or Jack is pulled away by Phoebe. He spends the next hour playing doctors with the four year olds and getting to know your mom and dad. But it’s on more than one occasion that you glance over to find him in deep conversation with Bella.

It sits uneasy in your stomach; the way he looks at her in such an intense way, like whatever she’s saying is gospel. It makes your throat swell in something like insecurity and embarrassment. There is nothing between you and Jack, you know that. But he says he has a soft spot for you and Phoebe and then submerges himself in Bella’s presence. 

You’re not blind. You know how beautiful Bella is. Dark skin and silky hair. Chocolate brown eyes and fluttering lashes that frame them. She’s slender, perfectly proportioned and she has a smile that tends to daze anyone she speaks with. It’s not a surprise to you that Jack fell into her captivation either. 

But it hurts, nonetheless. It stings in a way that it always has done with Bella. You’re wanted and desired until they meet her. Then you’re just a stepping stone to get to who they really want. 

You believe what Jack said, that he does have a soft spot for Phoebe and you. But you believe it’s a spot of pity. Where he feels sorry for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Bella finds you when you’re sticking candles into the frosting of Phoebe’s birthday cake, a sly look on her features as she stands beside you. “Jack seems nice. I see why Pheebs is obsessed with him.”

You still at her voice, at the mention of him. You force yourself to shove her playfully as crimson begins to crawl across your skin. She watches the heat on you, the insistent blinking. A mixture of embarrassment, hurt and if you’re honest with yourself, something like jealousy.

Her lips part. Body turning to look at you. “You like him.” 

It’s not a question, it’s written all over your face. You can’t bring yourself to deny it, you’ve never been able to lie to Bella. She sees right through you. Always has. But you do look at her and it’s then that she notices a vulnerability in your eyes that she’s never seen before.

It makes her pause, makes her teasing falter. You see the look of understanding cross her features and you look away. You’re not prepared to have this conversation with her. Not here. Not now. 

So you grab a lighter instead and bring the flame to the candles. Heaving a sigh, you slip your palms beneath the cake board and slowly round the kitchen island to make your way over to everyone. 

Jack notices you approaching first, eyes darting between yours with a small knit between his brows like he knows something is wrong. But when he notices the cake in your hands and your careful footsteps, he doesn’t approach you to ask. 

He does a quick take of everyone else, all too occupied in conversation or tending to the children and without much more of a thought, he slips his phone into his pocket and angles it toward you and you have to look away as he begins to film.

Bella starts singing first, allowing you a moment to find your voice before the entire room is singing off-key and you’re kneeling in front of Pheebs. She blows out the candle on a big breath and it’s not lost on you that this is the first year the cake isn’t covered in her saliva from it. 

Jack moves closer to catch it on camera, his laugh bubbling out of him when he actually sees the cake properly and the iced writing on top of it. 

DIVA, ALL THE TIME. OLDER, OCCASIONALLY.

Phoebe scoops her finger into the edge of the cake, a hefty chunk of frosting making its way into her mouth and she grins cheekily at Jack’s camera. Your mom scoops her up, peppering kisses to her cheeks and nose despite Phoebe’s obnoxious protests to put her down. 

You move in exhaustion and auto pilot for the last thirty minutes of the party. Cutting cake, filling goodie bags, watching Phoebe and her friends do round after round of Singstar on the old PlayStation2 you had kept from your younger years. It made you laugh when she started singing Faint at the top of her lungs.

“I thought she didn’t like screaming music?” Jack had asked.

And it was his turn to laugh when you both turned to look at him and said, “Linkin Park doesn’t count,” at the same time. 

By 7.30p.m, the party is clearing out of guests. Parents come to collect their kids while Bella drags a very uncooperative Florence out of the apartment; overtired and not wanting to leave.

Jack sits on the couch with a very sleepy Phoebe who has tucked herself into his side as she makes him read your copy of Stevie Nicks’ autobiography. The sight is so overwhelming it almost makes you feel sick and you have to look away and focus on the state of your kitchen instead. 

You feel a presence approaching you, gentle hands resting on your shoulders that you know to be your moms. Her lips barely tickle your ear as she speaks quietly. “I didn’t see a ring.” 

Your brows pull together slightly in a frown. For a moment, you’re confused as to what she’s talking about. But when you turn to face her and she offers a subtle movement of her head toward Jack’s direction, you blink.

“Really?” 

She hums. “He’s not wearing it. Not today at least.” She presses a kiss to your cheek as your dad joins her, wrapping you in a hug to say goodbye. 

You watch them press kisses to Phoebe’s head but she dodges them and shimmies out of Jack’s grasp. Her legs can barely keep her on her feet as she reaches you, rubbing at her eyes and insisting she needs to have a bath and go to sleep. 

Taking her into her arms, you’re reminded that your four-year-old is no longer a baby and actually weighs thirty-eight pounds of pure sassiness. You throw an apology over your shoulder to your parents and Jack, each of them dismissing you with a smile and wave of their hand. 

She puts up a fight in the tub, fighting you for the jug as you try to wash the soap out of her hair. Brushing her teeth is a wrestling match in itself, her argument being that she wants to be able to taste her birthday cake while she dreams. 

But when you go on a bit of a desperate spiral of convincing Phoebe that her teeth will fall out and then so will her tongue and she’ll never be able to eat cake again if she doesn’t brush them, she gives in. 

Settling her to bed is an even bigger struggle. First, her pyjamas are too warm, then the second pair are not pink enough. It takes every ounce of you to remain calm and patient. And after four pyjama changes and three Avril Lavigne songs, she’s snoring into her pillow like butter wouldn’t melt. 

By the time you creep out of Phoebe’s room, your apartment is silent and…clean. 

You blink. 

The food and wrapping paper has been cleared up. The frosting smears on the furniture have been wiped clean and popped balloons and torn party streamers no longer litter the floor. 

Rustling from the kitchen catches your attention and you follow the noise. Jack stands there, trash bag in hand and humming something that sounds oddly like AC/DC under his breath. He catches your presence as you move closer, taking in the spotless kitchen in slight astonishment. 

He smiles at you, not stopping the task at hand. “Phoebe okay?”

You blink again at him. “Uh, yeah. Just overtired—Jack, you didn’t need to stay to clean up.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “You snuck me beer, it’s the least I could do.” 

A tired laugh escapes you, and when he nods his head to the open doors to the balcony, you notice two more in the bottle sitting on the little patio table. Your shoulders sag in relief at the sight of it and even from a short distance, you can make out the little drops of condensation that drip down the glass. 

“On second thought, you can stay and clean up whenever you like.”

Jack chuckles at that, nods his head toward it again and you hate that you don’t argue with the silent but gentle command. The moment you step outside, your clammy skin is kissed by the cool evening breeze. It shakes a stressed sigh from your chest and you sink into the patio couch. 

You’re a few sips into your beer when Jack joins you, easing himself beside you with a small grunt. You watch him take in the surroundings. Unlike Jack’s balcony—which is bare of anything but a table and two chairs—yours is comfortable, homey. 

There’s outdoor furniture suitable for weather with throws and pillows, plant pots lining the corners and warm twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the iron fencing. When he reaches for the beer, it’s then that you notice for yourself what your mom observed earlier. 

He really isn’t wearing his ring. 

You take another long gulp from the bottle, let the bitterness line your tongue when you catch him stretching out his leg from your peripheral. 

“You can take it off by the way.” You nod toward his leg. “My great uncle had two prosthetic legs.”

Jack cocks a brow as he looks at you. 

“Army?” He assumes but he doesn’t argue with your offer. He tugs his jeans up as much as the denim will allow and reaches beneath the hem to pop the clips on the prosthetic. 

You scoff. “Being a jackass.”

It’s both a laugh and a sigh of relief when he eases the socket past his knee and places the machinery to the side of him. The relief in his body is almost immediate. You watch the way his shoulders sag in something like relaxation and he sits back with his beer and a gleam of tiredness in his eyes. 

“Thank you again, for coming. For her gift. For cleaning up. She really does adore you, you know.”

A softness eases the worrylines on his face, coaxes the tiredness from his eyes and loosens the clench in his jaw. Jack looks at you with something gentle. “She’s a great kid. You’re a great mom.” 

A smile teeters on the edges of your mouth, cheeks swelling slightly at the motion. And despite the fact that he’s interested in Bella, you still find yourself wanting to open up to him. His company is exciting. His presence is comforting. 

No matter what, you know you’ll always have a friend in Jack. It’s a fact that you believe enough that your lips are moving and unspoken vulnerabilities are slipping out. 

“I was only three months pregnant when Tom told me he couldn’t do it. Be a dad…” Jack listens intently, eyes on you despite your gaze landing on his balcony across the way. “I was barely twenty-three and I was terrified. I never even wanted kids, you know? I was too selfish to be able to care for something so dependent. I had no job, no qualifications… a boyfriend that was an ass.” You laugh but Jack doesn’t. He just watches you, soaks the information in. 

You swallow, fingers catching the drops of condensation that race down the neck of the bottle. 

“But I loved her already, and I promised her and myself that I’d be the best mother I could be. I was content with doing it alone, without Tom. But he kept coming back. Hot and cold. One minute she was his daughter and the next he needed time away. I gave him so many outs, Jack. So many chances to just leave her alone before it got complicated for her.”

Jack watches the tears well in your eyes and it clenches his heart in a vice. “He picks and chooses when he wants to be in her life. When it’s convenient for him. And now she’s four and she notices when he doesn’t show up when he’s supposed to. He’s constantly disappointing her. He couldn’t even show up for her fucking birthday.”

Jack’s hand moves before he can really comprehend the action. His palm rests on your fist in your lap, a soothing and grounding gesture to tell you he understands, he’s here, he’s listening. 

You sniffle and look down at it, the thin, pale line of where a ring used to sit. 

“I’m sorry.” You laugh a bit watery. “Didn’t mean to unload that on you.” 

He shakes his head. “No, don’t do that. Don’t apologize for how his actions have made you feel. You deserved more than that. Both of you.” His voice is tender, the words wrapping around your soul in the form of an embrace. And you allow yourself to find reprieve in it, if only for a moment. 

But the weight of his palm above your fist becomes suffocating. A ring-less hand, a touch that no doubt itches for your beloved friend. Your fingers wiggle beneath his hand and he retreats, watching you use it to wipe the tears from your face that have fallen. 

“I know.” You whisper. “My parents were a saving grace.” 

Jack feels lighter when he watches the sadness morph into something happier. “You’re close with them.” He comments with a small smile of his own. 

“Yeah.” You smile. “Not always.” You add with a laugh. 

When you turn to Jack, he’s looking at you with a lopsided smile and raised brows. A silent question. 

You huff a laugh. “I grew up in foster care. I didn’t get assigned to David and Prue until I was twelve, and by that age I was angry at the world and drowning in hormones. I was…a difficult teenager. But they were patient. They were kind and understanding and they let me express myself. It took me a long time to understand that they cared about me. That they loved me.” 

Reminiscing on your youth doesn’t bring up fond memories. You’ll always be plagued with the houses before them. The unforgiving foster families. The neglect and the bullying. And how it’s somehow continued to transpire into your adult life. 

A bit similar to that saying, always the bridesmaid but never the bride.

He understands you a bit clearer now. Your frustration and heartache when it comes to Phoebe. Because it hits you deeper than anyone could truly understand. Because you’d never been enough for anyone before David and Prue chose you. 

Jack calls your name softly, a reverent look in his gaze, like his soul is boring into yours. “You are an incredible mom. An incredible woman.”

There’s so much conviction in his voice that you don’t know what to do with it. It wedges its way into a chained off crevice in your heart and settles there like a permanent tattoo. 

You try to wave him off, attempt to scoff out a light laugh and look away but Jack chases your gaze. “I’m serious. I mean, c’mon. You’re not even thirty and look at what you’ve accomplished. Give yourself some grace.” 

That does make you scoff, but not maliciously. “Says the guy that’s served three tours, is an attending physician in the ED and also spends his free time as a combat medic for SWAT.”

Jack cracks a wonky grin at that, one that screams flirtation and a promise of heartbreak. “Don’t forget I’m also your daughter's favorite person.”

Your head falls back on a laugh before it lulls to your shoulder and you’re looking at him again. “What about you? No kids of your own?” 

It’s a sobering question for Jack. One he would prefer not to delve into right now… or at any point, for that matter. But there’s a comfortability he feels with you, no judgement or disgust. 

And you’ve opened up so deeply to him, he supposes it’s only fair he offers part of himself to you in return. 

“No,” he begins softly. “I was never against the idea, but Moira…”

You offer him the same grace that he gave you. You don’t rush, don’t speak. Just listen and absorb his past as he did yours. It’s intimate for him to share, to admit to someone new that his wife worried she’d be a bad mom, that Jack believed she knew she was sick for longer than he did. 

That it was her way of protecting him. 

It almost clears your heart in two when he confides in you that, actually, it breaks him more to live with nothing but the foggy memories of her. Nothing shared between them remains. 

How he sold the house, how she never wanted to take his name in fear of it removing the hard work she’d made for herself prior to him. How Jack understood it all, how she loved him unconditionally and he her. 

And how recently, he’s come to terms with the fact that he can’t live with the ghost of her. That his once undying love has eased into something he’ll carry forever, but not something he can never move forward from. 

But one thing he’s certain of is biggest regret of not having children. Before his wife, with his wife, after his wife. 

“I think being around Phoebe made me realize that.” The admittance that comes from him almost paralyzes you. “I’ve come to realize it’s my biggest regret in life.” 

You have to blink back tears. At the sad and very vulnerable admission he’s given, and the fact that your Phoebe is the one to make him realize such a thing. That she’s special enough to have that effect on someone. 

“You don’t think you’ll have any in the future?” You ask softly. 

Jack scoffs a laugh, humorously. “I think I’ve passed my sell-by date for that.” 

You roll your eyes, ready to argue that forty-four is not too old to have a child but Jack cuts you off with a question of his own before you can. 

“What about you? Do you think you'll have more?”

The question gives you pause and it takes you a moment to truly consider your answer. “I’ve always said no. That Pheebs is my one hit wonder. But sometimes, I don’t know, I get worried she'll grow up lonely like I did.”

You don’t mention that having more children would mean having to meet someone who you can trust and rely on not to step away. That a man that isn’t put off by a single mom is harder to come by than people think. 

“Besides, I think Phoebe is enough of a handful on her own.”

Jack’s grin stretches wide in amusement and fondness, chuckling into the rim of his beer bottle as he takes another long swig. His eyes cloud over with something pensive before turning to you with a slightly sheepish expression. 

“I need to be honest with you about something.” 

You grow uncomfortable at his words, shifting in your seat to face your body to his. Jack doesn’t speak again straight away. He looks to be considering his next statement and you’re a bit concerned at how quickly it's pushing you toward the brink of panic. 

“Phoebe might’ve slipped up on something about a silver fox.” 

His eyes glimmer with mirth when yours widens with horror. A crippling wave of humiliation spreads through as fire licks at your skin from the inside out. He doesn’t have to say it properly for you to know exactly what Phoebe has said.

That meddling little shit. 

“I am so sorry.” Your hands come up to shield your burning face and you force yourself to laugh to ease the embarrassment but it comes out more pained than anything. “She must’ve heard me on the phone.”

The sight makes Jack chuckle, finding the situation both flattering and endearing. It makes him feel other things, but they’re nothing he’s willing to admit just yet. 

Dragging your hands down your face, you turn to him sheepishly and can’t help but laugh at your own predicament. “I’m sorry. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.” 

Jack waves you off with a dismissive hand, the muscles in his biceps stretching as he leans across to place his beer on the table. Your eyes track the movement, your thighs clench.

“Are you kidding me? I’m flattered.” 

A laugh barks out from the back of your throat at that and Jack decides it’s one of the most gorgeous things he’s ever heard before. It makes his lips move again, keeps him talking, if only to hear it one more time.

“I think you should consider it for your next book. A silver fox protagonist.”

Your giggles follow through his next statement, head lulling back and body shaking slightly. “Oh, I’m sure that would do wonders for your ego.”

Jack’s brows raise, his smirk stretching. “Well, I never said it had to be about me, but I’m more than happy to play muse if I get a scene like chapter fifty-five.” 

You don’t miss the slightly sultry dip in his tone. It’s playfully enough to not be truly perceived as anything more than that, but it still ignites a flame in your belly. 

Turning to him with burning cheeks, your eyes squint accusingly. “You finished my book.” 

He grins wider, teasing. “That chapter is some of the best writing I’ve ever read.” 

You refused to be embarrassed or ashamed for it. So you cock a brow and force a smirk and pin him with a look of accusation and taunting. “Oh, yeah? You’re into threesomes and sex toys?”

Jack chuckles, loud and carefree. But he doesn’t answer the question, just pins you with the same look you gave him. “Is that chapter based on a personal experience or…”

“No, I’m just blessed with a very vivid imagination.” 

“Yeah?” It comes out breathlessly, a raspy whisper that you’re sure he doesn’t mean to speak in. Jack’s eyes zero in on yours, captivating in a way that makes you violently ill. 

He’s flirting. You’re not dumb. The smirk pulling at the corner of his tempting mouth, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes like he’s testing the waters.

Your breath hitches, you’re hot all over, and it’s completely involuntary when your eyes flick down to his naked hand. Like you’re doing something wrong. Jack catches the movement, sobers him enough to drop the smirk and reach for his bare finger. A hint of panic begins to seize in your chest. Partly because you’ve made him uncomfortable with the slip but mostly because his interactions with Bella are at the forefront of your mind. 

“I know you’ve noticed. It’s okay for you to ask about it.” His soft voice brings you back to the present and your lips part to blubber out something you’re unsure of. 

You don’t deny it, you won’t lie to him. So instead, you settle on the only thing that’s truthful and respectful to him and his late wife. “It’s not my place.”

Jack shrugs a shoulder, brows pinched just slightly. “Sure it is.” 

Confusion doesn’t manage to fully reach you before Jack dips two fingers into the hem of his shirt to pull out a silver chain and his band dangling from it. “You’re the one that gave me the idea.” 

You stare at the thin chain pinched between two thick fingers, at the silver band that glimmers when the moonlight catches on the metal. Something happens in your chest; a clench, an ache, a cry. You’re unsure of the sensation, the way it spreads cold and warmth through your blood at the same time.

The idea that you and your daughter have made such a profound effect on someone in such a short amount of time is almost dystopian. You’re not used to it. Being noticed, being seen. Not used to your actions or words being absorbed so fully to the point of them altering someone else in a positive way. 

It steals your breath from your lungs, makes your eyes sting. But you muster up a gentle smile, anyway. It’s a feeling of happiness for Jack that shortly follows, pride. Because you remember how long it took for you to finally move your ring to a chain around your neck. You remember the struggle and inner battle about moving forward, scared that you were belittling a once prominent presence in your life. 

Jack’s phone vibrating and ringing a generic sound breaks the lull between you both. He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s willing to ignore whoever it is in favor of whatever the fuck is happening between you right now. But responsibility gets the better of him and he reaches for his phone in his pocket at the same time as Phoebe waking up and shouting that she needs to poop. 

With a laugh, Jack watches you excuse yourself and returns his attention to his phone. Robby’s name is on his screen and he’s never fucking wanted to strangle him as much as he does in this moment. But Jack answers, and brings the device to his ear with a heavy sigh. 

“Hey, man. You good?”

“Yeah. You told me not to leave it for two weeks next time. You watching the game?”

Jack huffs to himself, lets his eyes gaze behind him and through the window where you’re making your way to Phoebe’s room. “Uh, no. I’m out…kinda busy right now.”

Robby’s silence is enough to make Jack cringe. Because if his best friend knows anything, it’s his work and sleep schedule, his inability to have a hobby that doesn’t include a near-miss and an adrenaline rush. 

“You’re on a date?” He can fucking hear the smirk in Robby’s voice. 

Jack clears his throat. “No, not…exactly.”

Another pregnant pause echoes down the line and he knows what Robby is doing. Thinking of a snarky comment, fighting off a shit-eating smirk that’s no doubt already stretched across his stupid face. Really, Jack’s happy to be his source of entertainment for the evening. Better it be at his expense than Robby throwing himself into incoming traffic. 

“Babysitting?” He finally quips back.

Jack scoffs, fights off his own grin and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call you tomorrow, asshole.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before ending the call. Jack stares at the darkening night sky, finally catching a glance at the time on his phone screen. You’ve been talking for almost three hours, the time slipping between his fingers. It bothers him a little to know he’s likely overstaying his welcome and should probably leave.

By the time he’s reattached his prosthetic and gently discards your empty bottles of beer in the trash, Jack finds you in the hall, sneaking out of Phoebe’s bedroom with hushed steps. You spot him immediately, notice his leg back on and keys in his hand. You try to hide the disappointment of his departure. 

“I should probably head out, it’s getting late.” 

You nod, offer a gentle smile as you approach. Jack lets you lead him to the door, lets you thank him for the third time for Phoebe’s gifts, for cleaning up, for keeping you company. 

When the door opens and he crosses the threshold, you lean against the doorframe with your arms folded loosely across your chest. Jack smiles down at you, only a few inches taller but enough for your lashes to flutter as you blink up to meet his gaze. 

Only a foot away from you. 

“Thank you for inviting me. And the beer.” He grins. “Your folks seem like good people.” 

You smile despite yourself at that, at how easily he had conversed with your mom, how quickly your dad had offered his respect to him. But you’re sobered with the reminder of your friends. Of his interactions with one in particular. 

“It looked like you and Bell got along.” You smile but it doesn’t reach far. 

Jack seems to notice, a minute squint in his eyes at the very slight waver in your voice. “Yeah, she’s nice. Cares about you a lot.”

You hum, believe him wholeheartedly. Bella does care, deeply and irrevocably. You’ve been sisters by choice for as long as either of you can remember. That’s what makes it so hard. Because she notices the shift in a man’s attention when she’s introduced to them. 

Jack’s eyes flicker slowly across your face, like he’s memorizing every line and imperfection. Like he’s searching for the truth beneath your closed off expression and body language. When his eyes reach your forehead, a twitch forms on his top lip.

A little smear of frosting tucked close to your hairline, something he hadn’t noticed under the dim lighting of the balcony. Without much thought, he reaches a hand to your face, lets his thumb brush against the dried, flaky consistency. Tries not to think too much about how warm your skin is. How soft. 

You force yourself not to seize up beneath his touch, can feel a tightness on your skin in the area he gently tries to brush clean. “She’s single, by the way.”

Jack’s too fixated on the frosting coating your skin to pay much attention to your words. Doesn’t register his movements until after he’s brought the pad of his thumb to his tongue and returned it to your forehead with three caressing strokes. 

“Who’s single?” 

The raspiness of his voice paired with his actions makes you falter for a moment. You’re barely quick enough to catch yourself from slipping under as goosebumps pebble across your warm skin. 

“Bella,” you swallow thickly. “I can give you her number, if you’d like.”

Your breathing becomes somewhat labored as you watch him, drowning in the focus in his gaze as he wipes away whatever is blemishing your skin. His hand slips down the same time that Jack’s eyes do and he locks his line of vision into your soul as his palm cups your jaw. 

You don’t know when he stepped closer, when your arms dropped to your sides, when your chest suddenly became pressed against his. But you know when you feel a gentle pressure on your hip, a testing squeeze and a thumb stroking against your cheekbone. 

Jack moves closer, tentative enough to give you the chance to pull away. But you don’t. You let his palm tilt your head back just an inch, let the tip of his nose ghost against the nape of yours. You feel his breath on your lips, warm with the scent of vanilla frosting and a tinge of beer. 

“It’s not Bella that I'm interested in.”

You feel the movement of his lips against your own. And against your better judgement, you press your mouth to his. Jack responds to you immediately, like he’s been waiting on the precipice of this for far too long. His grip on your hip tightens just a notch, his touch on your face growing reverent.

And you find yourself melting into him. Your arms reach for his waist, slide up the hard expanse of his sides, press against his toned chest until they reach his stubbled jaw and snake to the nape of his neck. 

Your fingers get lost in his curls as Jack’s mouth opens for you, your tongue chasing him in languid strokes of need. He matches your every lick with as much ferocity as the stroke before. You swallow the breathless sounds that escape him, a rugged whimper that travels like lightning bolts between your legs. 

It’s only the need for air that forces you apart, but even then, Jack doesn’t move far. He keeps his hands on you in any capacity that he can as you both breathe heavily. Your head feels muzzy, like you're drunk on just the most simple taste of him.

But nothing about that kiss was simple. Nothing about how Jack makes you feel is simple. 

His eyes are closed as his forehead rests against yours, his chest heaving with whatever restraint he has left not to pursue more of you. Not to take whatever you’ll give. Not to give whatever you want. 

The tips of your noses caress each other, and Jack almost makes a sound of protest when your fingers slowly uncurl from his hair and slide down his back before your hands are resting back at your sides. 

Jack’s eyes remain locked on yours as he presses a final kiss to the corner of your mouth before following your actions. You feel cold the moment his touch is no longer warming your skin. Disoriented when he takes a single step back and out of your space. It's a fight not to reach for him again, to pull him back into you. 

“I’ll call you?” 

His voice is fucked and raw and it zaps something unhealthy in your core. You don't trust your words, don’t think you can muster anything up even if you tried. So you nod. Dumbly, far too eagerly. It earns you a bit of a smug grin from Jack, but he has the decency to bite his bottom lip in an attempt to hide it. 

The act does absolutely fucking nothing to quell the wetness beginning to pool in your panties, but you make no mention of it. Pray to whatever fucker is listening that he can’t notice the tremor in your thighs. 

Jack dips his head, another pisspoor attempt to hide his smug amusement. 

“Night.” 

You say nothing but you watch him walk away. Until he rounds the corner for his side of the complex. Until you’re left standing in your open doorway with arousal coursing through you and the ghost of his lips on yours. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

WHAT DO WE THINK PLS TELL ME UR THOUGHTS BC I AM SO EXCITED TO FINALLY GET INTO THE START OF THEIR ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP!! I feel like it was a good time for them to open up more about their pasts before things progressed between them and don't worry, Jack will get his moment with Tom hehe

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Like every Sunday, Jack sits and listens. Echoes of loud giggles and shouts of singing from two sets of healthy lungs. Watches from a distance; ungraceful twirls, obnoxiously playful dancing, until a small body is standing on the counter and dancing too. 

The girls in apartment seventeen have wiggled beneath his ribcage and into a secret crevice of his heart. The place that warms every time he hears the laughter, every time he watches the most wholesome mommy-daughter time. 

He doesn’t know your name, nor your daughters. But he knows you love music, that it’s bled into your child in the most copy and paste way. She dances like you, uses wooden spoons for microphones, chopsticks for drum sticks, and her imagination for an electric guitar. 

It makes Jack’s heart swell and sting at the same time. 

His wife didn’t want children, a decision that he always told himself he was okay with. They were both slight workaholics, both too selfish to give up the idea of financial freedom. She didn’t think she’d be a good mom, no matter how much Jack disagreed. And then she died. 

Left Jack with nothing but fading memories and a big house that felt too suffocating until he sold it five years ago. He keeps her photo in his wallet, a frame on his nightstand, his wedding band around his finger. Six months married and then she was gone. They didn’t even make it on their honeymoon. 

Perhaps that’s why he relishes these Sunday mornings. He knew he’d never have that life with his wife, he knows he most probably won’t ever…but it’s a secret desire he wishes for. So he tucks it deep away, close to his chest, close to his wife. 

The bitter coffee doesn’t chase the ache away. It still festers beneath his ribs, an itch that he can’t rid himself from. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just allows you to grow around it.

Jack allows himself five more minutes in the captivity of apartment seventeen before retreating back inside in search of sleep.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Phoebe, Grandma's on the phone!”

You hear the tornado of flat feet smacking against the floor before you even finish your sentence. Your mom laughs on the screen, a screech of excitement tearing through the three-year-olds throat as she barrels onto the couch and snatches the phone from your grasp. 

“Hi, Diva.” She beams wide, panting for breath and attempting to swat the sweaty hair from her face. “Are you coming to my house to play today?”

You bark out a laugh at that, her unashamed favoritism when it came to your mom. 

“Not today, pickle. Grandma is on vacation with Grandpa, remember?” 

Phoebe huffs and nods. “Can you bring me back a fridge magnet?” She asks instead, a question both you and your mom saw coming. 

Your eyes dart over to the refrigerator. Covered in magnets and drawings and post cards… you’ll have to do some reorganising if she wants to fit another one on there. 

“Absolutely, I’ll even bring you back some new shoes.” 

Your eyes roll fondly when Phoebe’s lights up, an excited squeal falling from her lips as she nods her head vigorously. You press a kiss to her head before leaving her on the couch, pulling the phone closer to her face to speak. 

Their conversation is a muffled background noise as you start to clean up the mess of her toys, the thirty-something articles of clothing strewn across the floor from her fashion show this afternoon. Plastic princess heels, a tiara, fairy wings…you’re sure she has a pirate’s outfit somewhere in the mess, too. 

Your eyes flick to the time flashing on the microwave. 16:30. 

Your shoulders drop, heart sinking. Thirty minutes late, you can try to hold out hope. But when it gets to the hour mark, you know it’s yet another no-show. Another night of tears with Pheebs and fast thinking on your part to distract her. 

You learnt your lessons months ago. You know better than to tell her when she’s supposed to be seeing him. It only sets her up for disappointment and resentment. Let her come to the decision about him when she’s old enough to understand. Not when she’s three, upset and feeling like he doesn’t want to spend time with her. 

You’ll shelter her from the truth of him for as long as you possibly can. 

Throwing her outfits into her dress-up box in the corner of the lounge, you turn to your daughter with a heavy heart and the brightest smile you can muster. 

“Alright, Diva. Go put your shoes on, let's go out for pizza.” 

Phoebe doesn’t even offer your mom a goodbye. She throws the phone to the side of the couch and leaps to her feet, little legs scurrying toward her bedroom to no doubt retrieve the bright pink Crocs she’s recently become obsessed with. 

You reach for your phone, sharing an exasperated laugh with your mom before she settles and tilts her head at you through the screen. 

“What’s the excuse this time?” she asks. 

You sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine. No calls or texts, just a no-show.” 

Your mom’s lips form into a thin line, a look of disapproval that only ever seems to be reserved for him. “I take it Pheebs doesn't know?” 

You shake your head, toeing your own shoes on as you wait for her. “No, I stopped telling her when she’s supposed to be seeing him months ago. Unnecessary upset, you know?” 

Your mom hums, a contemplative look crossing her features. When she notices the disappointment in your eyes, she softens. “You are all that she needs, baby.” She reassures you. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing by her, and you are. But when she’s older, she’ll realize it for herself.”

Shoulders sagging and heart aching, you sigh again. “I know, it’s just not fair on her. Wish I could shield her from it forever, you know?” 

“I know, but you are doing fantastic. Me and Dad are so proud of you.” 

It’s a struggle to blink back the tears. In truth, you likely wouldn't have coped at all if it weren't for your parents. You were young when you fell pregnant, just shy of turning twenty-three. No real job, no real qualifications. Still living at home and accidentally knocked up by a douche of a boyfriend you were trying to figure out how to break up with. 

But your parents…they were a rock for you. They supported whatever decision you wanted to make. They let you stay at home until you had the money to move out, took you to every appointment, helped you turn your dad’s office into a nursery without a hint of annoyance. 

Your mom held your hand when you were rushed into hospital to deliver Phoebe, and she sang to you softly when you had to go in for emergency surgery. 

Your parents were the ones to encourage you to go back to college. They were the ones to babysit while you worked for your degree, when you had last minute interviews and meetings. And they were the ones you thanked and celebrated with when you finally made it. 

When your first book got published and made its way to a New York Times Bestseller within the first week of its release, they were the ones you celebrated with. It was their mortgage you paid off with your very first cheque. 

It was only at that point that Tom decided he wanted to be in Phoebe’s life again. That he had apparently made a terrible mistake and wanted to be a ‘family’. You’d allowed him access to his daughter but denied him ever having any access to you. 

“Get out of that brilliant head of yours.” 

You blink as your mom’s voice drifts you back to the present and you smile, slightly wonky. “Have a cocktail for me and keep Dad away from the dirty martinis. I doubt half of Cabo wants to hear his Elvis impression.” 

She barks out a laugh at that, blowing kisses to the phone and promising to call back tomorrow before hanging up. 

“Mommy!?” Phoebe calls out to you from her bedroom. 

“Coming!” You call back, feet slowly moving you down the hall toward her bedroom. Stopping short with a sigh when her next words echo from her room. 

“I pooped my pants again.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Phoebe’s tummy is filled quite comfortably with a veggie pizza and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. A dinner of champions, in her humble opinion, and a day well spent with you. 

Her legs bounce her along the marble floors of the complex entrance, a skip in her step which is slightly making you regret that third scoop of ice cream. A sugar rush right before bed is not something you have the energy for. 

“Hold up for a moment, baby. Mommy needs to check the mailbox.” 

Her sassy huff is the only response you get, but she listens. Trudges back to your side with less enthusiasm than before. You can hear her clicking her tongue and jumping on the spot when you unlock your designated box, rifling through some letters and the package you’ve been eager to receive. 

The first print of your newest novel. 

It’s not until you’re locking the box back up that you notice Phoebe isn’t to the left of you anymore. Instead, she’s to your far right with her hands behind her back and her small neck craned up to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man walking toward the main front doors.

“Hi, my name is Phoebe." Her small voice speaks at his legs and the man stops short at the sound of it. 

His neck whips down to her, a small kiss of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before it morphs into a friendly smile. Jesus Christ. 

He blinks at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Phoebe. I’m Jack.” 

His voice is like slowly crystalizing honey. Soft and smooth yet a slightly raw register as he lowers his tone to address the toddler. You swallow as you watch, a little taken back by the sight of him. 

Salt and pepper curls with a mostly salt stubble, slightly tanned skin and bulging biceps that threatened to tear through his––is that a scrub vest—

“Are you a doctor?” Phoebe asks the question aloud that you silently ask in your head.

Jack smiles, nods his head and reaches to pinch the ID badge clipped to the pocket of his pants. “I am.” 

You realize yourself then, tucking the mail under an arm and moving to approach the two. Your hand comes to rest on Phoebe’s shoulder and Jack’s eyes lift up your body before settling on your face. 

“Sorry, she’s a bit of a social butterfly. She’ll chat your ear off all day if you let her.” It’s a slightly nervously laugh that bubbles from your throat and you’re completely unsure why. 

You don’t get nervous. Not usually. But it’s also not every day that your daughter is introducing herself to a hot older man who happens to be a fucking doctor. More than that, and maybe it’s just his age, but it’s also not every day that you meet a man with such intense eye contact. 

The moment his gaze meets yours, it doesn’t look away. 

Jack laughs breathily, offering an open palm just above Phoebe’s head. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m Jack.”

His tone holds a flirty lilt—light and airy and far too comfortable for someone you’ve just met. Your palm meets his in a gentle greeting, skin rougher than yours, palm bigger than yours. You shake his hand with as much mirth as he does to yours.

“Y/N, this is my daughter, Phoebe.” You say softly, retrieving from his hold and resting your hand back on her shoulder again. “I think you’re the first normal neighbor we’ve met. We only moved in like six weeks ago.”

Jack’s smile widens just an inch as his hand moves to the strap on his backpack, his laugh something understanding, like you already have an inside joke. “Seventeen right?” 

Your brows pinch slightly, head tilting. “Yeah… how—”

He points a finger to the ceiling. “I’m fourteen. Your balcony is opposite mine,” he turns his attention to Phoebe with a playful smile. “I’m pretty jealous of yours and mommy’s Sunday morning parties. They sound like a lot of fun.”

Color stains your cheeks but Phoebe grins at that. “We call it Sunday Funk Day. Music, chores, and pancakes for breakfast,” she counts them off on her chubby fingers, her tone slightly bordering authoritative, but Jack only seems more entertained. 

“I didn’t realize we had the music on so loud… I’ll keep it down next time.” You apologize quickly. Another thing out of the norm for you. But you’ve been trying to teach Phoebe to be a bit more considerate of other people the older she gets. 

Jack waves you off with a scoff. “No way, it’s nice to have a neighbor with good music taste. Not like apartment twelve.” He says the last part a bit quieter, like he too doesn’t want to influence your daughter with his less than kind opinions. 

Your eyes widen, the sound of a scoffed laugh scratching the back of your throat. “Is that the crazy bird lady?” You mirror his pitch.

Jack’s lips part. “So that’s what that noise is. I’ve been calling her Chirpy in my head for the last six months.”

You laugh louder at that, stopping yourself just short of snorting. The way he speaks makes you feel strangely warm. His words and voice are relaxed, lazily drawled together with a slight accent that you can’t quite place.

Phoebe scrunches up her nose. “Mommy says people can listen to what they like, but I don’t like screaming music.” She shakes her head. 

Jack has to stifle a laugh, expression mirroring yours as you close your eyes and take an exasperated but fond breath. “While I agree with your mommy, I have to say that I agree with you too, kid.” 

An insistent buzzing echoes through the silence between you. You notice the brief movement of his hand cupping his pocket, realize that he’s being paged or called but too polite to check or excuse himself. 

You squeeze gently on Phoebe’s shoulders. “Okay, we need to get you bathed and ready for bed and I think Jack needs to go to work.”

He offers a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t feel forced. His eyes flick between you and Phoebe, a soft look of fondness relaxing his features for a moment. “It was nice to finally put names and faces to the lovely singing voices I get to hear.” 

You smile warmly, albeit a little bashfully, before guiding Phoebe to your side to hold her hand. Jack lets his gaze fall on you again, warmth in his smile as he offers a slight nod. 

“Have a good night.” His voice is tender and soft, heavy with security and you don’t understand how it feels so foreign and familiar at the same time. 

“You too,” you say softly, turning at the same time he does to go your respective ways. 

Phoebe turns her full body to look at him, hand waving frantically in the air. “Bye Doctor Jack!” She shouts at him, despite there being only a ten-foot distance between them. 

You turn just in time to see Jack do the same, a small wave of fingers over his shoulder as he shouts back softly, “Bye Phoebe.”

Then he’s gone out of the complex doors and you’re ushering Phoebe into the elevator, unaware of the small smile that curls at the corners of your mouth. 

“I like Doctor Jack.” Phoebe hums, pressing the button she has learnt for your floor. You smile down at her as the doors close and the elevator begins to hum and shift. 

“Yeah? What do you like about him?” 

She shrugs a shoulder, uncommittingly and swipes hair from her face. “He has kind eyes.” 

Blinking slowly at her, your heart seizes. You find yourself wondering how your daughter comes up with some of the things that she does, how attuned she is to the people around her and the way her judgement of character grows every day. 

You barely know the man, yet you can’t help but agree. 

“Yeah, baby. I guess he does.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

NEXT PART

Cute little meet cute for our single mom, Phoebe, and Jack!! I am almost busting at the seams with excitement for what I have planned for these guys; little moments and big!! There will lots of tiny hidden references in this series that I would love to know if you guys pick up on, and I also have a very comical and painful scene that I've already written for later on in this series hehe.

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

The warm smell of vanilla, courtesy of the first candle Jack let you buy for his house, greeted you upon entry. Your chest expanded deeply as you sucked in the smell, all tension melting away because home somehow did that. The saying was "there's no place like home," and you were a firm believer. 

"Go start a bath, sweetheart," Jack said as he toed off his one shoe before reaching down to tug the other one off his prosthesis. "I'll get dinner warmed up, and I'll bring it in when it's done." 

You eyed his leg wearily. "Are you sure?" 

He looked up at you through his lashes, torso still bent downward. "I'm sure. After today, you deserve to be looked after, okay?" 

Desperately you wanted to agree, but the small ugly feeling bubbled deeply in your gut. 

Talk about daddy issues. You shouldn't be making Jack do all this especially with his leg. It should be you making dinner and looking after him. 

Stupidstupidstupid. 

When you failed to start walking towards the bedroom where the deep tub lay waiting in the bathroom, Jack straightened and spotted the absent expression you wore and frowned. 

"Hey," he said, a little louder than necessary, but he needed to get you out of your head. "Bath. Now. I know you can take care of yourself; but you have me to help. I'll be in there soon." 

Jerkily you nodded, body finally moving. It didn't take long for you to reach the carpeted bedroom floor, toes gripping the plush threads. The warm bathroom lights flickered on while you began to push your scrubs off. Your fingers curled around the hem of your scrub top and undershirt, pulling upward to get them both over your head, leaving you in just a bra. Next, your scrub pants joined them on the tiled flooring. A chill raced up your bare skin, and goosebumps rose along your arms and legs. 

You reached over the tub and twisted the hot water knob. Like a balm, the instant steam and rushing sound of water quieted any thoughts that tried to push through. Without waiting for the tub to be filled, you peeled off the rest of your bra and underwear and dipped your first foot in, the second joining a breath later. After being seated, you added a small bit of bubble bath, and the room filled with the expensive scent of honey and jasmine. 

Jack had been the one to buy it along with a complete set that he kept stocked for moments like these. The bubbles added a slickness to the water, but not enough for you to still feel dirty after getting out. Your hair would need to be washed, but that would have to wait until after dinner had been made. You reached a hand out and turned off the faucet and allowed your eyes to flutter shut as you rested your head on the small bath pillow. 

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes before Jack walked through the bathroom door, tray of food in hand. He quietly set it down in order to pull up a spare chair he kept in the bathroom. The legs scraped across the title, and your eyes opened in time to see him sit down. 

"Hi," you breathed, and Jack could tell that the bath was working its wonders. 

Your skin held a healthy flush from the hot water, and you looked a bit more alive on the outside. He loved every version of you, but this one had to be his favorite: you looking so relaxed and sleepy in his presence. He couldn't help but smile while he picked the food up to place along the bath tray. 

Dinner smelled divine, and instead of pulling your hands out to dry them, Jack insisted on feeding you bite by bite. Your stomach fluttered and your thighs tightened with every good girl and proud of you for eating he sent your way, and soon, you emptied your plate with rapid speed. 

Jack moved the plate and tray away and scooted closer. That had you leaning up, brows slightly furrowed. 

"What about you? Did you eat?" you asked, definitely not seeing another dish for him. 

"I ate while I fixed up your food; promise," he said while reaching for your shampoo. "Now sit up for me." 

Without much thought, you followed his direction, torso rising to the point your shoulders and breasts showed over the bubbles. Jack's hazel eyes darkened at your naked body, but he ignored his own needs. You were his priority, and he already had plans that he could act on after he got your hair washed. 

His thick fingers slid through your silky strands, and you couldn't help but moan softly at the feeling, eyes fluttering back shut. Your sound sent a shockwave right through Jack's chest all the way down to his chubbing cock. His thighs squeezed together when he was able to draw a louder one out by gently tugging at your roots. 

"Fuck, sweetheart, wait till we get you cleaned," he teased while using the hand-held shower extension to rinse out the conditioner. 

All you could respond with was a breathy sigh of content. 

Jack didn't even grab your loofah to wash your body, choosing to squirt the body wash right into his palms to run them down your body in fluid motions. You could always exfoliate later after he was done with you, but his self-control was waning. 

He softly ran his hands down your front, fingers cupping your breasts and squeezing gently, drawing another moan from your chest. His fingers circled around your nipples and formed them into soft peaks, the buds perking under his ministrations. He leaned forward and attached his lips to the closest one and sucked, your skin and flesh pulling deep into his mouth. He alternated between sucking, licking, and pinching. 

"Jack," you whimpered, eyes now open as you watched him fondle you without such care. 

"Yes, sweetheart?" he asked, barely pulling away to answer before biting down gently. 

"Need you." 

"Need me?" He cocked an eyebrow, and you met his half-lidded eyes near your breast. "Need me? Want me to make you feel good before I can even get you into bed?" 

You nodded, but Jack tsked his tongue against his teeth. 

"You know how to ask." He pinched your nipples and tugged, drawing another low moan from your lips. 

"Please," you squeaked out, chest pushing out into his hands. "Please touch me and make me feel good." 

"Good girl," he cooed, giving your breasts one more grip and placing another kiss to one before trailing his fingers down your stomach and deeper into the water, back hunched over the tub to reach. 

You arched slightly at the first brush of his fingertips along your folds, the sensitive skin already slick with the cooling bathwater and initial arousal. Your hips pushed your core up slightly for him to dip lower. With practiced ease, he slowly circled his pointer around your clit, rough skin of his fingertip giving delicious pressure and stimulation to the nerve endings. The moans you gave were music to his ears, and Jack craved to get you louder. 

With one skilled twist, he angled his wrist and forearm to allow him to push a thick middle finger into your fluttering hole while his thumb continued to fiddle with your clit. The reaction in your body was instant, and a high-pitched whine pulled deep from your throat. 

"Sound so good, baby," Jack groaned. "You make the prettiest sounds for me." 

Even without the heated water, a warmth rushed up from your middle to your cheeks at his praise. 

"Thank you," you panted, chest heaving as he added his ring finger right next to his middle. The initial stretch to accommodate the two made your core throb and clench before your walls eased around the digits. 

Your thighs spread wider to give him more room, and the movement made a small wave splashing over the side of the tub. But neither of you cared, not when Jack was stretching his fingers to reach deep up into you. With a curl upwards, his fingertips expertly brushed against the softened spot of your walls, and your innermost muscles contracted to keep him there. 

"Jack!" you yelped as your hips rocked into his hand. "Fuck! Feels good shiitttt! Please, please, please!" You weren't too sure what you were begging for at this point, but the need to please held your reins tight. 

Jack quietly cooed. "Don't need to beg me, baby. I'm riiightt here," he drew out while pressing his fingers against the same spot. "Can you feel me this deep? Can't wait to get my cock inside you." 

You nodded with an open jaw and silent moan at the overwhelming feeling. By now, all the bubbles had disappeared into the bathwater, giving Jack a murky view of his hand deep inside you. He could tell you were close by the way your hips started to stutter and the way you slightly held your breath to concentrate on the pure ecstasy your body was thrumming through your veins. 

But he didn't speed up; he kept his fingers exactly where they needed to be while his thumb played with your clit in circular back and forth motions. 

"Hmmmm,"you whined out. "Close! Fucking—wanna cum, please." 

Your core clenched rhythmically as white-hot pleasure built at your navel. 

"Yeah, I know," he consoled, making sure to stretch his fingers out inside you. "I want you to come for me, sweetheart. Want you to cum right in your bath around my fingers." 

Jack wanted to keep talking over the slosh of the water, but he bit his tongue. A certain name settled on the tip of his tongue, and he wasn't sure if it'd be accepted after what happened. But Jack was a curious man who knew how to put you back together. He leaned in closer, stomach pushing into the edge of the tub, and licked a hot stripe up your pulse point to your ear. 

"Gonna cum, Jack—shit, pleasepleasepleaseplease!" 

"Cum for me, sweetheart," he whispered, hot breath puffing into your ear. "Cum for daddy." 

Your pleasure fell over the crest at the name, instantly stretching through every cell in your body. Your legs snapped together, trapping his hand between your thighs as you rode your high in stuttering motions while your inner muscles clamped around his finger. Jack could feel the way your clit throbbed against his thumb, and if he were any weaker than he already was, he could have cum from the feeling and noises pushing past your lips. 

"Good girl," he said. "My perfect girl for listening to me. Doing so so well." 

His praise added to you high, turning your brain into straight sticky syrup. However, tears pricked your eyes, and once the endorphins settled and ebbed, you choked on a sob. Jack's expression dropped, face drooping the moment your cries hit his ears. He quickly withdrew his hand and placed both on your cheeks to tilt your face in his direction. 

"No, baby, don't cry. What's the matter?," he asked, scared out of his mind that he'd gone way too far. "Was it the name? I won't ever say that again. I don't know what I was thinking. I shouldn't have—" 

"But I liked it," you wailed, tears streaming down your cheeks and into his palms. 

Jack tilted his head. "Then what wrong, sweetheart? You don't have to be ashamed of liking it." 

"B-but if I like it, then what Javadi said is . . ." you trailed off into another cry as your eyes pinched shut, and Jack's chest clenched tightly. 

"No, no, no, oh, sweetheart. Baby, look at me," he said. "Please, look at me." 

It took you a moment to settle before finally cracking your eyes open enough to see Jack's sad face. 

"I'm only going to say this once, so listen to me," he started, "I know her words are going to stick with you for a long time, but I need you to know that there's nothing wrong with you. Do you know how happy it makes me to see you preen under my praise? Do you know how nice it is to take care of you? I get to wake up to such an amazing woman by my side most mornings, and I'm so incredibly thankful that I get to call her mine." 

Your face drooped slightly as you took in his words and glossy eyes. 

"I love you, and that includes whatever you throw my way." He chuckled softly and reached for your hand, grasping it and pulling it toward between his legs. 

You gasped at the feeling of how hard he was, and Jack stuttered out a moan. 

"You don't know how fucking close I was to cumming in my pants like a damn teenager because you came so hard around my fingers. Baby, you could call me literally anything in the bedroom, and it won't change a thing." 

"Jack—" you tried, but he shook his head. 

"But please understand that it's okay to like . . . it. Calling me daddy doesn't mean you automatically have daddy issues. Trust me, I've met your dad, and he is far from being absent in your life." 

You giggled softly and stared lovingly into his hazel hues. "I love you so much." 

Jack smirked. "And I love you so much more." 

Your face tilted as you leaned in to place your lips on his, taking him a bit off guard by how fast you moved, but he quickly reciprocated in soft mouthing kisses. While he stayed pressed against your face, his right hand sipped from your cheek and back down to your breast. Your mouth parted in a gasp when he took the whole thing and curled his fingers around the flesh while he pushed his tongue between your teeth. His hot muscle licked around yours in slick, languid motions. After he pulled back, you followed slightly, chest once again quickly rising and falling. 

"Let's get you out of here and into bed, sweetheart," he muttered before going back in for one more kiss. "I want to make you cum one more on my tongue before I get my cock in you." 

His big hands grabbed onto your upper sides, almost right under your armpits, and tugged upward as he stood from the chair, bringing you with him. Water dripped from your skin, and your knees almost buckled in the effects of your first orgasm. But Jack was right there. His hands tightened, and he stepped forward, catching you slightly and supporting as you took a shaky step over the tub. Your hands curled around his biceps, and the minute you were fully out, damp skin already chilling slightly, he walked you right back into the bedroom. 

"Jack, the bed is going to get wet," you grumbled after he pushed you down into the soft, pillowing comforter. "Let me just dry off—" You tried to push back up, but one of Jack's hands planted in the middle of your chest and sent you backwards. 

"Stay there," he ordered, hands gripping at the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. 

You couldn't help but swallow thickly at the sight of his bare chest, bulging pecs, the thatches of hair nestled between them, the pudge of his stomach with his unshaved happy trail dipping below his scrub pants. Jack's head tilted slightly, and in the next moment, he reached out and thumbed at your lip. 

"Already drooling for me, sweetheart?" Jack muttered, hazel eyes blazing with lust. "I bet you're just drooly everywhere, yeah?" He placed both hands on the tops of your knees and spread them, revealing your more than glistening center. He whistled lowly while settling his knees onto the edge of the mattress for more support. "Look at her; so wet; so needy." 

At his words, you keened loudly, not caring if it probably carried outside the walls. 

He bent lower until his face was mere inches away. "Such a drooly pussy for me." His tongue darted out and kitten licked your clit. His tongue was hot against your skin in such a contrast to the cool air of the bedroom, heightening the sensation. "Such a good girl for being this way." He leaned in and ran his nose through your slick, inhaling deeply. "Can't wait to eat you dry, but I bet she's just going to weep for me. Isn't that right, sweetheart?" 

"Jaaaaack," you whined. 

He smacked the side of your thigh, and you yelped at the sting. 

"Be a good girl and ask for what you want. Tell daddy where you want him." 

"Your tongue." 

"Where?" 

Heat rushed into your cheeks as you looked down your stomach, meeting Jack's lifted eyes as he waited to hear you tell him exactly what you wanted. He'd give it to you eventually, but nothing got him off more than hearing dirty things drip from your mouth. One of his hands dragged through the comforter and swiped from your hole to your throbbing bundle of nerves. 

"Come on," he murmured, his lips brushing against your outer folds. "Tell me like a good girl." 

"Y-your tongue on-on my pussy." 

Jack hummed in approval. "Anything else? Already gave you my fingers in the bath." 

"Wha-want them again," you stammered, heat crawling to the base of your neck. "I-inside." 

"So proud of you, baby," Jack groaned, hips bucking into the mattress. 

In less than a breath later, he indulged your wishes and dragged his tongue along your folds before dipping between them and up the most sensitive line. Your clit caught at the tip, and he languidly lapped at it, wetly coating the nerves with his spit. The filthy noises coming from his mouth as he sucked and slurped sent you reeling with your head pressing backwards into the bed. Your hips tried to rise to meet his mouth, but a quick hand splayed across your belly and held you in place with added pressure. 

To keep him against you, your fingers slid and dug into his salt and pepper curls, and Jack groaned when you pulled the strands. The low noise sent vibrations scurrying up your core. 

"You taste so wonderful like always, sweet girl," he said while bringing his unoccupied hand to join his lips, this time slipping two fingers in at first. He dragged them slowly along the lower portion of your sopping hole, hooking them slightly at your entrance to stretch you further. "She's opening up perfectly for me. Gonna get her all happy with my fingers again, and then I'll reward you both. Sound good?" 

"Uh huh," you barely breathed out, too focused on the feeling of his plunging fingers and his tongue. "Good." 

Jack gazed up at you over your stomach and smirked at your already dazed look. You were teetering on the edge of how he wanted: pliant and barely able to gather thoughts other than the pleasure he was providing. 

"Already looking fucked out up there, sweetheart," he said before suckling your clit deep between his lips. "We can stop if it's too much—" 

"Nooooo," you dragged out, thighs clenching together around his head. "Please no." 

He chuckled against your core. "Okay, baby, okay." 

His fingers picked up the pace slightly to the point that wet squelches danced with the free flowing moans from your lips. He continued to lick and nibble at anything available. When he tongued right at the top of your hole, right where his fingers were disappearing into, you chocked. 

"Fuh-close!" 

"Close? But we just started," Jack said, lips all in a pout. "But I guess that's okay for my sensitive girl. I guess I just know exactly what you need." 

"Need," you echoed with a dropped jaw. "Need to—" 

"You gonna cum for me again? Gonna make a mess on the clean sheets?" 

You nodded dumbly against the comforter, but Jack wasn't too concerned with the lack of response, not when you were so close to that comfy, fuzzy feeling that was already licking at the edges of your brain. He doubled down to tip you right over the edge. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he finally let your hips start to rock against his face. 

"There we go, sweetheart; use my face to get off. Use daddy's face to make you feel good. My girl knows exactly what she needs. Smart, smart girl. Daddy's perfect girl." 

Jack kept his eyes trained on your pinched face, brows all furrowed, eyes closed in concentration, mouth wide open as you sucked down gulps of air. While he had you distracted, the hand across your belly pressed downwards right as he puckered around your throbbing clit and finally stuck three fingers deep inside, his fingertips curling right into your sweet spot. 

You came almost instantly with a prolonged moan that made Jack wonder if you'd pass out from lack of air. He continued lapping profusely as your walls clenched rhythmically around his thick digits, arousal jetting out between the gaps and right into his mouth. This wasn't the first time he'd been able to make you squirt, but he was in awe every time it happened. 

He tried his best to prolong your high for as long as he could, but when your thighs began to shake from overstimulation, he slowly pulled his fingers out and pressed one last kiss to your clit before crawling over your heaving chest while leaving open-mouthed kisses in a trail from your navel to your mouth. 

All you could do was breathe into him, mind reeling and struggling to catch up with anything but pleasure. Jack tried not to coo as he stared into your glossed-over, unfocused eyes. He patted gently against your cheek until your eyes focused slightly on his face. 

"There she is," he whispered. "Hi, baby." 

"Hi," you panted. If you'd been a cartoon, your pupils would have been heart shaped as you looked up at Jack. Your face leaned into his palm just as your eyes fluttered shut. 

"Can't go to sleep yet, sweet girl," Jack said, already rolling off you to get his prosthesis off. He swallowed a sigh of relief as the pressure released around his limb, fingers rubbing at the remaining soreness. He leaned the leg against the bedside table. "Gotta turn that brain off all the way, and then you can sleep all you want." 

You grumbled in response. He chuckled while he hooked two thumbs at his waist line and pulled his pants and boxers off in one go. This time he couldn't hold back the groan that ripped from his throat when the tip of his cock bobbed against his lower stomach. He gripped it tightly, just to ease some of the already building pressure, before letting go in order to turn back over to face you. 

Jack patted your ass softly, and your eyes flew back open. 

"Still awake," you tried to clearly say, but your words were slurred. "I'm awake." 

"Sure you are," Jack replied. "Shift up the bed for me and roll over." 

Lazily, you wriggled up the bed and settled with your head on the pillow, facing the wall. Jack curled around you, stomach pressing and fitting just right into the curve of your spine. The two of you moaned softly as he shifted his cock to fit between your legs and draw it back and forth through your slick, the head nudging your sensitive clit. 

Your head tilted back until the base of your skull met the crook of his neck. Jack squeezed his eyes shut as he drew his hips back far enough to catch the tip of his dick right at your entrance. He used his unoccupied hand to bring your left leg up and back to hook around his hip, knee resting against his bone. 

"Ready, baby?" he asked softly.

You nodded against him. "Please . . . daddy." 

"Fuck," he hissed, cock not even inside you but already pulsing just at you finally giving into calling him that. Without waiting much longer, he slowly fed his length into your core, your walls stretching nicely around the intrusion like you were made for it. "That's it; there we gooooo." 

You sobbed at the overly full and stuffed feeling that currently overwhelmed your lower half. "Feels hnnngggg!" 

Once he was fully sheathed, he paused and took the minute to concentrate on not blowing his load before he could even fuck you stupid. However, you seemed insatiable because you began moving against him in earnest motions, desperately looking for friction. 

"Daddy," you whined. 

Jack gripped your thigh a bit tighter. "Okay, okay, I hear you, baby." 

He slowly drew his hips back, enough to leave just the tip in before he pushed all the way back in with a snap, pushing a punched out moan from your lungs. You could only lie there and take what he gave you. 

His hand uncurled from your thigh and draped over your hip, splaying against your navel. 

"Can you feel me there, sweetheart?" he grunted out after feeling the movement of his cock through your stomach against his palm. "You're sucking me in so deep. It's like you're just made to perfectly take me." He curled into you more and began to kiss and bite at your shoulder as your inner walls clamped down on his length with each thrust. "Tell me—fucking shit—tell me who makes you feel this good, baby." 

"Youuuuu," you mewled between the head hitting your spot and drawing out enough to stretch your entrance. 

"Uh-uh-uh," he tutted, punctuating with three forceful thrusts that had your toes curling and belly filling with a tightness. "That's not my name. Now, like I told you, who makes you feel this good?" 

"DADDY!" you screeched before the word twisted into a high-pitched moan. 

"That's damn fucking right." Jack's head returned to nuzzle against the side of your face. He nipped at your earlobe before licking a hot stripe along your neck. "You're being such a good girl for me. Taking exactly what I give you. Probably can't even think about anything else but my cock in your soaked pussy, yeah? What do you have to say about that?" 

The hand that was on your stomach trailed down further until his fingertips found your clit once more. He timed his circular motions to match his thrusts, and he knew it wouldn't be long until you finished. 

"C’mon, baby. Talk to me? I wanna hear my sweet girl's voice." 

You blinked rapidly, mouth going dry at the mere thought of having to form actual sentences for him. Still, you tried your best, but all you could manage was a slurred mess of moans and babbles. The corners of Jack's mouth stretched into a wild grin as he listened to what he believed to be you trying to obey him, but you were too far gone to actually string together eligible words. 

He hushed you softly. "I'm proud of you for trying, sweetheart. You listen so well for me. Can't believe I got someone so perfect." 

Your moans grew louder as your stomach tightened beyond belief, body begging for release for the third time that night. 

"Daddy puhleaseee," you drawled wetly, drool leaking from your open lips that failed to really close the entire time Jack thrusted into you. "Wannacuh—" 

From between your shoulder and your bed, Jack suddenly pushed two fingers deep into your mouth, the moan muffling around the digits. 

Like acting on some deep instinctive need, you began sucking, tongue curling around his fingertips. He kept them right in the middle of your tongue, careful not to push any deeper so you wouldn’t gag. Now with the added intrusion in your mouth, the rest of your whimpers and whines sputtered around his knuckles as you tried to swallow his fingers down. 

“Keep my fingers in your mouth, honey,” he said, keeping you from taking them any deeper. “Don’t want you choking right now. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll let you take them as deep as you want to, but right now, I want you to focus on my cock inside your pussy and my fingers down hereee–” With his other hand, he circled your clit faster until his fingers started to burn from over extension, but he'd be damned if he stopped before you could cum. 

"If you wanna cum, then just cum for me, baby. Daddy's—fuck—got you. I wanna feel you cum around me, and once you do, I'm gonna fill you up so much." His hips started to stutter in their motion as his own pleasure warmed his belly. 

It only took three more angled thrusts to hit that deepest spot before you came, body tensing, lungs heaving, and eyes tearing at the sheer pleasure that washed over you at once. Your moans couldn't be contained as Jack continued to move inside you. 

Just as your body started to relax, a high-pitched whine tore up Jack's throat as his stomach clenched and cock throbbed deep inside before he started cumming too, tip spurting his release and adding to the wet pooling between your thighs. He held you tightly against him and didn't dare pull out even after he finished. His chest heaved against your back while he placed soft kisses along your shoulder, whispering nothing but praise into your skin. 

"Did so well for me, my perfect girl. Wouldn't want anyone else. Thank you for letting me take care of you. I love you so, so much." 

You didn't move much as he spoke, mind still too numb to catch up much. But what you could understand was that, while lying there and feeling the safest you've ever been in Jack's arms, he was telling the only truth you ever needed to believe. 

almost home

Jack should’ve been asleep.

He’d left PTMC nearly an hour ago after Robby took over the trauma they’d worked through shift change. You’d stayed behind to finish the note, update the family and wait on a consultant who’d stopped answering at the exact point everyone needed him.

Twenty minutes, you’d told Jack.

He checked the time again.

Fifty-one had passed.

Jack lay against the pillows shirtless, wearing loose pyjama pants, his prosthetic resting beside the bed. He’d showered, set his alarm and done everything he usually did after nights. His body was tired enough for sleep. His head wasn’t interested.

Your side of the bed was empty.

It wasn’t really yours. This was still his apartment, though you stayed often enough for the distinction to matter less than it used to. A few of your things had found places there, and Jack liked having them around. Waking with your knee across his thigh and your hand tucked under his shirt had become familiar. So had your weight beside him after work, warm enough for his body to settle.

He reached across the mattress and rested his palm where your waist usually ended up. The sheets were cool. “Come home, baby,” he muttered.

His phone was charging on the nightstand. Jack unplugged it and opened your messages.

Your last text sat at the bottom of the thread.

you: twenty minutes. swear. 🙏

He’d reacted with a thumbs-down.

You hadn’t answered since.

jack: Still there?

The message delivered without a reply.

Jack leaned back and scrolled upward instead. Most of the thread was ordinary. Groceries. Shift changes. A photo of a takeout menu with three items circled and pick one before I lose the will to live written beneath it. 

Farther back was a picture of you asleep on his couch in his black sweater. He’d taken it after trying twice to wake you for bed. Your cheek was pressed into the cushion, one sleeve pulled over your hand and your legs tucked under you.

You’d accused him the next morning of keeping evidence. He’d told you it was insurance.

The next photo was from dinner a few weeks ago. You sat across from him with your chin resting in your palm, looking over the rim of your wineglass. He remembered your foot pressed against his beneath the table and the way you’d caught him staring.

“What do you want?” you’d asked.

“Nothing.”

You hadn’t believed him.

He hadn’t been lying. He already had you. Your things mixed with his. Your voice in his apartment after years of coming home to silence and pretending he preferred it. Sometimes Jack still looked at you and couldn’t quite believe how easily you’d become part of his life.

Then came the photos meant only for him.

The first showed the hem of your dress lifted over your thighs. The next was taken in his shower, one hand covering your breast while water ran down your stomach. Another showed your thighs spread across his sheets with your underwear pulled aside.

Jack shifted against the pillows.

His cock had started thickening beneath his pants, though the wanting had begun before that. It had been there when he reached across the bed and found cold sheets. There when he saw the photo of you asleep in his sweater and remembered carrying you from the couch because you’d refused to wake properly.

He opened another photo.

You were kneeling between his thighs, looking up at him with your lips swollen and wet. Jack had taken the photo himself, one hand tangled in your hair while his thumb rested along your jaw. The lower half of his cock was visible beside your cheek.

He remembered the heat of your mouth. The slow drag of your tongue beneath him and the way your fingers tightened around the base of his cock when he pushed deeper. You’d watched his face while you took him, pleased whenever his control slipped enough for you to hear it.

His cock pressed harder against the fabric.

“Jesus, sweetheart.”

Jack lowered his phone and rubbed his palm over himself through his pants. The pressure helped for two slow strokes before it made the ache sharper.

His phone buzzed against his stomach.

you: still here 😭

Another message followed.

you: finishing my last note

jack: You said twenty minutes.

you: i was young and optimistic

jack: Come home.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and returned.

you: miss me? 😉

Jack looked at the photo still open on his screen.

jack: You know I do.

He sent the photo back to you.

Jack could picture you at the workstation with your phone held low beneath the desk, smiling down at his answer while pretending to finish your note.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

you: dr. abbot…

jack: Still works.

Jack slipped his hand beneath his waistband. His fingers closed around his cock, fully hard now and already damp at the tip.

He stroked himself slowly, thumb spreading the moisture over the head before drawing down again. His eyes stayed on the photo. Your mouth near his cock. Your face turned up towards him. The trust in the way you knelt between his legs and let him hold your hair.

Your next message arrived with a picture.

Jack opened it.

You were in an empty call room, scrub top lifted enough to show your stomach and the lower edge of your bra. Your scrub pants were loosened, your hand visibly inside your underwear.

His grip tightened.

“Fuck.”

jack: Take another one.

you: greedy 😈

jack: Show me.

The next photo showed more. Your fingers disappeared beneath your underwear, wrist angled between your thighs. He could see the pressure of your hand against yourself beneath the fabric.

Jack pushed his pants lower over his hips. His cock rested thick against his stomach, flushed darker towards the head. He wrapped his hand around himself again and stroked slowly enough to feel each drag of his palm.

you: what are you doing?

Jack glanced down at his fist.

jack: Thinking about you.

you: what about me?

His hand moved from base to tip, firmer now. He could’ve given you something brief and made you wait until you came home. He was tired, hard and alone in a bed where he’d grown used to having you within reach.

He wanted you to know.

jack: Your legs around me.

He sent another before you replied.

jack: How you taste after I’ve already made you come.

His grip tightened at the head of his cock.

jack: How tight your pussy gets when I’m all the way inside you.

The typing bubble disappeared.

Jack closed his eyes and pictured you underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips, hands gripping his shoulders while he pushed inside you. He knew the first tight hold of your body around him and how you softened once he kissed you and gave you time to take him.

He knew how his cock looked inside you.

He’d watched himself draw back, wet from you, before pushing deep again until his hips pressed against yours. He’d held your thighs open and watched your pussy stretch around him. He knew the tight clench he felt whenever his thumb found your clit and how much stronger it became once you got close.

His phone buzzed.

you: I want you inside me when I get home

Jack read it twice.

His hips lifted into his hand.

jack: Yeah?

you: want you to fuck me until I’m screaming your name

jack: You will be.

Jack liked you loud.

He could hear it too easily. Your voice filling the bedroom while he fucked you harder, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh. You’d beg him not to stop once he had you close. Your nails would drag over his back while your pussy squeezed his cock, trying to hold every inch.

you: promise? 😏

Jack slowed his hand. The thought of you reading his answer with your fingers still between your thighs made his cock pulse against his palm.

jack: Come home and find out, sweetheart.

you: tell me what you’d do

Jack let his head rest against the pillow. His control had already started to go. He could feel it in the uneven pull of his hand and the tension building low in his stomach.

The thought of getting his mouth on you made his cock throb in his fist.

Jack loved opening you with his thumbs and seeing how wet you’d already become for him. He’d drag his tongue slowly through your pussy first, tasting you before his lips closed around your clit.

“Fuck, baby…”

His hand tightened as he pictured sucking you gently, then harder when your hips started moving beneath him. You never stayed still for long. Your fingers would slide into his hair and your body would chase each pull of his mouth, hips lifting as he kept your clit between his lips.

He liked how quickly you stopped trying to control it. The small movements becoming needier, your pussy pressing against his mouth while he held your thighs open and took everything you gave him.

Jack would push his tongue inside you and feel your body tighten around it. You’d roll your hips against his face, chasing the pressure while your hand pulled at his hair.

He’d go back to your clit before you could say anything, sucking until your thighs trembled against his shoulders. Hearing you come for him made him harder, but tasting it got to him just as badly. The first rush against his tongue. Your hips pushing into his mouth. Your voice breaking around his name.

He’d keep licking you through it, slower once you became sensitive, until you tried to pull away.

Jack wanted inside you. He wanted the stretch of your pussy around his cock and the way you clenched when he fucked you deep.

He wanted his mouth on you just as badly. Your body open beneath him. Your hips moving against his tongue. Your taste still on his lips when he climbed over you.

He typed with his free hand.

jack: I’d put my mouth on you until you came.

you: jack…

jack: Then I’d make you come again on my cock.

Your reply came quickly.

you: i need you so bad

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner.

jack: Go finish your note.

you: you started this 😒

jack: And I’ll finish it when you get here.

He opened your photo again, his eyes returning to your hand inside your underwear. You were still at work, touching yourself because he’d asked what you were doing and refused to let the conversation stay innocent.

He imagined you walking into the bedroom already wet from everything he’d said, impatient and flushed from the drive. He’d get you onto your back before you finished telling him how badly you needed him.

His hand moved faster, the muscles in his stomach tightening as his hips began meeting his fist. He pictured your taste still on his tongue when he climbed over you and pushed inside.

His strokes grew rougher. He saw your face beneath him, lips parted while his cock filled you. He’d watch himself disappear into your pussy, then draw back slowly enough for both of you to feel it before driving deep again.

Your legs would be tight around his waist while he fucked you harder, your voice breaking every time he pushed deep. He imagined his thumb on your clit and the first hard clench of your pussy around him when you came, your body pulling him deeper while he kept moving through it.

Jack’s rhythm broke. “Fuck…”

He thought about coming inside you.

The first thick pulse filling you while he held himself deep. Another following as your pussy tightened around his cock. He’d stay buried inside you through the last of it, forehead pressed against yours while your hands held onto his shoulders.

Then he’d move again.

Slow, shallow thrusts while his come gathered around his cock. He’d watch it slip out whenever he pulled back, then push into you again while more ran down between your thighs.

His fist tightened as he imagined his cock coated in you and his come, disappearing inside you again while your thighs stayed open for him.

“Gonna fill you,” Jack muttered. His voice broke around the next curse. “Fuck… sweetheart.”

His hips drove into his fist as he came, the first streak spilling hot over his hand and stomach. Jack kept stroking himself through it, jaw tight while your name left him in a rough, low sound. Another pulse followed, then another, his cock twitching in his palm as his pace finally slowed.

He stayed against the pillows with his eyes closed, chest rising hard.

His phone buzzed near his hip.

you: leaving now 🥳

Jack looked down at the mess across his stomach and reached for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleaned himself, pulled his pants back over his hips and plugged his phone into the charger.

jack: Drive safe, baby.

You sent a heart.

He stared at it with his thumb hovering over the screen.

jack: Come straight to the bedroom when you get here.

you: thought you were going to sleep

jack: Changed my mind.

Your drive took twenty-three minutes when traffic was light.

Jack knew because he checked the time twice, then gave up pretending he wasn’t waiting. His body felt heavy from the shift, but every time he pictured you coming through the door in the same scrubs from the photo, his cock stirred again.

The front door opened, followed by your footsteps through the apartment. You appeared in the bedroom doorway with your bag over one shoulder, hair still pulled back from work. You looked exhausted until you found him awake against the pillows.

Your eyes moved over the messy sheets. “Thought you took care of yourself.”

Jack pulled the blankets back. “Come here.”

You dropped your bag near the door and climbed onto the mattress. He caught your waist before you could settle beside him and pulled you across his lap, kissing you hard enough to make you brace a hand against his chest.

You smiled against his mouth when you felt him hardening beneath you. “Already?”

His hand slipped beneath your top and closed around your breast through your bra. Your hips shifted over him, and Jack’s jaw tightened. “You touched yourself before you left,” he said.

“So did you.”

“Wasn’t the same.”

“No?”

Jack brought your mouth back to his, tongue pushing between your lips while he held you at the hip. When he broke the kiss, he kept you close enough for your mouth to brush his when you spoke.

“Spent half the wait thinking about my mouth on you,” he said.

“And the other half?”

“Fucking you.”

Your hand moved down and pressed over his cock through his pants. Jack groaned under his breath. Your fingers caught the hem of your top, but Jack stopped you and took hold of it himself. “Let me.”

He pulled it over your head, dropped it beside the bed and brought your mouth back to his. You smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You really missed me.”

Jack ran his hand slowly over your side, palm settling at your waist where it belonged. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.”

His eyes lowered to your pants as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband.

“Now, take these off.”

A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.

You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that. 

Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.

Wait. 

Alone.

Where is your boyfriend?

You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.

You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”

You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass. 

Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.

Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?

But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.

He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.

Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.

That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.

Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you? 

Oh, you could take his house tour.

Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.

“Why haven't we fucked?”

You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.

“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.

You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.

You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.

“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.

“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back. 

You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.” 

His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”

“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin. 

Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”

You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”

You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”

“Thought or hoped?”

“Desperately wished you would.”

The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.

You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.

He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.

“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”

“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.

The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”

Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”

Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you. 

“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”

“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”

“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.

“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.

As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.

“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes. 

“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”

“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”

His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.

“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men. 

Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.

“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.

“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.

“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?

Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.

Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.

Oh, he's taken over you.

“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.

“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”

Well, if he puts it like that.

You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.

You're in freefall.

He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”

You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”

“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.

You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm. 

“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses. 

“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”

“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”

“Jack…” you softly whine. 

“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”

Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?

“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

A long suffering sigh from him.

“Okay, princess.”

7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.

You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”

Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.

You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.

“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”

“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.

You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.

It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.

His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.

“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly. 

You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.

“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.

“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed. 

“Rude. But…do you remember?”

“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.

“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.

“Eyes on me, honey.”

You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.

“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”

“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”

“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”

You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”

You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.

“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”

Your cheeks burn.

“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”

You gulp.

Or, what?

You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.

Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”

His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”

He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.

“Tell me,” he softly commands.

“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.

Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”

And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.

Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.

“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.

You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.

“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.

“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”

The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.

“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.

“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.

“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”

“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”

Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.

“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”

“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.

“Really? Feels like you should be.”

You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky. 

A pause.

“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.

He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.

His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique. 

When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.

“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.

“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.

“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”

“Trying new things.”

“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.

The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”

“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.

“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.

“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.

“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”

But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over. 

You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.

“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”

“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.

“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.

Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”

You nod.

“Words. Big girl words.”

“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”

“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”

“Uh, no,” you dictate.

“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”

You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.

Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”

Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress.  A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”

You nod. 

Jack arches a brow.

“Still green. Now what?” 

“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.

“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”

“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.

“You're about to know why.”

He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.

“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.

His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.

“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.

His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.

He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.

His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache. 

His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.

“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.

Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”

You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.

“I asked if you trust me, honey.”

The excitement wins.

“Yes, please, take it off.”

“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”

Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.

Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.

“Green?”

“Green.”

“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.

Oh, this is what it feels like.

“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.

“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.

He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”

Without thinking, you oblige.

“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”

You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”

With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.

He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.

“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”

You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”

Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.

“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.

He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”

“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.

“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”

Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.

He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.

He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”

His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.

“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”

“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.

“Where, baby? I don't understand."

“Between my legs, Jack.”

“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”

The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”

Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”

“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”

The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.

God, you want to do that for him.

“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”

You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”

“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.

He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.

He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.

“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.

“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”

“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”

“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.

Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.

“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”

“You should find out.”

“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.

You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.

“Jack…”

Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man. 

“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”

For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.

You wonder if he's in freefall too.

“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh. 

The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”

“Watch what?”

“You fucking yourself on my face.”

Oh, he's good.

Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.

You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material. 

“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion. 

For the first time, you don’t lock up. 

“Yes, please.”

He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.

“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”

You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.

“I didn't really think of shavin —”

“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”

It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”

He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.

“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt. 

“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”

“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”

“Stop kidding around, oh my —”

Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.

“— God…”

“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”

His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”

“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.

Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.

Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”

His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more. 

“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”

Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive. 

“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.

He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.

Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.

“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.

Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.

“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”

Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.

Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air. 

You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.

“Jack, I'm so —”

“Happy?”

“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.

“Do you wanna come on my face?”

You can only cry out in response.

“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1

The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.

“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.

You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.

His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.

Wait, is he saying something?

You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.

You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.

You nod, “but in a good way.”

He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.

“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”

You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.

He smells like you.

He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.

He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.

“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches —  a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.” 

He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth. 

“Jack, get under the covers with me.”

“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”

Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”

“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”

“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”

“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.

Oh.

Shit.

This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.

Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.

He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.

“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”

“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”

“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”

“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”

You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”

“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.

However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.

“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.

“Everything was perfect.”

“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”

“How the hell do you know what that is?”

He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”

“More next time.”

He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.

“Names? The praise work for you?”

“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”

Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”

“Maybe…”

“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.

“Hey.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Your initials are J.A.”

“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”

“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.

“Think I heard you the first time.”

“You're a Jackass.”

“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”

“My Jackass.”

Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.

“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.

Your giggle.

Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.

Sure, you had graduated first in your class and picked up respect wherever you went, but nothing ever helped with the feeling of anxiety and dread that would fill your body during unknown social situations.

You remember the first day of training with Maverick. You had sat in the back, no one joining your table. You watched as the other pilots talked and shared looks with each other, like they had all known each other for years.

Coming into the military as a woman was hard enough, but by the end of your time at TOPGUN, you had soared above your commanding officer's expectations. During the last week of training, you got the order to become a reserve pilot for an upcoming mission. While you shook as you held the paper, your mentor patted you on the back and assured you that he had made the right recommendation and you would do just fine.

What no one had expected were the three enemy aircrafts that trailed after the team of aviators. You remember the buzz over your headset; you can still recall the words and how your heart jumped at the command.

"Reserve one, report to hanger one. Requesting immediate backup."

You remember how you flexed your fingers before steering in the direction of the take-off strip. How you breathed deeply as you pulled up into the air. How you didn't dare blink as you spotted the enemy aircrafts ahead of you.

You did your job right; it was evident in the way that two of the planes peeled off to come after you.

It truly was a dogfight once they circled around to surround your jet, but somehow you had managed to outmaneuver them, forcing them to eject.

Touching down on the tarmac, you were surrounded by cheers and hands grabbing at you. It was only natural that you landed the name Lucky from the senior pilots on the squad.

Still, now you were here. Surrounded by older pilots once again. No one from your class. No one you recognized.

It was the last round of training before the end of the day. You still hadn't flown yet. Instead, you watched as different teams walked to and from the tarmac, each coming back rubbing their arms and shoulders.

You had sat near a man with glasses, who had sent you a kind smile when you had first walked in. It seemed like the most logical choice to stay by his side for the majority of the day.

While you hadn't spoken to him, Bob watched you closely. You seemed nervous, but not unprepared. Your fingers bunched on your flight suit every few minutes, and you closed your eyes every time Maverick's voice rang out over the radio, announcing a kill.

Bob watched as you bit your bottom lip raw, the skin splitting in the middle by the afternoon. He told himself to look away, but couldn't help but be drawn back to the sight as you licked the now raw skin.

When Maverick called your name, along with Reuben "Payback" Fitch and Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia, you shot straight up from your seat. You shook both the men's hands as they smiled at you, but you didn't miss the look of disbelief they flashed each other when they thought you weren't looking.

"Alright, let's see what you got!" Maverick's voice crackled through the comms as you took a soothing breath in.

You cleared your throat before talking. "Um, Payback, Fanboy, stay at my six until we find Maverick. I'll watch north and east for the time being. Over."

"Copy that," a voice sounded as you began to circle the area.

This was good. This was great. You were doing well so far. You had a great team, and you trusted them. Well, you didn't know them, but still, you trusted them. That thought alone helped quell your nerves just a bit.

Down at the base, Jake laughed as your voice rang through the radio.

"Jesus, she sounds like a frightened baby deer. We should call her Bambi, not Lucky," he joked, earning a few hums and laughs from the other men in the room.

"Shut up, Bagman. She's been in the air all of five seconds," Phoenix defended.

This just made the man laugh harder. Nat shook her head and looked to her new WSO with a frown. But when she did, she spotted a scowl on the kind man's face.

"She'll be fine," Nat spoke quietly to him, but Bob just nodded as his face hardened further.

"I really don't like that guy," he confessed to Phoenix, earning a chuckle.

From your peripheral vision, you spotted a black blur. Something that sends full-body chills down your spine.

"Maverick spotted, four o'clock. Breaking into Delta Whisky formation. Over," your voice called out.

"Good catch, falling into formation now," Payback replied, following your jet closely.

Just a Maverick sped up to your right side, you and Payback fell back, cutting your engines, giving you a full view of Maverick's jet in front of your noses.

"Engage, engage," you ordered. Soon Payback's jet was breaking left while you curved right, surrounding Maverick.

But the older aviator pulled up before you could get a clean shot.

"Come on!" you groaned, wracking your brain for ways to catch Maverick off guard.

Suddenly, he was pulling the same maneuver on you, falling freely in the air and painting a target on your backs.

Without thinking, you pulled up into the air. The bright California sun in front of you, blinding you a bit.

"Whoa, Lucky, what the hell are you doing?" Fanboy called out as you continued to pull up.

"Drop back, don't lose sight of Maverick," you ordered, ignoring the tone of his voice.

Sure enough, Maverick took the bait, chasing after you. "Scared, Lucky? Didn't take you as someone who ran from danger."

His voice made you huff. The pressure made your skull sink further into the back of your seat and your breathing became more labored.

But just as quickly as Maverick had caught up to you, he had lost you all the same. The sun now glaring through his windshield.

The beeping of a tone sounded through his jet as he laughed.

"Clever, nice work," he told you, spotting your jet in his rearview.

Bob smiled brightly at you when you had touched back down on the tarmac. You hadn't quite met his eyes, but the little glances you sent his way were more than enough.

"Time to celebrate!" Payback called out, hands coming down to shake your shoulders. "Guess you are lucky after all."

જ⁀➴

You sit with Bob on a sandy blanket, watching the rest of the squad run around the beach and swim in the ocean. Leaning into his shoulder, Bob runs a soothing hand up and down your thigh.

"Having a good day?" he asks, sunglasses dipping as he looks at your flushed face. You weren't usually one to drink, but the watermelon margarita mix that Penny offered today made your eyes light up.

Bob laughs as you nod, sipping on your drink, eyes blinking lazily. It had to be your third drink of the day, something that made you pliable to his touch.

As his fingers comb through your hair, you hum, leaning closer into his touch.

When Maverick announced that you would be staying as a permanent fixture in San Diego, Bob had taken the opportunity to finally ask you out. He knew military relationships were hard, especially if you weren't stationed together. But this news, combined with the growing swell of emotions he had for you, pushed him to confess his feelings.

He had been a perfect gentleman since. Always opening the door for you and driving you both everywhere. As your relationship progressed, he started to break the physical barrier by guiding you through crowded areas with a warm hand on your back or pressing sweet kisses on your hairline when he saw you in the morning before training. It was new, but not unwelcome.

You had first bonded, truly bonded, when Maverick had taken the squad out to the beach to play football. When everyone around you began stripping their shirts off, your hands stayed glued to your sides.

"Not ready to get your first California sunburn?" a voice sounded next to you.

Whipping around, you saw Bob applying sunscreen across his arms, his fingers rubbing the white cream into the firm muscles.

"Something like that, yeah," you told him sheepishly, trying to look anywhere but his hands.

"Yeah, it's a bit intense. Here," he said, holding out the bottle, "I have more than enough to share."

Your fingers brushed his as you grabbed the bottle. "Thanks." You gave him a small smile as you began applying the creamy mixture to your arms and legs.

From there on, it seemed like Bob was always looking out for you.

You felt a little sluggish during training? He was by your side with a granola bar and a sports drink from the vending machine.

You ran out of your drink at the Hard Deck? He was handing you another without you having to ask.

You were anxious after a particularly hard day? He stood outside the locker rooms and walked you to your car, only letting you go home after you assured him you were okay.

But all these small moments spiraled into something more just a mere week after the uranium mission had ended.

Maverick and Penny hosted the squad for a celebratory barbecue, everyone bringing drinks and dishes to contribute to the large spread. Bob found you in the kitchen prepping with Penny, helping her plate things that were coming out of the oven and chop garnishes, even as she tried to shoo you away.

You had been laughing at something she said when the knife in your grasp slipped, coming down to draw blood from your finger.

He registered the look on your face before you could even wince, standing up from his place on the couch to make his way over to you.

Bob cradled your hand near his chest, inspecting it thoroughly before guiding you towards the guest bathroom. His large hand held yours as you ran it under the sink, warm water soothing the cut and washing away the blood.

"Will you sit?" he gestured towards the lip of the tub as he dug through Penny's cabinet for a first aid kit.

It wasn't until he settled between your legs, dropping to his knees so you wouldn't have to crane your neck to look at him, that you realized the position the both of you were in. His face was so close to yours, you could almost feel his breath fanning across your cheeks. One hand found your calf, fingers pressing lightly into the muscle to steady himself, while the other dug through the first aid kit to grab the right supplies. And his chest was pressed up against your knees, almost crowding you, but instead it felt like he was just trying to assure you that he was right there for you.

Like he sensed you looking at him, his eyes found you. You hadn't meant to, but your eyes dropped down to his lips for less than a second.

But it had been enough for Bob, who moved to hold your jaw in his strong hand. When you fluttered your eyes shut and began to lean into his touch, he pressed his lips against yours.

He felt you smile a few seconds into the kiss, something that made his heart beat wildly. With a squeeze to your waist, he pulled away reluctantly. When he saw the confused look on your face, he moved to stroke your cheek.

"Gotta clean this up first, okay? Then I'll give you another kiss."

His words made your cheeks flush, but you just nodded and let him work.

"Earth to Lucky, you okay, baby?" Bob's words snap you out of your memories.

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking," you say, smile on your face as he nods and kisses your forehead lightly.

The day was like any other. Jake and Bradley are running circles around themselves, entertaining everyone on the squad. Phoenix and Javy are dipping their toes in the ocean while sipping on beers. Mickey and Reuben are tossing a football up and down the beach. And you and Bob are sitting and enjoying the sun and the slight breeze of salty ocean air.

"Alright, lovebirds, up and at 'em. Shirts and skins," Maverick calls from the water.

Bob grumbles at this. After telling you about the horrible burn he got his week stationed out in California, you haven't blamed him for not taking his shirt off, even if it did mean you missed out on seeing his toned body. You never took yours off either, but Bob had never pushed for the reason, instead always offering to double-check your sunscreen application. You always giggled at this, knowing it was an excuse for him to run his fingers up and down your body.

"Split up, you two. I don't want a repeat of last week," Maverick says as you approach the group.

"You should've instated a no-dating policy, Mav," Rooster teases, shit-eating grin on his face. The others laugh at the thought of last week's game when you and Bob had become too distracted with each other, leading to him being laid out on the sand as Javy plowed into him.

"Come over here, Lucky. Never lost a game with you on our team," Jake calls, wagging a finger in your direction, beckoning you over. You nod, not thinking much of it, tugging off your T-shirt to join the skins, leaving you in your denim shorts and bikini top.

As you line up, mentally preparing yourself for a game of football after three drinks, you meet Bob's eyes and smile immediately. Just as Jake is about to hike the ball, a voice calls out from behind you.

"Whoa, Lucky! I didn't know that was why you had your call sign."

Reuben's teasing didn't go unnoticed by the group, all of them sharing confused looks.

For a brief moment, blood rushes to your head as the comment sobers you up. Your hands slap to cover your lower back as you yelp and look in the man's direction.

"Lucky, what's wrong?" Bob calls out from across you. When you send him a panicked look, he immediately rushes over to your side.

"Wait a minute, Bob hasn't seen this either?" Reuben asks, almost doubling over in laughter now.

You snap over to look at him as Bob's hands find your hips. "No, Reuben! No one knows except my old squad. It was a dumb, drunk mistake. Just like this," you groan, hands still not moving from their position.

"Baby?" Bob asks in a low voice so only you could hear, genuine worry on his face as he looks to you for answers.

You look around and see the rest of the squad looking at you, too. It makes you want to crawl up into a ball right on the beach.

Meeting Bob's gaze again, he thinks you almost look scared. It's only further confirmed when you speak again, "Don't be mad, okay?"

He nods his head vigorously as you bite hard at your bottom lip. Finally, your hands drop, and you turn around to show him your now exposed back.

What he sees makes a furious blush spread up from his throat to his cheeks, painting him in a shade very close to cherry red.

A four-leaf clover surrounded with small ribbons and other smaller clovers covers a sliver of your lower back, right in between where your dimples rest. The ink in perfect contrast with your otherwise blank skin, grabbing his attention immediately.

You look over your shoulder to see his reaction and swallow when you see the open-mouthed look he's giving you, not even tearing his eyes away for a moment to meet your gaze.

Bob swallows hard.

The tattoo wasn't what shocked him.

Well, it was. A little.

But mostly it was the fact that after a few months of dating, countless mornings, movie nights, beach trips, and stolen kisses, he'd somehow never seen it.

"You have a tattoo?" he finally manages. His voice coming out much higher than intended.

The squad erupts.

"A tattoo?" Fanboy shouts.

"On Lucky?" Phoenix laughs, like she can't believe it's true.

"No way." Jake looks at you, downright delighted. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."

You groan at them, your stomach sinking further at their jests. "I hate all of you."

"No, no, no," Hangman says, pointing dramatically. "You don't get to drop a surprise lower-back tattoo into the middle of football and then act like we're the problem."

"Agreed," Rooster chimes in.

Before you can speak again, you're drawn to your boyfriend, who looks personally betrayed, not hiding his puppy dog eyes very well. "You didn't tell me."

You turn toward him with a nervous look. "It never came up."

His brows furrow at this, eyes immediately dropping back to the tattoo. "It definitely should've come up."

The redness spreading across his face only makes everyone laugh harder.

"Bob is malfunctioning," Phoenix announces, hand coming up to her eyes to wipe away the tears.

"I am not," he defends, still not looking anywhere but your skin.

"You've been staring at her back for thirty seconds," Bradley teases as the squad laughs in agreement.

"I have not," he mumbles quieter this time.

"Thirty-five now," Fanboy adds.

You bury your face in your hands. "Can someone please kill me?"

"Nope," Maverick says from the middle of the group. "This is too entertaining." The older pilot folds his arms and grins as you send him a look of disdain.

"So what's the story?" Jake asks, football now tucked neatly under his arm. The rest of the squad looks to you expectantly as you just shake your head.

"No."

"No? You can't say no! You've derailed our whole afternoon," Jake argues back.

"Or you could just act like it's any old tattoo. Is it really that big of a deal?" you sass back, eyes rolling at his ask.

"Is Lucky with a four-leaf clover tattoo on her lower back a big deal? Uh, yeah, I think so," Jake says, gesturing for everyone to agree with him.

When they do, you look to your boyfriend once more. His eyes find yours, and you silently plead for him to save you. Instead, he sends you a small look, shock still on his face.

"I'd like to hear this, too," he says as the squad whoops triumphantly. You narrow your eyes at the man, silently mouthing traitor as he looks as innocent as ever.

"Fine!"

The beach falls silent instantly at your voice.

You cross your arms, already bracing for more ridicule. "I was twenty-one."

Jake immediately doubles over laughing, "I already know this is going to be good."

"Shut it, Seresin!" you snap as he just laughs harder. "It was the night of my TOPGUN graduation. The squad I flew with earlier that week came out to celebrate me, and we may or may not have gotten a little tipsy."

"You mean drunk?" Bradley teases as you send him a death glare.

"Okay, yes, drunk." You put your hands up like you're being interrogated. "And we might have started a competition about who could drink the most in one sitting."

"But you're a lightweight," Bob says next to you as the squad laughs.

"Hey," you pout, not really defending yourself but still a little offended by his observation.

You huff before continuing.

"The loser had to get a tattoo chosen by everyone else."

The beach exploded.

"No!"

"Absolutely not."

"You lost?"

"I lost."

Jake nearly falls over, hands reaching out for support. "You're telling me Lucky got a lucky tattoo because she lost a competition?"

You cover your face, feeling your cheeks burn as you recall the night. "Yes."

The laughter becomes deafening at this. Maverick's laughing. Phoenix. Everyone. Even Bob.

Especially Bob.

"Oh my God," Bob wheezes.

"I hate you," you grumble as he tries to reach for your hand. Despite how you pull away from him, he refuses to let go.

"Baby," he calls, eyes pleading for you to look at him.

"No."

His grin softens at your stubbornness. "I think it's cute."

You narrow your eyes at the man. "You're lying."

"I'm really not." His ears immediately turn red again upon looking at the ink on your skin.

The squad notices, because of course they do.

"Oh, there it is," Fanboy shouts.

"Look at him go."

"He's red!"

"Leave him alone," you mutter, but finally laugh despite yourself. The tension slowly melting from your shoulders.

Bob squeezes your hand. Then he leans closer, close enough that only you can hear him. "I still can't believe you've been hiding that from me."

Your stomach flutters, eyes finding his. His stare is intense; it's akin to the same look he gave you last Wednesday night after you got done making out on his couch while trying to watch a movie. The memory and intention of his gaze make you nervous.

"It wasn't exactly important," you mumble, hands twitching in his hold.

His eyes drift briefly toward your lower back again before snapping upward. The movement is subtle.

Unfortunately not subtle enough, as Hangman catches it instantly. "Oh, he's looking again."

The squad erupts for a second time, whistling and calling out this time.

Bob groans, fingers squeezing yours as you giggle lightly. "Can you people not?"

"Nope," Hangman replies.

"Absolutely not," Rooster agrees.

Fortunately for you and Bob, Maverick chimes in again.

"Alright," he calls. "Now that we've all learned something new about Lucky today, can we finally play football?"

"Please," you beg as the squad laughs, but reassumes their formation.

But Bob looks at you for just a few moments longer.

For months, he'd been quietly taking care of you, bringing you drinks, walking you to your car, making sure you ate after long flights.

But somehow the thing that finally broke him wasn't a dangerous mission. It wasn't Maverick. It wasn't combat.

It was a tiny four-leaf clover tattoo.

When Bob searches for your eyes again, he finds you already looking at him.

Your smile is soft, and his expression immediately melts. The teasing around you fades into background noise.

"Still think it's cute?" you ask quietly.

His eyes flicker to the tattoo one last time. Then back to you. "Yeah."

The answer comes without hesitation, and your chest squeezes at the realization. "Even knowing I got it because I lost a drinking contest?" you test with a nervous look on your face.

A laugh escapes him, smile lines and crow's feet crinkling. "Especially because of that."

You roll your eyes, but still smile.

Bob leans close once more, "I think I'll have to take a closer look when we get home."

Heat floods your face instantly as he just watches you. "Oh my God," you squeak out.

His smile widens at this, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Across the beach, Hangman points.

"There! Now she's red."

જ⁀➴

You go to grab the cooler sitting by the bed of Bob's truck, but before your hand can graze the handle, you feel your boyfriend's firm grasp on your lower tummy, tugging you in the opposite direction.

"Go sit in the car, I got it," he tells you, pressing a short kiss to the top of your head.

"Thank you, Bobby," you say, a small smile on your face as you move to climb into the passenger seat of his truck.

Despite the earlier teasing at the exposure of your tattoo, you settle into the stillness of the truck easily. It isn't until Bob joins you that you fully allow yourself to sink into the seat.

"Come 'ere, pretty," he says, opening his right arm as he starts the car. You slide over the open bench of the truck and tuck yourself into his hold.

Now leaning up against him, you close your eyes as his thumb rubs soothing circles into your shoulder. You hear the steady beating of his heart as you sit in the idling truck, the thumps calming you into a trance.

"Tired?" he asks as you nod your head, relaxing in his hold. "Let's just sit then. We can watch the sunset, then go home, how's that sound?"

"Perfect, Bobby," you mumble, hands going to wrap around his waist.

A cool chill had overcome the beach as the hours passed. Bob sees goosebumps creep up on your skin, from your arms to your tummy, the skin still exposed ever since this afternoon.

"Baby?" he asks, voice rising like it had earlier that day. The sound of it makes you sit up.

"Are you okay?" Your hand comes up to his face, holding it softly.

He nods, turning his head so he can kiss the inside of your palm. "Can I see it? Now that it's just us?"

Sure enough, the rest of the squad had pulled out of the parking lot, leaving you and Bob to watch the sunset in peace.

You blush at your boyfriend's request, but still pull away from him and turn your back towards him.

His hands find your lower back quickly, fingers tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo. One hand settles on your waist while the other continues to lightly rub your skin. You hear his breathing hitch slightly as he moves the denim fabric of your shorts down a little to get a better look.

Your fingers move towards the buttons at your front and you shimmy off the denim, dragging the fabric down your legs.

"Better?" you ask innocently. Bob's glad you don't look back at him now; surely you would see the goofy look on his face and laugh a bit.

For now, all he wanted was to take you all in, uninterrupted. No Jake or Bradley in his ear, teasing him, no Phoenix sending him looks, and no you, with your pretty gaze and soft smile. He couldn't take it.

Now he sees the swell of your ass from your bikini bottoms, your cheeks pressed up against the leather of his truck, criminal. The flimsy ties on your hips sit pretty, like they're waiting for someone to undo them. Suddenly, his eyes are tracking over your backside too, not just your once-hidden tattoo.

"Jesus, baby," he says, hands traveling further down to play with the shiny fabric of your bottoms. Bob feels himself strain a bit in his swim trunks.

As his fingers travel lower and lower, you can't help but arch away from his touch, pushing your hips back into the man's touch.

Now you look over your shoulder and see his mouth open, and his eyes blink quickly.

"Bobby," you call his name, and his eyes find you, gaze lazy but alert all at once.

"Come 'ere," he says once again, this time patting his thigh. Just as you're about to straddle his lap, his hands correct your hips, turning you so you're facing the sunset and leaning over the steering wheel.

You look back in confusion, but Bob just moves in to kiss you sweetly, stealing all the words from your throat.

"You said you wanted to watch the sunset, so watch," his voice is low now, like it was earlier on the beach. "Need a closer look, is that okay?"

Your tummy turns at his question, and you find yourself pressing into the firm muscle of his thigh, hips coming down to roll on the ridges.

Bob huffs at this and reaches for the strings of your bottoms, pulling the fabric out of the way completely, leaving you bare on his thigh. His hands find your ass, fully palming you now, squeezing the fat there.

"So pretty, you know that, Lucky?" he asks, one hand now traveling across your soft, warm skin to rest on the top of your inner thigh. Fingers are dangerously close to where you need them.

Just as you're about to answer, you feel his lips descending on your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses across the skin. You squirm even more at this, hands gripping the wheel until your knuckles go white.

"So wet against me, haven't even touched you," he teases, breath hot by your ear, as you whine.

"Need your touch, please," you beg, hips canting against his thigh once more until his hands still you into place.

"Want my fingers?" he asks as his left hand goes to slip further down from your thigh to your heat.

"Yes, yes," you plead, throwing your head back against him, leaving your throat completely exposed for him as you arch once more in his hold.

Bob dips his mouth to the front of your neck now, nipping rather than just sucking and kissing. At the same time, his thumb finds your bundle of nerves within seconds, pressing little circles of pressure against it.

"Keep moving against me, baby, I'll help you," he tells you, right hand coming to help your hips move back and forth against his thigh.

Your now pebbled nipples rub against the thin fabric of your bikini, making you whine at the feeling of the sensitive skin bouncing up and down a bit. Seeming to have no trouble moving your hips onto your boyfriend's muscle, his hand comes up your front and begins to play with the strained nipples over your top.

"Bobby, please," you cry out. Immediately, he takes one of your tits into his large palm and squeezes the fat. The rough moment makes your hips jerk, but they don't stop moving.

You yelp as he sucks at an especially sensitive part of your neck, eyes rolling back and closing as you let yourself become consumed by him.

The circles on your clit become tighter, and you can feel your boyfriend flex the muscles in his thigh with your movements. The string in your tummy begins to wind tighter and tighter.

One particular firm press at your core makes you tense up and fall apart on Bob's lap as he continues to suck at your neck and pinch at your tits.

As soon as the shakes in your thighs begin to settle, Bob moves his hand from your wet core to splay it across your tummy, tugging you back into him. As you settle on his lap, you feel the large bulge digging into your back, something that makes you whine in his hold.

Your hands leave the steering wheel, fingers are a bit cramped, but you still go to reach behind you and fiddle with the string of his swim trunks.

"Need more," you say breathlessly as he huffs into your neck.

"Yeah, yeah, you sure?" His hand come up to your jaw, turning it so he'll be able to see your face. When he does, he sees a fucked out look on your face, eyes batting sweetly and tongue coming out to wet at your lips. The sight makes him groan as he grips your face tighter and bring you into a heated kiss.

His tongue works to push into your mouth, and once you part your lips, he licks into your mouth like it's his first time tasting someone else's spit.

Your hands don't stop moving, though, and finally, you free him from his shorts, pushing the fabric down his hips as much as you can.

From here, Bob lifts your hips up and settles you on all fours on the bench of his truck. By now, the sun is long gone, and he can only see the ink of your tattoo when the moonlight catches on your body.

The sight of your dripping cunt, hanging out in the air for him, makes him all but rip the shorts off his legs as he moves to come up behind you. He can see your core swell and push against nothing, the slickness collecting on your inner thighs painting a pretty picture for him.

"Sorry, baby, I just can't help myself," he says as he dips a finger in your entrance, making your back arch and ass press into him even further. As you do so, you can feel his throbbing length against your ass cheek, jumping and rubbing into you as he stretches you out on his fingers.

Soon enough, he pushes in another finger, curling them into you at a slow pace that makes you crave more.

Sensing your dwindling patience, he bends over your frame until his mouth is by your ear. "Just getting you ready for me, okay?"

You nod at this, not trusting your voice anymore. Before he pulls up again, he brushes your hair and tucks it behind your ear, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head.

The kiss is sweet, but the way his fingers pump in and out of your heat is anything but. Your muscles squeeze against him, and each time it happens, you feel his hips grind into you. His member now flush with your body as he rubs himself against you at the same rhythm of his fingers.

"Please," you whine out again, and you feel his fingers leave your entrance. Now, you feel a firm hand on your lower back, thumb rubbing where your tattoo is. The other hand guides his member towards your entrance, pushing in slowly.

Bob feels your warm heat envelope him, the ridges and veins on his dick being pressed perfectly against your walls. "Oh, fuck, baby," he says as you pulse around him, not even halfway in yet.

"Feels good," you whine, pushing your hips back against him, swallowing more of him.

"Gonna hurt yourself, baby. Slow down," he groans, no real push back in his voice as he bottoms out, hips now pressed against the globes of your ass.

"Please, Bobby," you plead again, head moving to look back at the man.

He whines, seeing the look on your face. To think you were such a shy, meek thing around everyone, and now you're pushing back on his dick, begging him to fuck you into the seat of his truck.

Bob tears the T-shirt off his body before moving. On hand coming to the hem and raising it above his body, giving you a view of his abs and biceps all in one go.

His other hand roams down your back to the pretty little bow of your bikini top. You feel him fiddle with it for a minute, almost like he's contemplating whether or not he should untie them. But ultimately, he pulls the strings and lets the top fall onto the seat beneath you.

Within seconds, his hand attaches itself to your tit, rolling your nipple in his hand. The other goes back to its place on your lower back, thumb pressing into your ink. And finally, he reels his hips back and pushes into you.

You both moan at the feeling, his tip finding a deep part of you as you arch further into his hold. Soon he finds a steady rhythm, pushing his length in and out of you as you squirm underneath him.

There are so many things to look at, from the way your face presses into the leather to the way your ass bounces against his hips as he thrusts into you. But again and again, he finds himself looking at the little clover on your backside. The ink is something so foreign on your otherwise unmarked skin.

If you had asked him a few hours ago, Bob would have never expected you to have a tattoo, let alone one in this spot. But then again, he wouldn't have expected you to lull your tongue out and push your hips into his as he fucked you for the first time.

Both things were exhilarating, making his heart race and his thrusts pick up in pace, something you seemed to be a fan of as you whine underneath him.

He knows he should've laid you out on his bed, taken care of you, really taken care of you, not just let you grind against his thigh and finger you until you were whimpering under him. He should've kissed all over your body, let his mouth find your core, tasted you.

But every time he caught a glimpse of the delicate tracing of your tattoo, he felt himself reel all over again.

Bob had to have you like this, bent over and pressed into the seat of his truck. Back on full display to him, muscle and sweet skin exposed.

Still, he felt a little guilty that he let it happen like this. Couldn't even get home before he started reaching for you and thinking about your tattoo.

Instead of dwelling on the fact for any longer, he allowed himself to feel your wet heat, feel how it squeezed against him. His hand left your now raw, sensitive nipples in search of your clit, thumb wanting to find it once more to make you come again.

"So fucking good, so good, Lucky," he groans, hips slapping harsher against you as he finds your sweet spot once again.

You try to keep your eyes open, try to look at him and the blissed out expression on his face, but as soon as his thumb makes contact with your bud again, your eyes roll back into your head, and you sink into the leather underneath you.

"Warm and pretty, all for me, huh?" he asks, thumb pressing firmer, tighter circles into your clit.

Nodding, all you can do is whine at his words. The way his hand pushes on your lower back, arching you further into his hold, makes his length find a home in your heat in the best way possible.

His body comes down to yours like earlier; now you feel his rigid muscles moving against your back. The hand that was on your back gathers your hair into a sloppy ponytail as he tugs you up to his face.

"Need a kiss, please, baby," he whines, hips snapping into you at a brutal pace. Still, you can tell he's close, his body covers yours, humping into you like he has something to prove.

You nudge his nose and pucker your lips. Suddenly, he's diving in, sucking at your lips, firm and searing kisses pressed into your mouth. At the feeling of his thumb tapping against your clit, your mouth opens, giving him the perfect opportunity to capture your tongue and suck. Spit mixes and drips down your chin as you begin to shake in his hold.

Again, the thread snaps in your tummy. His length moves in you, not letting up, helping you through your climax. Bob's mouth kisses around your face, hand still gripping your hair so he can reach your cheeks, forehead, and chin with his mouth.

Soon, you feel him spill into you, groaning against your mouth. The warmth seeps into your tummy, and you find yourself wanting to curl further into his hold.

Bob heaves against your back as he works to the end of his climax. Snaking a hand around your waist, he takes you from your spot on the bench and instead plants you on his lap upright.

His arms squeeze around you as his head dips in between the softness of your neck, laying sweet kisses there.

"Are you okay? It wasn't too rough, right?" he asks, hands tracing your skin in a way that makes you shiver.

"Felt so good, I promise," you say, nudging his nose once more and leaning in for a soft kiss.

"Good, good." Bob wraps around, warm body cradling yours.

"Maybe I should get another tattoo and not tell you. I think I could relive that over and over again," you tease as he laughs into your skin, both of you still feeling a bit loopy from your pleasure.

"One surprise tattoo is enough for a lifetime," he says, tightening his arms around you.

You smile against him as the faint light from the moon dances across his features; even now, you see the teasing look he gives you.

"I was really convinced you'd be upset," you confess, the quietness of the car almost swallowing your words.

But instead, Bob pulls back to look at you. "Upset?"

"About the tattoo."

A look of genuine confusion crosses his face. "Why would I be upset?"

You shrug. "It was a stupid drunk choice, doesn't exactly scream responsible naval aviator."

Bob stares at you for a moment, like he can't believe the words coming out of your mouth.

Then he reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You flew into a combat zone to back up a team that was outnumbered."

Your eyes drop.

He continues anyway.

"You graduated at the top of your class. You're the best pilot I know."

A small smile pulls at his lips.

"I think you're allowed one stupid tattoo."

A laugh escapes you. "Just one?"

"One," he confirms, nodding his head, but the smile on his face says otherwise.

"You're very generous," you tease, leaning in to kiss his lips again.

He groans into the kiss, pressing deeper, like he can't get enough of you. "I know," he whispers as you laugh.

Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.

This, you were prepared for.

Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.

Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.

It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.

He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."

There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.

The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.

At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.

"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.

"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."

And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.

*****

Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.

Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.

Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.

"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.

"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."

"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?

"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."

Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.

Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.

"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."

This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"

"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."

Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."

"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.

You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.

Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.

You still have some sense.

Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.

The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.

Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.

Your shopping list for next week.

Not how warm he feels against you.

The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.

Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.

You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.

The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.

*****

"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.

"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."

"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.

"Yeah? How?"

"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.

He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.

"Need a hand?"

He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."

Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.

Truly.

The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.

Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.

Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.

"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."

Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.

He's gotta find a way to change that.

Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.

After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.

That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.

A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.

Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.

By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.

At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.

All things you can do in your sleep.

But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.

He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”

You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.

Uh oh.

This is bad.

Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.

You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”

“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”

“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.

You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.

He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”

There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”

“Always, sweetheart.”

You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.

Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.

“And don't call me sweetheart.”

You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”

“We're not holding hands.”

Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.

A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.

“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”

The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”

“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”

Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.

Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.

“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”

“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”

“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.

He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”

"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.

"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."

You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."

"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"

It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."

The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.

"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.

"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."

"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.

He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."

Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.

Apparently, you and Robby text now.

You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.

Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.

He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).

Currently?

He's fixing your busted boiler.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.

Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.

He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.

All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.

That means he's furious.

Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.

When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."

You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"

You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"

"What? No!"

"Why not? Thought we were being honest."

It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.

His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.

You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.

In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.

The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.

The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.

The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.

Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.

After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.

While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.

It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."

He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."

That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.

He's practically inescapable.

He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."

"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.

But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.

There are many words that would end this right now.

Stop. No. Don't.

And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.

Then an O.

Two B's.

And a Y.

He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.

Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.

The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.

You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.

You look up from the sink. "Hey."

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.

"Long day?"

"Mhm."

You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.

"You want me to plate up dinner?"

"If you want."

It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."

"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.

"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"Stop!"

Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.

"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"

Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”

Robby's face falls.

“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”

He folds his hands together.

"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."

"You stopped talking to me."

"I know."

"You stopped letting me in."

"I know."

Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"

"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.

But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."

"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."

Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.

Robby. 22:01. Just got back to town What are you up to?

You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.

Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.

He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.

Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-

No. You can't let yourself think like that.

You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.

He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.

Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.

Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.

To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.

You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.

It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.

But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.

So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?

"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.

"Hm?"

"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."

Shit.

Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.

You. 22:04. I'm on a date, actually

"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.

If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.

Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.

Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.

Robby. 22:05. When will you be done? I'll come and pick you up. Miss my girl.

A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.

You never have been.

Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.

Robby would double that, at least.

You. 22:21. ...Not your girl But you can pick me up around 11.

You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.

The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."

"A... dermatology emergency?"

"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."

Another lie.

You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.

“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.

"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"

"If he knew you were my ex, probably."

Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.

"You ready?"

You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.

*****

Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.

There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.

You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.

Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.

“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”

He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.

Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.

Not that you can't have seen other people.

You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.

Like nothing ever went wrong.

Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.

You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"

"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."

"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."

Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.

“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."

Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."

"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."

You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.

This version of Robby still has bad days.

Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.

The difference is that he always comes back.

And he lets you help.

Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.

But Robby had been right.

There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.

Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."

"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.

"Marry me. Again."

"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"

He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."

A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."

His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"

You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."