thisisbad

the fluorescent lights in ptmc never really turn off, they just dim enough to pretend the night shift is something softer than it actually is, but you’ve been here long enough to know better, and tonight feels like every other - too quiet in the wrong ways, too loud in the ones that matter, the distant beeping of monitors threading through the halls like a pulse you can’t escape, and you lean back against the nurses’ station counter with a chart in your hands, eyes skimming the same line for the third time without absorbing a single word because you’re tired in that deep, bone-heavy way that doesn’t go away with coffee, doesn’t go away with sleep either, if you’re being honest, and you don’t notice him at first, not until the chair across from you scrapes lightly against the floor and jack settles into it like he’s been there all along.

he doesn’t say anything right away, which isn’t unusual for him, but it still makes you aware of him in a way that feels too sharp for how normal this should be, like your brain flips a switch the second he’s close, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of everything. how he leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, how his gaze drifts over the board behind you before landing, inevitably, on you, and you keep your eyes on the chart because meeting his gaze right now feels like stepping into something you’re not ready for, not at three in the morning when your defenses are low and your thoughts are slower and softer around the edges, and you can feel him looking at you even without seeing it, which is ridiculous, you tell yourself, because you’ve worked together for years and this shouldn’t feel like anything at all.

“you gonna read that all night or actually do something with it?” he finally says, voice low, a little rough like he hasn’t spoken in a while, and you huff out a quiet breath that might pass as a laugh if someone wasn’t paying close attention.

“i am doing something with it,” you reply, still not looking up, because if you do you’ll probably catch that almost-smile he gets when he’s teasing you, and you’re not sure you trust yourself not to linger on it longer than you should, “it’s called reviewing.”

“you’ve been on the same page for five minutes,” he counters, and there’s no bite in it, just that easy, familiar back-and-forth you’ve fallen into over time, the kind that makes it easy to pretend nothing else exists underneath it.

you finally glance up then, just quick enough to meet his eyes before you look back down, but it’s enough to feel the weight of it, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he leans back in his chair, and there’s something about that moment. small, barely noticeable, that settles awkwardly in your chest, like a question you don’t want to answer.

“maybe i like this page,” you say, quieter now, and he huffs out a soft laugh.

“yeah, i can tell.”

there’s a pause after that, not uncomfortable exactly, but not easy either, and you shift your weight against the counter, finally closing the chart and setting it down beside you just so you have something to do with your hands, because doing nothing while he’s right there feels impossible, and you can feel his attention shift again, like he’s debating saying something else, like he always is, and you’ve noticed that about him over the years. the way he almost speaks and then doesn’t, the way his words seem to stop just short of something important, and you’ve never been sure if it’s intentional or if you’re just reading too much into it.

jack watches you more than he probably should, and he knows it, knows it in the way he keeps his gaze just off-center when you look up, knows it in the way he times his comments so they sound casual instead of deliberate, but it doesn’t stop him, hasn’t stopped him in the two years you’ve worked side by side through long nights and worse mornings, because somewhere along the line, you stopped being just another coworker, and he doesn’t even remember when that happened, only that it did, slowly and quietly, until now it feels like something constant, something he carries into every shift whether he wants to or not.

he tells himself it’s nothing, that it’s just familiarity, that working this closely with someone for this long is bound to blur lines a little, but then you look at him - really look at him, even for a second - and it knocks the air out of his chest in a way that doesn’t feel like anything simple or easy to explain, and he hates that he can’t read you the same way, hates that you’re always just out of reach in a way that makes him think this is one-sided, that whatever this thing is that’s been building in him doesn’t exist for you at all.

“you’re quiet,” you say after a moment, and that’s what pulls him back, your voice softer now, more observant than teasing, and he shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

“just thinking.”

“dangerous,” you murmur, and there’s a faint hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth that he catches, and it’s small, it’s nothing, but it’s enough to make something in his chest tighten.

“yeah, well,” he says, leaning back further in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee in an attempt to look more relaxed than he feels, “someone’s gotta do it.”

you shake your head slightly, looking away again, and the moment passes just like that, slipping back into something normal, something safe, but the tension lingers underneath it, quiet and steady, like it always does when the two of you end up like this - alone for a few minutes in the middle of a shift that never really gives you time to think about anything except the next patient, the next chart, the next problem to solve.

you’ve gotten good at ignoring it, at pushing it down and letting it sit somewhere out of the way where it can’t interfere with the rhythm of your job, because this, whatever this is, doesn’t have a place here, not in a hospital that demands everything from you and leaves nothing extra behind, and definitely not with someone like jack, someone you have to see every shift, someone you rely on more than you probably should.

but that doesn’t stop it from being there, doesn’t stop the way your thoughts drift back to him when he’s not around, or the way your attention sharpens when he is, and you hate that you don’t know what to do with it, hate that it feels like something you’re not allowed to touch, let alone understand.

“you grabbing a beer after this shift?” he asks suddenly, and it’s so casual you almost miss it, like it’s just another routine question, something you’ve both asked each other a dozen times before.

you hesitate, just for a second, and it’s small enough that he probably doesn’t notice, but it feels huge to you, like your answer matters more than it should.

“maybe,” you say finally, shrugging one shoulder, “depends how dead i am by the end of it.”

“you’re always dead by the end of it,” he points out, and there’s that almost-smile again, softer this time, and something about it makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.

“yeah, and yet i still manage,” you reply, and you meet his eyes again without meaning to, holding his gaze a fraction longer than you usually do, and there’s a flicker of something there. something unspoken, something that feels dangerously close to being real.

he looks like he’s about to say something else, something more, but before he can, the overhead speaker crackles to life, cutting through the moment with a call that pulls both of you back into reality, and just like that, it’s gone, the tension snapping back into something contained, something manageable.

you push off the counter, grabbing the chart again even though you don’t need it, just to have something to anchor yourself, and he stands too, the chair scraping softly against the floor as he moves, and for a second you’re standing close enough that you can feel the heat of him, close enough that it would be easy - too easy - to let something slip.

but you don’t, and neither does he, and you both turn in opposite directions like it’s nothing, like it’s always nothing, even though it never really is.

—

the call isn’t anything out of the ordinary at first, just another overhead page cutting through the low hum of the department, but the tone of it shifts something in the air anyway, like everyone straightens a little without realizing it, and you’re already moving before the words fully register, muscle memory kicking in as you head toward the room they called, your steps quick but steady, because rushing never helps even when everything in you wants to.

jack falls into step a second later, not quite beside you but close enough that you’re aware of him without looking, and there’s a rhythm to it, the way the two of you move through the hall without needing to say anything, dodging around a gurney being pushed in the opposite direction, slipping past nurse young as she’s coming out of a room with a stack of supplies in her arms.

“room 12,” she says quickly as you pass, not stopping, her voice tight but controlled, “bp’s dropping fast.”

“got it,” you reply, already turning into the room, and everything narrows the second you step inside, the rest of the hospital falling away as your focus locks in.

the patient is pale, clammy, monitors beeping in a way that’s just a little too fast, a little too uneven, and nurse handzo is already at the bedside, adjusting something on the iv with practiced hands, her brow furrowed just slightly as she glances up when you enter.

“pressure tanking,” she says, concise, efficient, “started about two minutes ago.”

“okay,” you respond, voice even, steady in a way that surprises people sometimes, but not the ones who’ve worked with you long enough to know this is where you’re at your best, when everything else fades and it’s just problem-solving and instinct and training layered together, “let’s get another set of vitals, run a stat-”

“on it,” lena cuts in, already moving, and you nod once, your attention shifting to the patient as you step closer, your hands sure as you check what you need to check, your mind already running through possibilities, eliminating options one by one.

jack hangs back for half a second, watching you, and it’s not something he consciously decides to do, it just happens, the way it always does when things get like this, because you change in these moments, not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would point out, but he sees it, the way your movements sharpen, the way your voice settles into something calm and controlled that cuts through the noise of everything else, and it does something to him every time, something he doesn’t have a name for.

“what’re you thinking?” he asks, stepping in finally, his voice lower now, matching your tone, and you glance at him briefly, already halfway through your assessment.

“could be a reaction,” you say, quick but clear, “or internal. i want labs before we jump.”

he nods, no hesitation, because he trusts you, has for a long time now, and that trust comes easy in moments like this, when you’re in your element and everything else fades into the background.

dr. ellis steps in a second later, assessing the situation as she crosses the room, her gaze flicking over the monitors, the patient, you. “update,” she says, direct as always.

“sudden drop in bp, about two minutes ago,” you answer without missing a beat, stepping slightly to the side to give her a clearer view, “we’re running labs now, possible reaction but i don’t want to assume.”

ellis nods once, sharp and approving, and moves in closer, asking a few more questions that you answer just as quickly, the two of you falling into an easy back-and-forth that leaves no room for doubt or second-guessing, and jack watches that too, the way you hold your ground without overstepping, the way you adapt without losing control of the situation.

it doesn’t take long before things start to stabilize, the monitors evening out, the tension in the room easing just enough that everyone can breathe again, and you feel it happen in real time, the shift from critical to manageable, the way your shoulders drop just slightly even if no one else would notice.

“nice catch,” ellis says as she steps back, her tone matter-of-fact but genuine, and you nod, brushing it off like you always do.

“team effort,” you reply, because it is, even if you were the one who called it first.

lena lets out a quiet breath beside you, adjusting the iv one last time before stepping back, and bridget pokes her head in from the doorway, her expression questioning until she sees the monitors, sees the calm that’s settled back over the room.

“we good?” she asks.

“we’re good,” you confirm, offering her a small nod, and she disappears again just as quickly, moving on to whatever’s next.

it’s only when things fully settle that you become aware of jack again, standing just off to your side, closer than he had been before, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you, not at the patient, not at the monitors, just you, and there’s something in his expression that you don’t quite know how to read.

“handled that like it was nothing,” he says, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you, and you shake your head slightly, reaching for the chart at the end of the bed just to have something to do.

“it wasn’t nothing,” you reply, keeping your tone light even though there’s a faint warmth creeping up the back of your neck under his gaze, “just another night.”

“doesn’t look like ‘just another night’ from where i’m standing,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it this time, no easy deflection, just something honest that lands a little heavier than you expect.

you don’t respond right away, because you’re not sure how to without making it something bigger than it needs to be, and that’s the line you’ve been walking with him for a long time now, keeping things just on the safe side of normal, even when it would be easier not to.

“you’re not standing where i am,” you say finally, softer, and you risk another glance at him, just quick, just enough to see the way his expression shifts, something unreadable flickering there before it settles back into something more neutral.

“maybe i should be,” he mutters, almost under his breath, and you’re not entirely sure you were meant to hear it, but you do, and it lingers in the space between you for a second too long before someone moves down the hall, a cart rattling past the doorway, breaking whatever that moment was trying to become.

you clear your throat lightly, looking back down at the chart, flipping it open even though you already know what it says, and he steps back a fraction, creating just enough distance to make things feel normal again.

“come on,” you say, nodding toward the door, “we’ve got other patients.”

“yeah,” he agrees, but he lingers for half a second longer before turning, like he’s reluctant to let the moment go even if he knows he has to, and then he’s moving again, falling back into step beside you as you head out into the hallway, the noise of the department closing back in around you like it never left.

somewhere down the hall, you catch a glimpse of trinity santos near the lockers, her shift long over, laughing quietly at something dennis says as they gather their things, and it feels like a different world entirely, the ease of day shift bleeding into the edges of yours, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, swallowed up by the steady pace of the night.

you don’t look at jack again right away, because you’re not sure you trust what you might see if you do, not after that, not when it would be so easy to read into something that might not be there at all.

—

the rest of the shift doesn’t slow down after that, although it never really does once something tips the balance. you fall back into it easily, slipping from room to room, chart to chart, conversation to conversation like it’s second nature, because it is at this point, and the earlier tension settles into something quieter, something that lingers under the surface instead of sitting right on top of everything.

you keep busy on purpose, not in a way anyone would call out, but enough that you don’t find yourself standing still for too long, because standing still means thinking, and thinking means circling back to things you don’t have the time - or the energy - to unpack right now, especially not with him just down the hall, or around the corner, or inevitably right beside you again when the next call comes in.

nurse handzo catches you near the supply closet at one point, handing you a fresh stack of gauze and a look that’s just a little too knowing for your liking, and you raise a brow at her as you take it.

“what?” you ask, already half-turning to go.

“nothing,” she says, but there’s a hint of a smile there, subtle but deliberate, “you and abbot just seem very in-sync tonight.”

you let out a quiet breath, something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking your head as you adjust your grip on the supplies.

“we’re always in sync,” you reply, keeping it casual, because that’s what it is, that’s all it is, “we’ve worked together long enough.”

“mhmm,” lena hums, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t push it, just nudges your shoulder lightly as she moves past you, “just saying.”

you don’t respond, because there’s nothing to say that wouldn’t make it into something more than it needs to be, and you head back down the hall, focusing on the next thing, the next patient, the next task, because that’s easier, always easier than lingering on conversations like that.

jack finds you again not long after, like he always does, like there’s some invisible thread that keeps pulling the two of you back into the same space no matter how many times you drift apart during a shift, and this time it’s at the nurses’ station again, your original spot like you’ve both unconsciously decided it belongs to you.

“ellis is looking for you,” he says, leaning one hand against the counter as you scribble something onto a chart, his presence familiar enough now that it doesn’t startle you, just settles in beside you like it belongs there.

“she say what for?” you ask, not looking up right away.

“didn’t give details,” he replies, and there’s a pause before he adds, a little quieter, “probably about that earlier case.”

you nod slightly, finishing your note before setting the pen down, and when you finally look up, he’s already watching you, not in a way that feels accidental, not this time, and it makes something in your chest tighten just a little.

“you did good in there,” he says, and it’s simple, straightforward, but it lands heavier than it should, maybe because he already said something like it earlier, maybe because this time there’s no one else around to hear it.

you shrug one shoulder, trying to brush it off even though the words stick somewhere under your ribs.

“just doing my job,” you reply, softer now, and his gaze doesn’t waver.

“yeah,” he says, but it sounds like he wants to say more, like he’s holding something back again, and you can see it this time, clear as anything, the way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his fingers tap once against the counter before going still.

you should say something, probably, should redirect the conversation or make a joke or do anything that puts things back into the comfortable space you’ve been maintaining for years, but you don’t, and the silence stretches just a second too long.

“you ever think about—” he starts, then stops, exhaling quietly as he shakes his head, a faint, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth, “never mind.”

“no,” you say before you can stop yourself, the word coming out a little too quick, a little too curious, and his eyes flick back to yours, surprised just enough that you feel it, “what?”

there’s a beat, a moment where it feels like he might actually say it this time, whatever it is that keeps getting caught somewhere between his thoughts and his words, and your pulse picks up without your permission, your fingers curling slightly against the edge of the counter as you wait.

but then he looks away, just briefly, and whatever it was slips out of reach again.

“nothing important,” he says, quieter now, and you know that’s not true, you can feel that it’s not true, but you don’t push, because pushing means risking something you’re not sure you’re ready to deal with.

“okay,” you reply instead, even though it doesn’t feel like enough, and the word sits awkwardly between you.

dr. ellis calls your name from down the hall then, her voice cutting cleanly through the moment, and you almost feel relieved for it, even if part of you wishes it hadn’t come right then, not when things felt like they were about to shift into something else.

“i should go,” you say, already stepping back, reaching for the chart you’d set down, and jack nods, straightening slightly.

“yeah,” he says, and there’s something unreadable in his expression again, something you don’t quite catch before it smooths out, “i’ll catch up with you later.”

you nod once, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and then you’re moving again, heading toward ellis, toward whatever she needs, because that’s easier, focusing on the job, on the next task, on anything that keeps your mind from circling back to the almost-conversation you just had.

but even as you fall back into it, even as ellis starts talking through the next case and you nod along, asking the right questions, making the right notes, part of your attention stays behind, caught on the look in jack’s eyes, on the words he didn’t say, on the way it felt like something was right there, just out of reach.

and you tell yourself it’s nothing, that it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just the exhaustion and the long hours and the way this job blurs lines that should probably stay clear, but the thought doesn’t settle the way you want it to.

because if it was nothing, it wouldn’t feel like this. that thought follows you longer than you want it to, trailing behind everything else as you move through the next stretch of the shift with dr. parker ellis, her voice steady and focused as she walks you through updates, and you nod at the right moments, ask the right questions, respond the way you always do, but there’s a slight delay in your processing that you’re not used to, a fraction of a second where your mind lags behind your body, and it irritates you more than anything else because you don’t like feeling off, not here, not in a place that demands your full attention at all times.

“you with me?” ellis asks at one point, her tone not unkind but sharp enough to cut through your thoughts, and you blink once, refocusing quickly.

“yeah,” you answer, straightening slightly, forcing your attention back where it needs to be, “sorry.”

she studies you for half a second, like she’s deciding whether to push it, but then she nods and continues, trusting you to catch up, which you do, slipping back into the rhythm of it with practiced ease, because even distracted, you’re still good at this, still capable of compartmentalizing when it matters.

by the time she dismisses you, the department has settled into that strange in-between state again, not quite calm, not quite chaotic, just steady enough to breathe without fully relaxing, and you take a second at the end of the hall, leaning lightly against the wall as you glance down at your hands, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake something off.

you don’t have long before you hear footsteps approaching, and you don’t need to look up to know it’s him, there’s something distinct about the way jack moves, something you’ve picked up on without meaning to, and it’s almost frustrating how easily you recognize it.

“ellis give you hell?” he asks, stopping just close enough that you can feel him there without him crowding you, and you huff out a quiet breath.

“not tonight,” you reply, pushing off the wall, “just making sure i was paying attention.”

“you always are,” he says, like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t even need to be questioned, and you glance at him, something in your chest tightening again at the certainty in his voice.

“apparently not enough,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite to it, just a lingering edge of your earlier distraction.

he tilts his head slightly, watching you more closely now, and there’s a shift in his expression, something more serious settling in.

“hey,” he says, quieter, and you meet his gaze fully this time, because something in his tone makes it hard not to, “you good?”

it’s such a simple question, one you’ve asked and answered a hundred times in this place, usually without thinking, usually without meaning anything beyond the surface of it, but coming from him, right now, it lands differently, heavier somehow.

“i’m fine,” you say automatically, because that’s the answer, that’s always the answer, and you look away first, breaking the moment before it can stretch into something uncomfortable.

he doesn’t respond right away, and you can feel his gaze lingering, like he doesn’t quite believe you, like he’s trying to decide whether to push further or let it go, and you hold your breath without realizing it, waiting.

“you don’t have to-” he starts, then stops, exhaling quietly as he runs a hand over the back of his neck, a familiar gesture that you’ve seen a hundred times but notice more now, “never mind.”

you let out the breath you were holding, something in you both relieved and disappointed at the same time, and you shake your head slightly.

“you do that a lot,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words slipping out softer than you intended but still clear enough, and he frowns just slightly.

“do what?”

“start to say something and then just.. don’t,” you explain, glancing back at him, and there’s no accusation in your tone, just quiet observation, “it’s kind of frustrating.”

the moment the words leave your mouth, you almost want to take them back, not because they’re untrue, but because saying them out loud feels like stepping closer to something you’ve both been avoiding.

jack goes still for a second, like he wasn’t expecting that, like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out on it, and his gaze sharpens just slightly as he looks at you.

“yeah?” he says, and there’s something in his voice now, something more grounded, more real, “you want me to stop doing that?”

your pulse picks up, just a little, and you swallow, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing, how easy it would be to either step back or lean in, and you do neither.

“i mean,” you start, then hesitate, because what are you actually asking for here, what are you actually ready to hear, “only if you’re going to actually say whatever it is.”

there’s a beat, a quiet stretch of time where neither of you moves, and the rest of the department feels distant again, like it’s faded into the background just enough to leave the two of you in this space alone.

he studies you for a long second, like he’s weighing something, like he’s deciding whether this is the moment or just another almost, and you can see it happening, the internal debate playing out in the subtle shifts of his expression, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“you really want that?” he asks finally, and his voice is low, careful, like the answer matters more than he’s willing to admit outright.

you should say no, probably, should laugh it off or make a joke or give him an easy out, something that keeps everything safely where it’s been for the past two years, but you don’t.

“yeah,” you say instead, just as quiet, just as careful, and it feels like stepping onto something unstable, something that could either hold or give way completely.

another pause, longer this time, heavier, and he looks like he’s about to say it, like he’s finally going to push past whatever’s been holding him back all this time, and your chest tightens in anticipation, your thoughts going quiet in a way that almost never happens here.

but then a call echoes down the hall, sharp and urgent, and it breaks the moment clean in half.

jack closes his eyes briefly, just for a second, like he’s frustrated with the timing, like he knew this would happen, and when he opens them again, whatever he was about to say is gone, tucked away again behind that familiar restraint.

“later,” he says, and it’s not a dismissal this time, not quite, more like a promise he’s not sure he’ll keep, and before you can respond, he’s already turning, already moving toward the call.

you stand there for a second longer, the echo of the almost-conversation still hanging in the air around you, your pulse slow to settle, your thoughts louder now than they were before, and then you push yourself into motion too, following the sound of the call, because the shift doesn’t stop for moments like that, no matter how much they linger afterward.

—

the shift stretches on, time warping in that strange way where minutes feel longer and shorter all at once, and you throw yourself back into it because that’s the only thing you know how to do when your head won’t quiet down. when your thoughts keep circling back to something unfinished, something suspended right in the middle with no clear direction forward or back.

you don’t see jack again for a while after that, not properly, just glimpses of him at the edges of your vision as you move between rooms, a flash of his shoulder turning a corner, the sound of his voice somewhere down the hall, steady and controlled as he speaks to a patient or calls out an order, and every time you catch it, your attention flickers for just a second before you force it back where it needs to be, because you can’t afford to lose focus, not here, not when people are depending on you to be present.

nurse young ropes you into helping with a new intake about twenty minutes later, her voice quick but not panicked as she fills you in while you both move, and you latch onto it immediately, grateful for something concrete to ground yourself in.

“mid-forties, chest pain, started about an hour ago,” she says, handing you a tablet as you step into the room together, “history’s a little messy, i’m still sorting through it.”

“okay,” you reply, already scanning the information, your mind shifting gears smoothly, pushing everything else aside, “let’s get an ekg and labs started, i’ll take a look.”

the patient is anxious, restless in that way that makes everything feel just a little more urgent, and you soften your tone without thinking, stepping closer to the bed, offering a brief explanation of what you’re doing, what you need from them, your voice calm and steady even as your brain works through possibilities, checking symptoms against history, watching for anything that doesn’t line up.

bridget moves efficiently beside you, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm, and it’s grounding, the familiarity of it, the way everything clicks into place when you’re focused on the work, and for a while, it’s enough to keep everything else at bay.

but then jack steps into the doorway.

you feel it before you see it, that shift in awareness, and you glance up despite yourself, meeting his eyes for just a second before he looks to the patient, to the monitors, to anything but you, and it’s subtle, but you notice it, the way he’s just a little more distant than he was earlier, like he’s pulling something back in, putting space where there wasn’t any before.

“need a hand?” he asks, and his tone is professional, even, the same way it always is in front of patients, but there’s something under it that wasn’t there before, something more controlled.

“we’ve got it,” you say automatically, then pause, adjusting slightly, “actually–can you check the labs when they come back?”

“yeah,” he nods, already stepping further into the room, and you shift to make space for him without thinking, the movement practiced, familiar, but it feels different now, more deliberate somehow, like you’re both aware of the space between you in a way you weren’t before.

the rest of it unfolds smoothly, efficiently, the way it should, and you focus on that, on the patient, on the process, on anything that keeps your thoughts from drifting back to the unfinished conversation waiting somewhere between you and jack, because you can feel it now, more clearly than before, the weight of it sitting there, unaddressed.

when the immediate urgency passes, when the patient is stable and settled and there’s a plan in place, you step back, letting bridget take over the next part, and you move out into the hallway, exhaling quietly as the door swings shut behind you. jack follows a second later.

you don’t look at him right away, pretending to check something on the tablet in your hands even though you already know what it says, and the silence stretches for a few seconds, not quite comfortable, not quite tense, just.. there.

“labs’ll take a few,” he says finally, leaning back against the wall across from you, his arms crossing loosely over his chest, and you nod.

“figured,” you reply, your voice neutral, controlled, and you hate how aware you are of it, how aware you are of everything right now. another pause.

“about earlier,” he starts, and your heart stutters just slightly, your grip tightening around the tablet before you can stop it, “i didn’t mean to-” “it’s fine,” you cut in, too quickly, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth, but you don’t take them back, because it’s easier this way, easier to shut it down than to let it open up into something you’re not sure you can handle in the middle of a shift.

his jaw tightens just slightly, and he pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms. “i wasn’t done,” he says, and there’s no anger in it, but there’s something firmer than usual, something that makes you look up despite yourself.

“jack-”

“no,” he interrupts, quieter now, but steady, “you said you wanted me to stop doing that, right? stopping halfway through.”

you go still for a second, caught off guard by the way he turns your own words back on you, by the way he holds your gaze like he’s not going to let you deflect this time, and your pulse picks up again, that same unsteady rhythm from earlier returning. “i did,” you admit, softer now, and he nods once, like that’s all he needed.

“okay,” he says, exhaling slowly, and you can see it again, that internal shift, that moment where he decides something, where he pushes past whatever’s been holding him back, “then don’t shut me down when i try.”

the words land heavier than you expect, not harsh, not accusatory, just honest in a way that leaves no room to hide behind easy responses, and you look away for a second, your thoughts scrambling to catch up, to figure out what to say, how to respond without tipping this too far in one direction or the other.

“i’m not trying to shut you down,” you say finally, and it’s true, at least partially, “i just–this isn’t exactly the time or place, jack.”

“it never is,” he replies, and there’s a quiet frustration there now, not directed at you exactly, but at the situation, at the timing, at the fact that every time he gets close to saying something, something else pulls you both away, “there’s always something else.”

you don’t have an answer for that, because he’s not wrong, and the silence that follows feels heavier than the ones before, more loaded, more real. down the hall, a monitor beeps, a voice calls out, the steady rhythm of the department continuing around you like it always does, indifferent to whatever is happening in this small pocket of space between the two of you.

“i just-” you start, then stop, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say, what you’re trying to explain, and you let out a quiet breath, shaking your head slightly, “i don’t want to mess this up.” it’s the closest you’ve come to saying it out loud, to acknowledging that there is something here, something worth protecting, and his expression shifts when he hears it, something softening, something understanding flickering in his eyes.

“this?” he echoes, gently, like he’s trying to make sure he understands what you mean, and you nod, finally meeting his gaze again.

“yeah,” you say, quieter now, “whatever it is.” there’s another pause, but this one feels different, less like avoidance and more like consideration, like you’re both standing on the same edge now, looking at the same thing instead of dancing around it from opposite sides.

“you think i want to mess it up?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes your chest tighten again, something almost vulnerable, even if he’s trying to keep it steady.

“no,” you answer quickly, because that part is easy, that part you’re sure of, “i don’t think that.”

“then what?” he presses, not harshly, just genuinely, like he’s trying to understand where you’re coming from, and you struggle for a second, trying to put it into words that make sense.

“we work together,” you say, like it explains everything, like it should be enough, “every shift, every week. if something changes and it goes wrong, we don’t get to just.. walk away from it.”

he watches you for a long moment, taking that in, and you can see the way he considers it, the way he weighs it against whatever he’s been holding onto all this time.

“and if it doesn’t go wrong?” he asks, and the question catches you off guard, because you haven’t really let yourself think that far, haven’t let yourself consider the possibility that this could be something that works instead of something that falls apart.

“that’s a big ‘if,’ ” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, but it comes out softer than you intend.

“yeah,” he agrees, but there’s a faint hint of something in his expression now, something almost hopeful, “but it’s still an ‘if.’ ” you don’t respond right away, because you don’t have a response that doesn’t feel like stepping further into something you’re not sure you’re ready for, and the moment stretches again, quieter this time, less urgent but no less significant.

then bridget’s voice cuts through the hallway, calling your name, and you both turn instinctively toward the sound, the spell breaking just enough to pull you back into the reality of where you are. you look back at jack once more, something unresolved still hanging between you, but different now, less hidden, more acknowledged, and he holds your gaze for a second before nodding slightly.

“we’ll finish this later,” he says, and it sounds more certain this time, less like a maybe and more like something inevitable.

you nod in return, because you know he’s right, because you can feel it now, the way this isn’t something that’s going to stay buried much longer, not after tonight, not after everything that’s already been said. and then you turn and head toward bridget, toward the next patient, the next task, the next moment that demands your attention, but this time, the thought of what’s waiting on the other side of it doesn’t feel as easy to ignore.

—

jack falls back into his routine after bridget calls you away, moving from room to room, clipboard in hand, but there’s a subtle shift in him now, one he’s barely aware of, one that makes everything feel just a little more fragile, more tentative, because he’s crossed a line internally that he’s never crossed before. he can’t stop thinking about what you said, the way you acknowledged that “this” - whatever it is between the two of you - is real, and now every glance, every word, every little interaction is tinged with something he’s never allowed himself to feel so openly.

he notices how you move through the department, calm and capable as always, and it makes his chest ache in that familiar, stubborn way. every step you take, every quick nod to a coworker, every soft word you give to a patient, it all reminds him of how much he wants to step closer to you, to cross the invisible line he’s been tiptoeing around for years. jack knows there’s a lot stacked against him, the obvious one being your ages. the thought of it doesn’t stop him; if anything, it just makes every interaction feel heavier, every glance more deliberate, because he’s terrified of saying too much, terrified of ruining what little normalcy he still gets with you.

he catches himself staring a little longer than usual when you move past him, even for something as mundane as grabbing a set of charts or checking a monitor, and every time, he swears he can feel the pull in his chest, that familiar ache that’s been there for years but never this sharp. he wants to reach out, to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, to step close enough that the space between you isn’t just metaphorical, but he stops himself, forcing his hands to stay on the clipboard, forcing his gaze to settle on something else, anything else.

it’s a game of restraint he’s never played with anyone before, and it’s exhausting, but he can’t bring himself to risk what might happen if he doesn’t.

the funny thing is, he’s seen it in your eyes before, those fleeting moments of something unspoken, a hesitation when you glance at him just a little too long, a softening in your voice when you answer him. he’s spent years convincing himself it’s all in his head, that he’s reading too much into nothing, but tonight changed that. tonight, you admitted- indirectly - that you feel it too. and that knowledge is intoxicating, terrifying, and distracting all at once. he wants to tease you like he always does, wants to slip into jokes and banter to keep it light, but the words taste heavier now, impossible to deliver the way he used to. every attempt at casual conversation feels loaded with the weight of what he wants to say and can’t.

he catches himself walking just a little closer than necessary when you’re at the nurses’ station, careful not to step on your space, careful not to make it obvious, but he’s aware of every inch between you. his mind races with all the things he could say, all the ways he could tell you he’s wanted this for years, but he stops himself at every turn, reminding himself of the age difference, the reality of your lives intersecting only here, only at work. it doesn’t make it easier; if anything, it makes it sharper, more urgent, because it’s time he can’t rewind, time he doesn’t know how to ask you to share with him.

he glances down the hall and sees you laughing briefly with bridget, the sound soft but full, and he can’t help the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. even with everything between you, even with the boundaries he’s been careful to maintain, the sight of you, unguarded, alive, confident, makes something shift in him, makes the ache in his chest worse and better all at once. he wants to say your name, to call you over, to just.. linger there, to watch you like he’s been wanting to for years without consequence, but he doesn’t. he can’t. not yet.

so he lets the smile linger instead, tucked away under the surface of the night, under the hum of monitors and the low murmur of the hospital, storing it for the next moment when he might actually have the courage to step closer.

he catches himself thinking about it constantly now, even in the middle of patient rounds, even while jotting notes or checking vitals. it’s in the small things. how your eyes light up when you explain something to a patient, the way your voice softens when you calm someone down, the way you adjust a blanket or a monitor without thinking about it. jack notices it all, every single detail, and it makes the ache in his chest twist tighter, because he knows he’s fallen for you completely, and he’s terrified that acknowledging it in full will change everything you’ve built between you over these years. but the more he sees it, the more he wants it, the more he wants you to know.

he knows the next few hours of the shift will test him, test his restraint and his patience, because you’ll be near him, talking, moving, laughing, and he’ll have to be careful with every word, every glance, every slight brush of your shoulder, because one misstep and the quiet tension he’s been cultivating could break in a way he’s not ready to repair. but for the first time, he doesn’t mind the tension. he’s willing to endure it, to play the long game, to wait, just to be close to you, just to feel even a little bit of the connection you share without letting it shatter. and that thought, more than anything, keeps him walking just a little slower behind you, watching you work, waiting for the moment he might finally stop hiding.

—

your shift crawls toward the end in the usual, unremarkable rhythm, but everything feels heavier now, weighted with the unsaid. you and jack move through it as you always do, patient to patient, chart to chart, orders given and received, but there’s a subtle difference. he’s quieter, more deliberate, lingering slightly longer when he passes by your station, catching your eye just a second too long before looking away. every small gesture, every glance, feels like it’s loaded with something neither of you are ready to name aloud yet.

by the time the clock in the hallway ticks past 7 a.m. , the department is calmer. day shift trickles in, trinity santos and robby passing through quickly, offering a brief nod or a quiet “good work” before vanishing back into the daylight that your night shift never really touches. you breathe a small sigh of relief as you hand off the last chart to bridget, who’s already halfway to the lockers, her shift over. lena waves from the nurses’ station, still efficient even when the shift winds down, and you give a quick smile, letting yourself feel the tiniest bit of exhaustion settle into your bones.

jack comes up behind you as you gather your bag, leaning casually against the counter with his clipboard tucked under his arm. “another night survived,” he says quietly, and you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair back over your shoulder.

“barely,” you reply, swinging your bag over one shoulder. “we’ll manage,” he says, but there’s something more in his tone, a quiet intensity under the casual phrasing, like he’s savoring these last few moments before the department swallows you both in different directions. he steps a little closer as you walk toward the exit, and you notice the faint tension in his shoulders, the subtle way he hesitates, like he’s measuring something—words, courage, time.

you both move down the empty hospital corridors together, lights humming overhead, the early morning quiet wrapping around you. jack glances at you once, and the half-smile he gives is just faint enough to make your stomach flutter. “coffee?” he asks, not formally, not like a question to be answered, more like an invitation, and you hesitate only for a heartbeat before nodding.

“yeah,” you say. “coffee sounds good.”

he doesn’t speak again as the two of you step out into the morning air, the cool Pittsburgh dawn brushing against your cheeks. he slides his hand into his coat pocket, glancing at you sideways, and you feel that familiar, stubborn pull in your chest again. the one that has been there for years, quietly insisting you notice it, quietly insisting you notice him.

the walk to the parking lot is quiet, the kind of silence that’s easy when you’re used to each other, filled with a hundred little unspoken things. jack falls into step beside you naturally, not too close, but not too far either, like the space between you is perfect in its own awkward way. he glances down at you again, jaw tight, like he’s preparing himself, and you know - without knowing what he’s thinking exactly - that whatever he’s been holding in is right at the edge, ready to spill over.

you reach your car first, leaning against the hood as you fish your keys out of your bag. jack stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, and there’s a moment. a quiet pause where the world feels suspended. the hospital hum is gone, the early morning streets are just faintly waking up, and for a second, it’s just the two of you, standing there, the space between you electric and charged with everything neither of you has said yet.

“so,” he starts, voice low, hesitant, and you glance up at him, feeling your chest tighten. he’s looking at you like he’s calculating the exact moment to take a step, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s allowed to cross a line he’s been tiptoeing around for years. you give him a small, encouraging nod without words, because you already know what’s coming, or at least you sense it, and you’re ready to listen. he swallows, adjusts his stance, and finally, just as the sunlight breaks a little more over the horizon, he speaks.

but not yet. he pauses, just long enough to make your heart pick up, before finally continuing. he swallows hard and takes a slow breath, like he’s steadying himself against something he’s been holding in for far too long. the words start out quiet, almost unsure, but there’s a raw honesty underneath that makes your chest tighten immediately.

“y/n,” he says, and just the sound of your name on his lips makes your stomach flutter. “i don’t want to overstep here. i know it’s not simple, but i can’t go on with this weird tension anymore. i have feelings for you and they’re not going away. i’ve tried avoiding it, i’ve tried pushing it down.”

you blink, your heart stuttering in your chest, and for a second you’re speechless, because it’s exactly what you’ve been hoping for, exactly what you’ve been feeling but never dared to say. your lips part slightly, but no words come, and jack steps a fraction closer, his eyes searching yours, steady and intense.

“i know,” he continues, voice softer now, “i know i’m older, i know i’m your higher-up at work, i know it’s complicated, but i don’t care. not anymore. i just want you, y/n. i want to be with you, be around you–if you’ll let me.”

your chest feels tight in the best way, like it’s impossible to contain the happiness and relief and longing all at once. you don’t even hesitate, because all the feelings you’ve buried for years finally have a voice. “i want you too,” you whisper, voice barely audible, but it’s enough. it’s everything.

jack closes the final space between you in a heartbeat, hands brushing your face gently, his thumbs tracing along your cheekbones like he’s memorizing every detail. and then his lips are on yours, soft at first, careful, tentative, like he’s testing the waters, but it deepens quickly, warm and insistent, full of all the years of quiet longing and restrained feelings, and you melt into it, because it’s right, because it’s exactly what you both needed.

when you finally pull back, just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, you can feel his heartbeat against yours, steady and certain. “you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

“longer than you think,” you reply, smiling softly, and he chuckles, just a little, pressing one more quick, lingering kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours again.

the morning sun breaks fully over the horizon, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like everything between you, years of quiet longing, subtle glances, unspoken words, has finally found its place. you stand there together, letting the world wake up around you, but right here, nothing else exists but the two of you.

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

a/n: writing this at the beach🤤🤤 im about to watch the new episode with my friend im burnt as fuck

organized by category.

Eddie Munson- Fluff, Smut, All the Good Feels:

hopelessly devoted: eddie x wife!reader| NSFW (18+) morticia x gomez addams core, pure gothic fluff and hopeless devotion

morticia and gomez addams if they survived the horrors of hawkins, got married, raised two equally dramatic children, and spent the rest of their lives being unapologetically obsessed with each other.

idle hands: mechanic!eddie x mechanic!reader (fem!reader)|NSFW 18+ workplace flirting, "just kiss already" energy, sex on a '67 impala ;)

everyone in hawkins thinks you and eddie munson are already married. honestly? you can’t even blame them. between the shared garage, the constant flirting, and the way he cannot help but stare, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing going on between you.

roommates: eddie x cottagecore!reader (fem!reader)|NSFW (18+) eddie vs steve (kinda), fluff the house boots

eddie thinks steve gets every girl he’s ever wanted, so when he finds out steve likes robin’s new roommate too, he backs off before he can get his heart broken. the only problem? she’s been hopelessly in love with eddie since the moment she met him.

over flow: eddie x gf!reader| eddie consoling "over sensitive" reader, slight angst, heavy fluff

a soft and sweet eddie fic about crying too easily, feeling things too deeply, and finally being loved gently because of it instead of despite it.

moth to a flame: eddie x henderson!reader (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) fluff, virgin!reader, corruption kink| wc: 9.9k

you’ve always been sweet. too sweet, probably. then, eddie starts taking you on dates, putting cigarettes to your lips, and looking at you like he wants to ruin you just a little bit.

the cue: eddie x wheeler!reader (fem!reader)|NSFW (18+) wc: 10.2k

you’re Nancy Wheeler’s twin sister, and you couldn’t be more different. while she’s wrapped up in late-night “study sessions” with Steve Harrington, you’re escaping out the window with a book, a cigarette, and zero interest in third-wheeling. the plan is simple: disappear for a few hours. that is, until Eddie finds you first.

perfect pair: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) fluff, smut wc: 8.6k

calling all my alt baddies!! this one’s for you. you are THAAAAT girl: dark, magnetic, and somehow just slightly out of reach. eddie's been into you since high school; he just didn’t realize how down bad he was until you finally let him in. wink wink.

roslyn: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) tooth rotting fluff, fluffy smut| wc: 10.2k

rain-soaked forests, freezing lake water, and a cabin that smells like firewood and cheap liquor. a four-year love that feels easy even when everything else is loud, messy, and a little chaotic. eddie gets handsy when he’s drunk, you get territorial when someone flirts with him, and your friends never let either of you forget it. it’s laughter, mud, hot tubs in the rain, and being carried home when you can’t walk straight. some love stories are dramatic. yours just feels like coming home, every single time.

fade into you: eddie x you(fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) boyfriend!eddie, tooth rotting fluff| wc: 3.5k

you and eddie sneak away to lovers lake for a quiet night, fairy lights strung in the back of his van and a joint burning between you. what starts as an easy, hazy date turns into skinny dipping in the cold water, soft laughter, and the kind of closeness that only the two of you could ever share

no one like you: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) tooth rotting fluff, fluffy smut| wc: 7.2k

You and Eddie take on the Hawkins Fourth of July fair: carnival games, bad decisions, and way too much sugar included. Somewhere between the chaos and the charm, he might just win more than a stuffed prize.

12 fractures: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) tooth rotting fluff wc: 9.4k

you move to hawkins expecting nothing, and somehow end up with eddie munson looking at you like you hung the stars; and it only gets worse (better) from there. what follows is a series of soft, everyday moments: hellfire sessions where he’s definitely not biased toward you, late night lake swims with his friends, wayne treating you like you’ve always been family, and quiet evenings tangled together in his room with a guitar, a joint, and a kitten you accidentally end up raising together.

Pure Fluff:

lover, you should've come over: eddie x you (fem!reader)| old friends to lovers, fluff

A slow-burning, tension-filled story about history that never really stayed in the past. When you and Eddie cross paths again, it doesn’t feel like a first meeting; it feels like picking up something unfinished. Between late-night run-ins, sharp banter, and the quiet weight of what went wrong years ago, every interaction walks the line between familiarity and frustration. Because the real problem isn’t that you don’t know each other. It’s that you do, and neither of you ever said what mattered when it counted.

just for me: eddie x you (fem!reader)| tooth rotting fluff like fr

(this might be the cutest fucking thing i've ever written) eddie being soft in all the ways you wouldn’t expect: sneaking up behind you saying “close your eyes,” always pressing something small and shiny into your hand, pulling you into his space like you belong there. quiet moments that turn into something bigger, a little chaos, a lot of sweetness, and a boy who says “mine” like he means it.

TenThingsIHateAboutYou: eddie x you (fem!reader)|pure eddie being persistent, fluff as fuck

you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?

over my head: eddie x you (fem!reader)| puuuureee tooth rotting fluff

eddie munson: menace to society, terror of hellfire, professional instigator. also eddie munson: brings his girlfriend lunch, calls her “sweetheart” in public, and gets clingy when he’s drunk. literally the best boyfriend ever imo.

all over you: eddie x you (fem!reader)| dnd flirting, fluff, makeout scene

dustin convinces you to let hellfire take over your house for the night, and when lucas bails for a basketball game, you get dragged back into a world you swore you retired from. turns out, you’re still very good at keeping a party alive, and eddie notices. cue one meddling little brother, a very persistent dungeon master, and a “one-time favor” that quickly turns into something a lot more.

treasure worth keeping: eddie x you (fem! reader)|ren faire fluff, hellfire madness

you spend your birthday at the renaissance faire with the hellfire boys. you and eddie are both very obviously into each other, but you're the last two to figure it out. cue Dustin and Gareth meddling to knock some sense into both of you.

Angst, Hurt/Comfort:

holding onto you: eddie x ex!gf reader| almost death, near death confession

after a messy breakup, being trapped in the upside down with your ex-boyfriend is the last thing you want. unfortunately, almost dying has a funny way of putting things into perspective.

yeah boy & doll face: eddie x you (fem!reader) ansty eddie, fluff

you and Eddie are the kind of opposites people romanticize: sunshine and shadow, soft hands and sharp edges, the kind of love that doesn’t make sense until it does. at first, it’s easy. too easy. the kind of love that feels permanent before it ever has the chance to be tested. but love doesn’t always break all at once. sometimes it happens slowly, through careless words, quiet insecurities, and the kind of hurt you learn to laugh off. until one day, you don’t.

the ghost of you: eddie x you (fem!reader)| reader has powers, protects eddie at all costs

A high-stakes, emotionally charged story set during the final battle, where love, fear, and sacrifice collide in the Upside Down. When the plan falls apart, you realize too late that Eddie was never meant to wait for you. And when Vecna sets his sights on him, it becomes painfully clear why. With everything unraveling, you’re forced to choose between the mission and the person you can’t lose.

hell above: eddie x you (fem!reader)|established relationship, slight angst/hurt/comfort, demogorgons & upside down lore

you and eddie have been dating for some time. you've never done anything to break his trust, but recently you've been sneaking off late at night with steve for "friend stuff". he becomes suspicious and follows you one night to try to catch you in the act. little does he know what "friend stuff" really means.

lighthouse: eddie x you (fem!reader)| soft eddie, established relationship, mental health themes

a soft, comfort-filled day of wandering through bookstores, walking through the park, laughing harder than you have in weeks, and being reminded that even on the worst days, you are still deeply loved. for anyone struggling lately, you deserve gentleness too.🤍

im not in love: eddie x you (fem! reader)|NSFW (18+) angst, hurt/comfort, satisfying ending

he’ll get on his knees for you behind closed doors, call you his queen like it’s the only truth that matters. but at school? you’re just another cheerleader he rolls his eyes at, and you’ve had enough of being his secret.

Mostly/Pure Smut, Fluff (?)

risky business: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) drunk calling, phone sex

after a few drinks during girls night with robin and nancy, the liquid courage kicks in and you decide to send a risky photo to your not-so-secret crush, eddie. and let's just say, the feelings are mutual.

make a wish: eddie x you (fem!reader)|NSFW (18+) birthday smutt, praise kink/aftercare

it’s your birthday, and nancy throws a little party to celebrate you. drinks are flowing, music is loud, and eddie spends the entire night attached to your side whispering filthy things in your ear. its his mission to get you out of there and in his bed, and he knows just the right buttons to push to make that happen.

fire in my heart: eddie x ex!gf (fem!reader)|NSFW (18+) angst, ex's to lovers

eddie reluctantly goes to the club with steve, robin, johnathan, and nancy. a couple of drinks in, and his experience goes from torturous to somewhat manageable. that is, until he sees you from across the room, and his whole facade comes to a screeching halt. he wants you back, hell, he needs you. and he's not letting you go for a second time.

skins: virgin!eddie x demon!reader (fem!reader)|NSFW (18+)sub!eddie

eddie's sick of corroded coffin's current standstill. gareth heard from a friend of a friend of a distant cousin who made a deal at a crossroads and got everything they wanted, and more. eddie takes it amongst himself to make a deal, in hopes to give corroded coffin it's well-deserved fame. little does he know what's at stake to make this deal official.

closer: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) pure smutt

heh so uh, not much to say here besides you're a goth baddie and eddie worships you and the ground you walk on.

i'd stay forever: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) dom!reader smut

eddie’s used to being the one people whisper about. until you walk into the room, and suddenly, he’s not the one being watched. you’re not sweet, you’re not safe, and you definitely don’t scare easy. good thing he’s never been afraid of a little danger.

Gut wrenching angst, hurt/no comfort:

is it really you?: eddie x you (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) fluff, heartbreak

You come back home for the summer, expecting everything to feel the same. Same café job, same routine, same version of yourself you left behind. But the café’s different now. Renovated, busier… and apparently staffed with one very familiar face. Eddie Munson. The same Eddie who used to sit in your living room with your brother, who called you “kid,” who never really saw you the way you wanted him to. That was years ago. Now you’re twenty-one. And he’s definitely looking.

doll parts: eddie x you (fem!reader)| angst, all hurt, no comfort

everyone knows you’re in love with eddie, everyone except him. when a long-awaited moment turns into something cruel, you’re forced to face the one thing you’ve been avoiding...maybe he never understood you in the first place.

tough luck: eddie x you (fem!reader)|NSFW (18+), angst, hurt no comfort, fluff

(i'm sorry in advance)...it’s you, your cousins, their idiot friends, and summers that blur together in the best way: late nights, bad decisions, and eddie always somewhere too close for your own good. it turns into years of avoiding him like your life depends on it. and then, obviously, you go back.

Johnny Storm-

black widow: johnny x black!widow reader (fem!reader)| hurt/comfort, fluff

after an impending threat from Doctor Doom puts Franklin Richards in danger, you’re assigned as his security detail at the Baxter Building. unfortunately for you, Johnny Storm is immediately obsessed after you kick his ass upon arrival. while Johnny spends every waking moment trying to get under your skin, your past with the red room keeps you from letting him get too close.

Dean Winchester-

unfinished business: dean x hunter!reader (fem!reader)| NSFW (18+) family friends/history, childhood memories, backseat of the impala smut

A pipe somewhere ticked as something warmed or cooled. The fridge cycled on, shuddered as it held a note. A car went by below and laid a slow bar of light across the wall, left to right, and then it took away again.

Steve’s hand was open on your sternum, fingers loose as the whole broad weight of them just placed there, rising and falling with you. At some point in the night, it had migrated up from your waist and settled over your breastbone, and you understood that it had gone to your heart. He’d done that as a teenager, too, in his parents’ rec room with a movie neither of you watched; you’d teased him for it because, at that age, you teased the boy for the tender thing instead of letting him just have it. You wished, slightly uncomfortably, that you’d just let him have it. 

Steve breathed in differently, nearer to awake. His face was in your hair and you felt the breath go in long and catch slightly at the top like his body was still finding the parts of itself the crying had moved around. The weight of yesterday came back then, the simple physical fact of everything that had been said redistributing itself across your chest. 

You couldn’t move your fingers.

It would have been the smallest thing to flex them and get the blood back, to end the bright fizzing ache of them. But that would have meant moving your arm, and moving your arm meant the chance—small, ridiculous, you knew it was ridiculous—that the whole arrangement would come apart, that he’d surface and the light would be wrong and it would turn out you’d assembled all of this out of want the way you used to assemble a future out of apartment listings. So you kept still and let your hand keep hurting, and you readily chose the ache; you tried to not think about how your first thing in the first morning was already to hold something uncomfortable very carefully and not say a single word about it. 

Steve’s hand moved, fingers drawing in a fraction against your sternum and going loose again. You felt his breath change behind it, going longer, then held, then a rough exhale that you knew meant he’d decided to awake.

For a moment after the exhale, you felt the stillness arrive in him, as though he was taking inventory of his surroundings. You knew what he was taking into account, you could feel him counting; the math that came with waking up alone for years, and it had not yet been told the equation had changed. 

His arm closed, far from gentle, and it contracted as he drew you back into him hard all at once. His hand splayed wide and certain over your ribs as his face pressed down into the nape of your neck like the limit of two bodies was a technicality he could negotiate. His breathing had come apart, going fast and shallow against your skin, and you lay there and let him hold you too tight and breathe wrong against your hair. 

His nose dragged up the back of your neck like he was after the actual scent of you. Then his mouth found the top knob of your spine and stayed there, open, not quite a kiss, more a man pressing his lips to a thing to make certain it was warm.

“Don’t,” he said into your skin. His voice was wrecked, gravel-low. “Not yet. Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.” His hands slid off your ribs and down, flat, splaying over your stomach to haul your hips flush into his, and you felt exactly how not asleep the rest of him was. You felt it through the thin nothing of what you’d slept in, and he let you feel it—pressed against you slow, unhurried, and almost lazy, as though the point of it was the closeness and the rest was just truth that came attached. “Stay right here. Just—God.” His mouth moved to the side of your throat. “Stay right here so I can—” 

You felt yourself let out a small chuckle. “So you can what?”

“So I can be normal about this.” He was smiling against your neck; you could feel the crooked shape of it. “Working on it. Gimme a second. I’m gonna be so normal about you.”

But his hand had started moving again, going up slowly, the broad heat of his palm dragging from your stomach to your ribs and stopping just under the curve of your breast, his thumb resting there. His hips shifted again, a slow press, and the sound that came out of him when you rocked back into it—just slightly, only to see—was low and ruined and so, completely involuntary. 

“That’s not—you can’t do that.” He laughed, breathless, mouth still at your throat. “That’s not fair. I just woke up, I haven’t even—” He bit down, almost gently, on the spot below your ear, and you felt your own breath catch and him catching it. “There she is.”

“You’re insane.” 

“I’m in love,” he corrected, like it explained the hands and the hips and the mouth. The maddening thing was that out of his mouth, this hoarse and this early, it sort of did. “You want me to be cool about it?” His thumb finally moved, one slow stroke, and your spine arched into it before you could decide. “Not happening. You’re gonna have to let me be a little crazy about you for like—a month. Minimum.”

Despite the gnawing ache somewhere at the bottom of your chest, you felt your chest seize his words. A part too of you, too large to be considered normal either, tucked away his words to the girl who longed to hear them. 

“We have to get out of bed at some point,” you said, the words coming out too quiet for your liking. 

Steve stilled for a moment, lips pursing against your neck. Then, he let out a low hum, as though he was contemplating. He stayed silent for a while, resting his mouth against the side of your throat, and you could feel him thinking, not thinking, and being there, taking the weight of it all the second time. 

“In a minute,” he said. “We’ve earned a minute.”

His arm remained exactly where it was, the dead weight of it across you not loosening even by a degree, and you understood he meant it less as a plan than as a refusal. The world could have the rest of the day, it could not yet have this. 

“Thank you,” he said, quieter.

It came out so quietly you hardly heard it, the words pressed flat against your skin, and they sat there being strange. They felt far too small for whatever freight he’d loaded onto them; these words were a thing held for doors, a borrowed pencil, cookies. They weren’t meant for this, and he seemed to know it, for he let the words be insufficient and let you feel him knowing it. 

“For—” He stopped. You waited for the rest and the rest never arrived; you felt the sentence simply run out of the road somewhere against the back of your neck, and he didn’t go chasing after it. Steve had never been able to say enormous things head-on. He said them sideways, in pieces, or three years later. “I keep thinking I got away with something,” he said instead, which was sideways, the closest he could get. “Like someone’s going to come here and tell me you’re not for me.”

“Steve.”

“I know.” His mouth found the top of your shoulder and pressed there, apologetic. “I know it’s dumb.” His thumb started up again over your ribs, that unconscious arc, back-and-forth across the same inch of you.

You turned over. Your numb arm came along like luggage, flopping uselessly between you, and your knee cracked into his, and your elbow caught him somewhere soft enough that he let out a low oof. Then, he huffed a laugh against your forehead, and his hand found your hip to guide the last of the turn. 

You were facing him, and he found your face like the whole clumsy tangle of limbs had only ever been in service of getting your eyes back in front of his. 

He looked like himself in a way that hurt a little. The morning had stripped him down to it; his hair had gone soft and undone, falling forward his forehead in pieces, longer than he’d worn it as a boy, dark where it curled his temple from sleep. His face had filled out the lanky sharpness of seventeen; there was a sharper line to his jaw now, a day of stubble coming in uneven along it. His eyes were swollen at the rim still, lashes stuck into wet points, and there was that total unguarded, slightly stupid attention present in them. A pillow crease raw pink and deep down one cheek. 

“Hi,” he said. 

“I missed you, Steve,” you said, the words tumbling out of your lips before you could give it a micro-second of thought. 

It hit him somewhere you could see. His brows drew in first, a small pull at the center. Then his throat worked, one slow swallow, the shift of it under his jaw a few inches from yours. His eyes had gone bright too fast, the swollen rims of them catching, and he blinked once, hard, like he could send it back down by force and was annoyed he couldn’t. The hand on your hip flexed—closed, opened, closed—gripping on nothing, at the warmth of you through the cotton.

“You—” He didn’t finish the sentence, choosing to kiss you instead. It was four years with the brakes off, his hand coming up hard into your hair, his mouth on yours like the kiss was an answer he couldn’t get out another way. He made a low sound that caught in his throat, and his other arm dragged you in by the small of your back until there was no inch of you he wasn't touching.

“Say it again,” he said against your mouth. “C’mon. Say it again.”

“I missed—”

He kissed the rest out of you, greedy and a little desperate about it, his teeth catching your bottom lip. You felt him smile when your breath went. 

“Been so long,” he muttered, complaining, dragging his lips along your jaw, down, to the spot under your ear. “Missed you so much it was stupid. It was actually—” Another kiss, lower. “—embarrasing. Ask anyone.”

You laughed and it came out shaky. He lifted his head at the sound of it, wanting to see it.

His eyes were wet, and he didn’t bother hiding it, too undone to bother. They moved over your face, and his thumb came up and pressed to the corner of your mouth, holding the edge of your smile. 

“There,” he said, quiet now, the heat in his voice going soft underneath it. “That. Do that again and keep doing it forever.”

You got off at four because Mrs. Mayer’s root canal had been cancelled and Dr. Feldman had looked at the empty two-thirty and three-fifteen slot and told you, with too much generosity, to just go. So now there was a whole unspent hour in your hands, and the light was going long and yellow and a little nostalgic, laying itself flat across the outfield grass like it had been poured there. You came up the path on the third-base side and the chain-link was warm under your fingers where you trailed them along it, sun-warmed, humming faintly when you pressed. You stopped before you got to the dugout, wanting to not be noticed for just a little longer.

On the mound Steve had a kid by the shoulders, squaring him up to do something, and he was crouched to do it. He was down to the boy’s height, the backwards cap and the whistle and the dirt already worked into one knee of his pants. He was saying something that made the kid nod hard twice. The rest of them were scattered infield in the loose orbit; someone’s glove was on the grass. 

That was something that still got you. Younger, Steve had never once in his life folded himself down to someone’s level—his entire being had been built on people looking up—and here he was, one knee on the dirt, down to a child’s height, patient in a way the boy you’d once known wouldn’t have recognized in himself. It was a thing he learned somewhere you weren’t, and you hated, a little, that you hadn’t been there to see him learn it.

It was Carter who found you first. He was out near second, doing something with his glove that had stopped being baseball a while ago—turning it over and inspecting the webbing—and he looked up for no reason and saw you at the fence. His whole face opened, and he didn’t wave so much as throw his arm up, the whole thing, fingers spread, the gesture too big for the small distance.

“Auntie!” he hollered, in case the wave had failed to cover it, and a couple other kids to look at the spectacle of an aunt, found you unremarkable, then looked back. 

You lifted a hand, smiled, mouthed a greeting. 

Steve turned then, doing an automatic head-count that had likely been woven into his primal instincts as someone who had to take good care of children. His gaze swept and caught on you and stopped. You watched it happen from sixty feet away; his face, mid-instruction, running a scan, it hitting you, and the whole thing went still for a beat, reticulating. His hand was still on the kid’s shoulder, he’d forgotten it was there. The kid looked up at him, waiting for whatever sentence had been happening, and Steve seemed to have forgotten there had been one. 

He came back to himself pretty quick, said something quick to the boy, gave the shoulder a pat that was half-apology, and straightened up. His whole face changed, it did it every time and you were beginning to suspect you’d never get used to it. You couldn’t possibly get used to it, not when it brightened, helpless, top-to-bottom, the neutral falling off it. It had only been five days, but he looked at you like it had been considerably longer and also like no time had passed, as though you were both the most expected and least believable thing to have existed in Hawkins. 

“Alright—” His voice carried, pitched for the field, as he clapped once. “Two laps and grab your stuff. Two, Daniels, I can count. Carter—” because Carter had already abandoned all pretense of practice and was making for the fence, glove flapping. “—two laps means you, too, bud. Your aunt’s not going anywhere.”

“She might!” 

“Trust me, she’s not,” Steve said easily to Carter, but his eyes had come back to you when he said it. 

Carter, robbed of his argument, groaned the groan of the deeply wronged and peeled off toward the outfield to serve his two laps, glove still on. You watched him go. You watched, too, the small mutiny of the rest of them.

Steve crossed the infield to you, trying to look like he wasn’t hurrying and failing at the trying. He was still half-turned toward the field as he came, lobbing instructions over his shoulder, his voice running on its own track while the rest of him aimed itself at the fence.

He reached the other side of the chain-link and stopped. For a second, you just had the two of you and the diamond pattern of the wire between, and he looked at you through it, and grinned.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You’re early.” He said, sounding like an accusation he was over the moon to be making. “It’s not—you don’t get him for another half hour.”

“Mrs. Mayers cancelled her root canal.”

“God bless, Mrs. Mayers, then.” He hooked his fingers through the links, up near yours, the backs of them warm against the backs of yours. There was something almost shy in it, the fence still between you, a boy at a school dance unsure of the rules. “She’s getting a Christmas card.”

You let out a small chuckle. “You don’t even know her.”

“Don’t need to.” His fingers shifted against yours through the wire. “Did me a favor.” His mouth pulled. “She gave me a whole extra hour with you, I’m just grateful.”

Then, he added, “Come here.”

“I am here.”

“No, you’re—” He gave the fence a small affronted shake, the whole panel of it rattling. “You’re there. I can’t work like this.” 

“You’re supposed to be working anyway. There are children.”

“The children are fine. They’re running laps, it’s the one part of practice that runs itself.” He’d already let go of the wire, though, already started moving down the length of the fence toward the gap where the gate was. He didn’t wait to see if you were following, just trusting it, and you found you were following. The both of you walked your opposite sides of the chain-link toward the one place it would let you be on the same side. “Come around. C’mon. Humor me.”

He reached the gate first and held it, one hand flat on the swing of it, grinning almost ridiculously. 

“You’re holding it like a car door,” you said, faintly amused. 

He shrugged. “Get in the car, baby.”

You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re gross.”

You still went through the gate, and the second the fence wasn’t a thing between you two anymore, his arms came around you. He hooked you to his side as his arm settled across your shoulders and turned the two of you to face the field. You understood, in the first few seconds of it, that he was going to keep the arm there and you were going to watch the back half of the children’s practice pinned to the coach’s side.

“There.” The whole long line of him eased against you. “Better. Now it’s a good practice.”

You slightly nudged his side, shaking your head. “I don’t know why these kids even like you.” 

“They worship me,” he said with a serene confidence like he had never once been worried about it, “because I’m an incredible coach and a positive role model.” Then his eyes cut to you, checking, the certainty thinning at the edges the second the audience narrowed to just you. “You’re not gonna confirm that for me, huh.”

“No.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, expecting nothing better. “That’s fair.”

“Carter thinks you’re the one who decides who goes to the major leagues. You’re just a liar.” 

Steve traced its slow arc against your arm where his hand hung off your shoulder. Then, he tipped his chin to rest it on top of yours. “They like me ‘cause I tell them they’re good and mean it. Kid that age, all they need is for someone to tell them they’re good and mean it.”

You let that one sit. There was something underneath it that made you ache to think about, something about a boy who’d grown up in a big cold house with a piano player at Christmas and parents who were always elsewhere, something about Steve knowing the going rate of a grown-up meaning it.

Out on the field, the laps had come apart entirely. Daniels was lying flat in the outfield grass, arms flung wide. Two guys had given up on baseball for a conversation that required their whole bodies to conduct. And Carter had run two laps and was jogging the long way back toward the diamond. You watched the exact moment his course bent and the moment his eyes found the sideline. 

Steve felt it too. A small huff went through his chest. “Here he comes.”

Carter slowed and stopped ten feet out, glove dangling from one hand. He looked at the two of you with an open, laboring face, eyes going to Steve’s arm and your shoulder under it. Then Steve’s face and back to the arm.

“Why are you doing that?” Carter asked.

You felt Steve hold down a chuckle beside you. “Doing what, bud?”

“That.” The whole hand came up to point. “Your arm.”

“Free country,” Steve said. “I can put my arm wherever I want.”

“It’s on my aunt.”

“Oh, I know exactly whose aunt it’s on,” Steve said, voice teasing. 

Carter made a sound of betrayed outrage in his throat. “I’m telling mom.”

“Please do tell her,” Steve said without missing a beat. 

Carter narrowed his eyes at the two of you, holding the suspicion a moment longer. Then, the matter apparently not yielding any more information, he moved on to the part that concerned him. “So, is he—” His gaze swung up to you. “Is Coach Steve gonna be around you?”

You knew Carter meant nothing by it, it was more a logistics question asked by a kid who thought in terms of stuff, of the time you spent with him, of dinners, and the shape of a regular week. He was already half-distracted, picking at the dirt crusted in his glove while he waited on the answer.

You felt yourself hesitate. It was nothing—half a beat, a beat, the space where you should have said yes easily and didn’t. Because the question had reached somewhere Carter hadn’t aimed for it to reach; Carter didn’t know about the ring or the car or the year you’d come home wrong. He’d lived inside the after of his whole conscious life, and now he was standing in the gold light hoping, you could see him hoping, and you understood all at once that this was a part of it all, too. That at twenty-two, being with Steve existed beyond the bubble that the two of you lived in. In many ways, it was the way you had expected you’d live when you were a teenager.

The beat passed, and you opened your mouth to give Carter the easy answer, but you knew Steve had already felt it.

Of course he had, he felt everything about you. The arm around your shoulder stayed there, but some warmth went thin in him, the brightness dimming by a notch you couldn’t possibly miss. He went quiet, a little careful, and you knew exactly what your half-second sounded like in his head. 

“Yeah,” you said to Carter, and you made it land right, made your voice do the warm easy thing. “I don’t think we’re getting rid of him.” 

Carter accepted this with a warm shrug, likely not realizing the gravity of having Steve around in the manner the two of you were heading toward. He was already gone, jogging off, glove flapping, the whole exchange behind him.

You stood there in the quiet he left, hating, a little, how quickly you'd reached for the patch. 

Steve was still beside you, quiet, and once Carter was far enough off, he turned his head. His voice came out quiet and just for you, hesitant in a way he never allowed himself to be. “Hey.” His thumb moved on your arm. “I’m in. You know that, right? Like—” He stopped, then starting again, fumbling toward it. “I know me saying it—it doesn’t prove it. I just need you to know it. That’s all. However slow, I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt the corners of your lips twitch as your body relaxed just slightly. He just set the warmth down in front of you, all of it, asking for nothing back. You felt your chest do a helpless grateful thing as you nodded jerkily.

“I know,” you said and turned to face him, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “How about we start with a date?”

“A date,” Steve repeated, and you watched the grin start at the corner of his mouth and lose the fight fast, spreading until it had the whole of his face.

“Yeah. A date,” you confirmed. “Where you—”

“Where I pick you up.” He was already nodding, already somewhere ahead of you with it. “Yeah. Yeah, okay—” and then his hand came up to your jaw and tipped your face up to kiss you, quick and certain, grinning. It was quick enough that none of the kids caught the peck.

“I think I’d like a Steve Harrington date once again,” you said.

“You’re gonna get the best one I’ve got,” Steve said. His thumb moved once along your jaw before his hand dropped. “I’ll figure it out. Something good.” 

“I don’t think anything can top the time you drove me to the water tower for my birthday.”

Steve’s grin shifted, and something even more fond entered his expression. “You loved the water tower.”

You had; he’d picked you up at seven with a cooler in the back seat and no information at all, deflecting every question the whole drive. He’d taken one hand off the wheel at the last stretch of the road to cover your eyes so you wouldn’t catch the turn. He'd climbed up first and reached back for you, and there'd been a string of those cheap battery lights he'd looped along the rail, and the cooler had a bottle of something stolen from his parents' garage and a cake from the grocery store. Sixteen, and the whole of Hawkins laid out small and lit-up underneath you, and Steve watching your face the entire time instead of the view, because your face had been the thing he'd built it for. 

He watched your face carefully, and whatever it was doing made him pull you in closer. “This is gonna be even better.” When you raised your brows, he immediately said, “And don’t bother fishing. I know you. I won’t tell—”

“Coach Steve!” The voice came from third base. Marcus, a gangly boy with his glove planted on his hip, wearing a posture of pure withering judgement you didn’t even think was possible for an eleven-year-old. The rest of the kids had drifted into the loose disorder of an unsupervised practice, and Marcus had clearly appointed himself shop steward of the situation.

“You’re supposed to be coaching us,” he announced to the field, to the parking lot, to Indianapolis. “You’ve been standing there the whole time.”

Steve’s head turned. “I’m coaching right now.”

Marcus turned to you, raising his brow in question. Despite yourself, you felt yourself shrinking underneath the kid’s judgement, causing you to pull Steve off of you by the elbow, a mortified shove. “Go coach. Steve. The children are angry.”

“They’re always angry.” But he was already losing the argument and he knew it, for Marcus’s stare had the weight of a much older and much more disappointed man. Steve sighed longly for being dragged bodily back to his job. “Fine. Okay, Marcus. You happy? One day you’re gonna like someone and remember this.”

“I will not,” Marcus said immediately with an iron certainty that clearly meant he had never given the idea much thought.

“You will. It happens to everybody,” Steve said, pushing off the fence, conceding the field. His hand caught yours on the way, the last bit of contact, holding on a beat past when the rest of him had left. “Infield. Let’s go.”

He started for the diamond, and he didn’t let go of your hand, so you got towed a full step and a half before you planted. 

“Oooookay.” You dug your feet into the ground, causing Steve to turn. “I’m not co-coaching with you.”

Steve looked back at you, then down at the hand he was still holding, then at you again, as though this had genuinely not occurred to him as a problem. “Fine. Just stay here then.”

You realized that this was the first and last time you’d come to watch baseball practice.

The apartment was three-quarters yours already, and that was why most of the gaps in it showed so much. You’d had a week of evenings alone in it before today, trying to convince yourself that you did, in fact, live there despite the lack of furniture. So the rug was down, the good one, the one with the rust-colored border that you'd hauled up three flights by yourself in two trips and a half. The paper lantern you'd hung over the main room glowed even now, mid-afternoon, because the bulb was warm and you'd wanted it warm. There were plants on the kitchen sill in a row, leaning their whole green selves toward the brick-shadowed light, and a record crate by the wall, and a lamp with one of your mother's old scarves draped over the shade, throwing the light amber where it pooled on the floorboards.

The couch wasn’t here yet; it was down in Eddie’s van, and so the main room had a sofa-shaped emptiness in the middle of it the rug was pretending it wasn't there. Your books were in towers along the baseboard, waiting for a shelf that was also in the van. The bed was a frame in four leaning pieces against the bedroom wall. It was a room with a soul and no skeleton, and you’d found that you didn’t mind the order it came in. After four years of the reverse—of furnished rooms that stayed somebody else's no matter how long you slept in them—you were willing to wait on a couch.

You heard a long graceless scrape and thud working its way up the stairwell, punctuated by Eddie’s voice, then Steve’s, lower, the two of them negotiating.

“Pivot—pivot, Harrington. That’s a wall. You’re putting it through a wall—”

“It’s not going through a wall—”

“Yes, it—”

You held the door, smiling as Eddie met your eyes. The couch came through at an angle that defied a few things about geometry, Steve walking backward with the brunt of it and Eddie steering the rear. And then it was in, and then it was down, finally filling the gap. It looked, immediately and completely, like it had always meant to live here.

Eddie straightened up and put both hands at the small of his back like a man twice his age. “That,” he said, “is the worst one. From here it’s all small stuff.” He turned a slow circle, taking the place in. You watched him register it, watched the appraisal land somewhere genuine. “Huh. It’s good in here. You did all this in a week?”

“Yup. Most of it.”

Steve hadn’t said anything yet. He’d done a slow read of the apartment the same way Eddie had done, except Eddie’s circle had ended on liking it, and Steve’s didn’t seem to have landed anywhere at all. His eyes went over the lantern, the rug, the four leaning pieces of the bed frame against the far wall. The single mug by the sink. His hands had gone into his pockets somewhere in the looking.

“It does look really nice,” Steve said finally, and you could hear he meant it. Only, it just came out a half-degree under the pitch the afternoon had been running at. 

Then he crossed the room to you, and the thin thing in him from a second ago he seemed to leave behind somewhere on the way. His hands found your waist, turning you a little so your back fit against his front, and his chin came down on the top of your head. 

“You decorated so much better than me. I’m sort of jealous,” Steve said.

“Mm. Because you didn’t decorate,” you said. You reached up and pressed your palm flat over the back of his hand where it sat at your waist, and felt him go quiet and pleased above you, and across the room Eddie made a noise of discovery.

“Okay,” Eddie said. “What is this?”

You looked over. Eddie had surfaced from the box marked MISC, holding something up between two fingers, the way you'd hold up something found under a fridge, and it took you a second to place it from across the room.

The first shoes, soft pink leather gone gray and stiff with age, the elastic all but perished, scuffed nearly through at the toe. They were child-sized, which meant absurdly small that didn’t seem like they could ever have been on a real foot. Madame Petrova’s from when you were seven; you’d carried them through the dorm, through places that were even less than temporary, through Devon’s house, through every set of rooms that hadn't been yours, and you had never once been able to explain to anyone, including yourself, why a box always had to have them in it.

“Those are mine,” you said, which answered nothing.

“Obviously. I figured they weren’t Harrington’s.” Eddie turned them over, examined the worn-through toe, the size of them. “These are—Harrington, did you know your girlfriend keeps haunted baby shoes—”

He said it without weight, ‘girlfriend’ just the nearest word his sentence had reached for, already turning the shoes over to find the angle that would explain them. He wasn't waiting on anyone. He didn't notice he'd done anything at all.

But you turned to look at Steve, and he looked at you. You both caught the stalled expression on the other’s face that meant the word had landed somewhere it hadn’t before.

It was true, and that was the almost-funny part, the part sitting between you two, light and a little absurd. It was completely true that neither of you had once said it. Three months in—his razor on your sink and your tea in his cupboard, his arm slung around you in a parking lot in front of the entire Hawkins parent body, a thing so large and obvious it had its own weight—and somewhere in the middle of all of it, the two of you had simply never gone back and picked the small ordinary word up off the floor. You'd skipped it. You'd been busy with the enormous version and forgotten the plain one existed.

“Huh,” Steve said. He was looking at you with his eyebrows slightly up, fighting a smile and losing, like he’d been handed a piece of excellent news on accident. You felt your own face doing something embarrassingly similar.

“Don’t,” you said, trying to bite down the smile that threatened to capture your face.

“I’m not doing anything.”

You gestured at his face, at the pleased expression on it. “We have a bookshelf to work on. You can do this later.”

“I’ll remember that,” he agreed, not remotely chastened. “I’m gonna say it at the worst possible time. At the grocery store. And I’ll say it loudly.” And let you go—but slow, his hands trailing off your waist like they were trying to decide against it. 

“I’ll break up with you.”

“Can’t. You’d have to call me your boyfriend first. There’s an order to these things.” He looked insufferably pleased with the loophole. You crossed the room to take the shoes back from Eddie before he could find a worse thing to say about them.

“My shoes are not haunted,” you said, affronted. They weighed almost nothing and you set them on the windowsill instead of back in the box, where the late light came through and showed how thin the layer had gone at the toe. 

Eddie watched you do it with mild interest, raising a brow. “Did they make you spin around on sandpaper—” He stopped when you pointed him with a glare, albeit with no heat behind it. He crouched and started working the bookshelf free of its cardboard. 

“Thank you,” you said, “for the help.” 

Eddie turned his neck to face you, lips curving up into a smile. “Well, I couldn’t have let Harrington do it all. He would’ve broken his back and we both would have had to take care of him.”

Steve huffed out a laugh at the words as he finished the work of pulling the panels of the bookshelf out. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d want you at my bedside, Eddie.”

Eddie patted Steve on the back. “You’d want me there,” he said, and that seemed to settle it for him.

The two of them got down to the shelf. The wrong screws obviously came first, then the right ones, Eddie holding it square while Steve drove the brackets, you reading the instruction sheet aloud to a room that had unanimously decided the instruction sheet was beneath it. The light moved across the floorboards while you worked. Somewhere below, the building did its evening sounds, a door, a faucet, somebody's television. 

You watched them more than you read, after a while. They had a shorthand; Eddie said half a sentence and Steve already made a move to meet it, a joke that was clearly the worn-down nub of an older joke, the easy conversation between two people who’d done a hundred dumb tasks together and would do a hundred more together. It was a hollow feeling, in your chest, of standing at the edge of someone’s life and seeing, laid out plain, how much of it had gone on being rich and full and populated in all the years you weren't in it. Steve had become somebody’s person, several somebodies’, a fixture in their lives with their own regulars. You'd felt it once before, in a bar, watching Robin and Vickie fit together like they'd been cut from one piece. You filed it under nothing. You went back to the instruction sheet.

“What time is it?” Eddie said from the floor, hardly looking up from the bracket. “I told Jonathan I’d call him before it got stupid-late. He’s trying to lock down the Philly weekend and won’t let it go.”

“Like five,” Steve said.

“Okay, I’ve got time.” Eddie sat back on his heels and looked over the half-built shelf. “He wants the fourteenth confirmed. You still good for that?”

“Yeah. Tell him I’m in.” Steve fit the last bracket and pressed it flat to check if it held. Then, he looked up to where you stood, figuring out the right place for the lamp. “That’s—yeah. If that’s okay with you.”

You met his eyes. “If what’s okay?”

“Me going. The fourteenth,” he said, like it was obvious. “I don’t have to. If you’ve got stuff that weekend, or you just—want to do nothing. With me.”

“Steve.” You almost laughed. “Go to Philly.”

Steve shrugged, looking slightly offended. “I’m just saying it’s an option. Me, here, doing nothing with you.”

“It’s an extremely sad option. You have to go.”

Later that night, the lamp was the only thing either of you had thought to turn on, and neither of you was going to do anything about it. It would have meant moving, and moving, just then, was unthinkable. So, the bedroom had narrowed to the reach of one light, a scarf knotted over the shade, throwing it low and amber, and everything past the edge of it gone soft and dark and able to wait.

You were already undressed, wound into the warm dark shape the two of you made of a bed, and Steve was over you, braced on one forearm, and there was nothing hurried in him at all. You’d learned that about him in the last three months, that for all the want he carried around like something overfilled, when he finally had you like this, he went slow, almost unbearably so, as though the approach was its own country and he had no intention of passing through it quickly.

His hand was proof of it. It had been moving a while now, unhurried, deliberate, mapping you because he already knew exactly where your breath caught and how. He drew it out of you on purpose. You felt him feel it when your spine gave, when the sound you’d held in came out loose, and you felt the answering move through him. He let out a low, rough exhale against your jaw, his own hips pressing down into the space against your thigh, seeking. 

You could read the tightening of his shoulders, the catch in his breath, and you knew the exact register of the sound that meant he was holding himself back from more. You turned your head and put your mouth to his throat, shifting your body down so you could neatly roll your hips against his, just to feel him lose a little bit of the grip. He did. A groan went through his chest as his forehead dropped against yours. 

Then, he met your movement, grinding down with explicit, almost hungry intent. You felt the hard line of him press flush against you. He braced his weight on one arm so he could use the other to keep you pinned, and rocked against you with a rhythm that was deliberate and maddeningly slow.

It dragged a sound out of you, and Steve’s mouth curved where it rested against your temple, pleased, the small smug flicker that lived in him even now. He did it again, the same slow grind, and watched your face for what it would do. He'd built whole evenings around your face. He braced harder on the pinning arm, fingers spreading wide and certain over your hip, and the crooked bed frame gave its small complaint beneath the both of you and went ignored.

“Steve—” His name came apart in the middle.

“I know.” His voice had turned to gravel, wrecked and warm against your side. “Not going anywhere.”

And maybe it was that, those words, said into the curve of your jaw with his whole body so achingly familiar over yours. Or maybe it was the lamp, the late hour, and three months of this, of being wanted so completely and thoroughly. But the word came up in you and would not be talked backed down. It had been sitting in you since the early evening, since Eddie had said it, and now, here, with nothing left between you and no one to be anything for, it simply wanted out.

“Hey,” you said. It came out unsteady, even the single word. “Steve.”

“Mm—” His mouth was at the corner of yours, hips not stopping. “Yeah. What—what is it, baby?”

And then the giggle got loose before you could stop it—embarrassed and completely out of your control, the question right behind it and tangled up in it—and you felt your face get warm with the absurdity of what you were about to do. 

Steve went still enough to lift his head. His hips slowed but not quite stopped, the rhythm going lazy now, almost absent. The rest of him propped up to look down at you with an expression of pure, undone, mock-wounded suspicion.

“What.” His brow had pulled together. His voice was still rough, but there was a thread of genuine affront laced through it now, for he had been giving this his entire and undivided gravity and had just, apparently, been laughed at for it. “What’s funny? Why are you—” He pressed down against your hips once, trying to make a point about the work he was in the midst of. “I’m right here being—what is so funny?”

“Nothing.” You were still laughing. You couldn’t help it. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid—”

“Now I must know.” He huffed, indignant. His forehead dropped to yours. “You’re laughing at me. Just tell me. C’mon. Tell me what’s funny.”

And so you did, because he'd cornered you into it, because his face was right there waiting and the giggle wouldn't quit and there was nowhere left to put it but into the words.

“Would you like to be my boyfriend, Steve?”

For a second, all of Steve simply stopped. Every part of him went still all at once, the offended expression wiped clean off his face like it had never been there. He lifted his head to fully look down at you, the amber light catching the whole undone wreck of him; pupils blown dark, hair a ruin from your fingers, mouth still parted on a sentence he’d abandoned. And what surfaced underneath that was so soft, so plainly struck, that you felt your own laugh die somewhere in your throat at the sight of it. 

“You—” he said, and the word broke off. Whatever had been in his chest pushed out of him instead as a sound—low, wrecked, and something close to a delighted laugh—and his nose dragged along the side of your forehead. “Yeah.”

It came before anything else, just the bare word breathed out against your mouth. The answer escaped him the way the truest things always managed to escape Steve, too fast and ahead of his pride. His hand had come up off your hip to cradle the back of your skull, fingers spreading into your hair, and he was already moving again, the paused rhythm of him resuming low and certain, like the question had only ever been a thing he'd stopped to let through.

“Yeah, I’d like to be your boyfriend,” he said the words into the corner of your mouth, into your cheek, as though he had to imprint them into several places of you to make sure it landed. “Course I am. C’mere.”

You were already there. He kissed you anyway, deep and a little clumsy with how much was in it, and you felt him smiling against it, helpless, unable to hold the shape of a kiss for the grin breaking through it.

He pulled back just an inch, and the betrayal had arrived.

“You weren’t supposed to do that, though.” He tried to seem wounded, but there was no chance for it to pass through with the smile on his lips. “I had a plan. I was gonna ask you. Properly.” He huffed, indignant, pressed his hips down harder against you, as if that was a punishment at all. “And you just said it—”

“You took too long.” 

His eyes widened slightly. “Since when did you become so bossy?”

“Since we forgot to put a label on it,” you said immediately.

He laughed then, stopping his movement. “I don’t know how. I’ve got a drawer here.” Then, he tipped his chin down to meet your eyes again. “Girlfriend, huh?”

“That good with you?” you asked, raising your brow.

“Fuck—yeah. Obviously,” he said, all the breath behind it, like the word had cost him something just to get past the want sitting in his chest.

He shifted his weight off the braced arm so he could give you both of his hands, one sliding up your ribs and the other coming to your jaw, tilting your face up to exactly where he wanted it. 

“My girlfriend,” he said against your mouth, just to feel the word there. He kissed you on it—once, slow—and then again, deeper, and you felt the shift in him. His hand left your jaw and moved down, splaying flat and certain over the lowest point of your stomach, thumb dragging low, and the sound you made got caught somewhere and he swallowed it, pleased. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

Carter had decided, sometime in the last month, that Steve belonged to him. 

It came out in small, administrative ways an eleven-year-old laid claim to a person. It was Carter who’d answered the door, hauling it open before you’d got your hand off the screen, and Carter who performed introductions the house didn’t need—that’s Coach Steve, he’s here, he came—as though Steve were a rare bird he’d sighted. It was Carter who directed him by the sleeve, now, through the den and past the roaring oven fan and the TV, narrating the tour of the house Steve had stood in a hundred times before. 

That’s the chair Grandpa won’t let anyone sit in. That’s where the cat throws up. That’s my drawing, the horse, I did the horse. 

Steve received each fact with the grave full attention of a man being shown state secrets, ducking his head to look where Carter pointed, asking a follow-up question about the horse that made Carter light up like a struck match.

You stood in the doorway with your coat half-off and watched it. You felt the scene land in you sideways, the way the truest things tended to. Carter was easy with Steve, uncomplicatedly so; there was no reserve in it, no second track running underneath, none of the carefulness the rest of the house would be performing all evening. It took you a moment to place why it made you so uneasy, and the answer sat in your chest like a swallowed rock. Carter had never met the other Steve, the one who existed in this house before, the one with the shadow on him. To Carter, there had only ever been this one—Coach Steve who’d spent months teaching him baseball and was now in his grandparents’ home—a man with no before attached, no wreckage trailing him to the foyer. Carter got to have the simple version.

Your mother came out of the kitchen with her hands still in a dish towel and a smile she’d been wearing on and off since you’d asked if you could bring Steve. It was a real smile, and that was the thing you’d been turning over for two days; that it was real, and that it was also being held, the way you'd hold a glass you'd already dropped once.

“Steve,” she said his name, and you heard the missing ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart’ that you had once grown so used to her calling him. The names came out easily, without her ever thinking about it. Tonight, it was just Steve, chosen, and that was both a kindness and its own verdict all at once. “Look at you.”

“Hi. Yeah. Hi.” Steve shifted the wine bottle to his other hand and then held it out to her, a beat too quickly. “This is—for you. For dinner. Thank you for having me,” he said to a house he’d once been allowed to walk into without knocking, and you heard the carefulness in it. 

Your mother let Steve catch his breath anyway, giving him a generous laugh, and took the wine. She looked at the label for a moment longer than needed. “That’s too nice,” she said. “You didn’t have to bring something this nice.”

“I wanted to.” 

“Well.” Your mother turned the bottle so the label faced away, the way she did with anything that threatened to be a fuss. “It’ll be wasted on us. Your father can drink it like its juice.” But she set it on the counter with a small care that said she’d noticed it, and would remember it.

“Where do you want me?” Steve asked, straightening up even further. “I can chop, carry—I’m good at carrying.”

“You’re a guest,” your mother said.

“I can be a guest who helps.”

“Sit down, Steve,” she said, the old warmth creeping into her tone just slightly, and you saw him take the half-inch gratefully, eyes brightening.

He hovered at the edge of the kitchen, and you were about to rescue him from his own posture when your father came in from the den. 

Your father came in slow, he never rushed toward anything with feeling in it; he arrived at those the way weather arrived, from a way off, with time to see it coming. He had the newspaper still in one hand, folded, a man holding his place in his own evening. He looked at Steve. Steve straightened, and put his hand out.

“Mr—”

“Steve.” Your father took the hand, giving it one firm shake, and then he held it just a half-beat past where it should’ve ended. He held it long enough that you watched Steve decide to stand inside it and be looked at rather than pull free. “Been a while.”

“Yes, sir. It has.”

You saw your father swallow and let the hand go. “Carter talks very highly of you.”

“He’s starting at second, actually,” Steve said before he could stop himself, the pride in it unguarded, and then—hearing the eagerness, hearing how much he wanted your father to like the answer—he reeled it back a notch. “He’s earned it. He works hard. He’s good.”

He looked at Steve a moment more, and you stood there with your coat finally all the way off and could not, for the life of you, read him, and you had known this man your entire life. “We’ll see how the season goes.”

It was far from unkind, and it was a door left ajar, with a man told plainly that he'd be the one to prove which way it swung. Your father went to fold himself into the chair nobody sat in, snapped the newspaper back to the page he wanted, and the foyer let out a breath.

You found Steve’s hand down low, fingers flexing slightly. He looked at you, and the easy face—the one that came so naturally for Carter—had vanished. What sat in its stead was much younger and barer. His jaw was set a little too hard, working at nothing; his eyes had gone bright and over-busy, doing too much reading of the room, checking doorways; he was breathing like he had to force himself to do so. His hand found yours, but his fingers had gone stiff, almost too cold. 

“Hey,” you whispered to him. “You’re doing great.”

You caught a forlorn smile gracing his lips for a moment. He turned his hand to thread his fingers through yours completely and hold on a degree too tight. “I’m okay. I want to be here.”

You knew he meant it completely. You knew he was cold-handed and over-careful and glad. He was glad to be paying it, because Steve had just spent four years in the wrong side of this house, and a guarded welcome was still a welcome, and the loud warm overlit kitchen with the chicken in it was the precise thing he had been working, all this time, to be allowed back into.

He turned to look at you then, as if he could sense your worry for him. “I love you,” he said, “and stop looking so worried. Your face is doing a thing.” 

“It’s not.”

“It’s a little doing it.” He squeezed your hand once, and let the easy face come back partway, enough to get the both of you moving toward the noise.

Devon was already at the table, and she, mercifully, did anything but guarded. She did the opposite by appointing herself as the evening’s friction (much to the begging you’d done without telling Steve you’d done it), and she spent the first twenty minutes aiming dry, glancing things at Steve the way you'd lob a tennis at someone to see if they'd catch it. ‘They let you near impressionable youth; how’s that going for the impressionable youth. Are they impressed?’ It was close enough to be standing next to kindness, Devon poking Steve like a brother she was deciding whether to keep, and Steve, who had grown up an only child in a house with too much quiet in it, caught every ball she threw and looked grateful for the bruise.

By the time the chicken came around the table he'd loosened a notch. By the time your father was carving seconds nobody had asked for, the dinner had found a real rhythm.

“And Coach Steve—” Carter was saying.

“Honey, I think you can stop calling him Coach at the table,” Devon said, interrupting him. You were sure it was because she’d heard the word coach thrown around one too many times here, and was probably hearing it every waking hour at home.

Carter looked startled for a moment. “What should I call him, then?”

Devon shrugged. “Steve might be nice.”

“Ste—” Carter made a face like that sounded all wrong. “Coach Steve—” he finished, the compromise failing to reach, “is going to—somewhere. He told us he’s gonna miss a practice.”

“One practice,” Steve said. “I already told you. I’ll be back before the game.”

That appeared to satisfy Carter who returned to his potatoes.

“Where’s the practice you’re missing for?” your mother asked conversationally, keeping the table's small wheels turning. “Somewhere good?”

“Philadelphia.” Steve had a roll halfway to his plate. “Just a weekend thing. Some friends out that way.”

“That’s a haul.”

“It’s not so bad once you’re past Columbus, honestly,” he said it, a fact worn smooth from handling, and you registered that distantly.

It was Devon who turned the conversation to Steve, buttering a roll with most of her attention. “Who’s in Philly?”

“Some people from high school,” Steve said. “We planned to do it couple times a year. Tried to do every month but—” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “It’s easy, though. It runs itself at this point if everyone’s available.”

You caught her turning to glance at you before she said, “Sounds nice.”

And it was, that was all that was. There was a shape in these sentences if you’d held them up by light. Every month, a thing he wanted to be monthly. Something several-years-deep with its own regulars and its own drive. Devon asked questions for you, and you let the answers pass over you and reached, instead, for the thing you’d been carrying into this dinner all night, the actual reason your hands had been restless since the chicken.

“I’ve got another thing,” you said. “To say, while everyone’s—” You gestured at the table, the fullness of it. “While everyone’s here.”

The wheels of the table slowed, and you caught Carter looking just a tad betrayed his story was getting delayed even further.

“I mean, it’s not a big announcement.” You were already hedging it, already shrinking it on the way out of your mouth, because that was what you did with the things you wanted most; you brought them out small so the room couldn't drop them. “It’s just. I’ve been—for a few months now—putting money aside. And looking at this space by the food market? It’s by the hardware store and it’s been empty forever.” You turned your water glass a quarter-turn on the cloth.

Devon raised her brow. “You signed something, didn’t you?”

“Not yet,” you said through gritted teeth. “But I’m planning on it. I want to open a studio. A dance studio. Mine. I’ve already, well, talked to some of the parents from rec classes, and I think there’s eleven girls who’d follow me. Their moms said as much, at least. And that’s—that’s almost enough, right? That’s almost a school.”

For a second, the table absorbed the words. Then, your mother’s hand came up to her mouth, and your father set his fork down. Your father, who set his fork down for almost nothing. Your mother was around the table before you'd finished bracing for it, her arms coming over your shoulders from behind, and she didn't say anything for a moment, just held on, and you understood that she was somewhere past words, somewhere back four years ago in a daughter who couldn't fill out a job application, measuring the distance between that girl and this one. Your father was asking the practical questions because were the only language he had for ‘I am proud of you’ and you'd learned to hear them in translation a long time ago. Carter wanted to know if there'd be boys. Devon wanted to know everything else.

When you finally let your eyes land on Steve to gauge his reaction, he was looking at you, jaw set like he wanted to say something that he’d say later, his eyes gone bright and over-fast. He reached his hand out underneath the table and lightly squeezed your leg.

“God help Hawkins,” Devon said, sitting back. “Both of you. Her with the dance kids and him with the baseball kids.” She gestured between the two of you with her wine. “Your kids are going to be insufferably well-adjusted.”

The word sat in the middle of the table, dropped there light and without weight. Devon was reaching for the beans like she hadn’t said anything at all, less of all something with that much weight. You did not look at Steve. Steve did not look at you. You both, very carefully, looked at your plates because you had just been handed a future across a dinner table and were each pretending the other hadn't heard it. Under the cloth, his knee came to rest against yours and stayed.

The studio emptied out in a loud ragged wave, and then all at once. The last of the intermediate girls collected, and then just you and the long mirror and the silence a room filled with movement left behind it. You were doing all the closing things you’d worn into a groove by now: chairs, the schedule for tomorrow, the lights in the back room that you had to leave a minute to warm up. Your hamstrings had a complaint lodged since the third class. There was chalk, somehow, on your wrist.

You knew Steve was back before the bell rang, because you knew the cough of his car settling into a space on the street too small for it, and you’d known it for a few months now. This was the fourth time he’d driven back from Philadelphia and come straight to wherever you were, the weekend coming off of him like weather. 

The bell went, and the cold came in with him. The door swung shut and sealed the latter back out, and then Steve, filling the frame of it, a duffel over his shoulder and his hair windblown because he probably drove the last stretch home with the window cracked. He took the studio in a half-second flat, a quick sweep to find you. And then the duffel was sliding off his shoulder, already hitting the bench by the mirror without a single degree of his attention.

“There you are,” he said, movement never slowing as he came toward you. “C’mere. I’ve been in a car for hours, come on—”

He had you then, with no negotiation. His arms came around you and folded you in against the cold front of him, one hand splaying wide between your shoulderblades, the other pushing up into your hair. He made a sound low in his chest, half sigh and half something more wrecked than that.

“You’re freezing,” you said into his jacket.

“I know. Don’t care. Drove with the windows down.” His voice was muffled into the top of your head, his mouth already there, pressing. “You can warm me up or something.” He pulled back far just far enough to find your face, and then let the sentence die, because looking at you seemed to take the sentence out of his hands. His thumb came up to your cheekbone. His eyes went over you like he wanted to read the two days off your face. “Hi.”

“Hey—”

He kissed you, quick first. Then, not quick at all, his cold hands warming by degrees against you, one of them curving around the side of your neck to put his hand over your pulse, and you felt him smile, the kiss going crooked with the grin he couldn’t keep out of it. Making up for the deficit, you assumed. And when he finally let you go enough to speak, he rested his forehead against yours as his thumb moved against your jaw.

“Two days,” he said, complaining. “Two days is stupid. Whose idea was that?”

“I’m pretty sure it was yours.”

His nose dragged along yours. “Thought about you the whole car ride.”

You let out a small laugh, unable to keep the fondness out of it. “That’s very romantic, Steve.”

“It was, actually.” He kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth—small ones now, scattered—and only then, with his face still close and his hands still on you, did he lift his head and look past you, around the studio: the chairs half-stacked, the back room dim and warming, a child’s drawing tacked crooked behind a desk. “You’re not done yet. It’s late.”

“Nearly. Give me five minutes.”

“Mm.” He sounded almost disgruntled. His eyes did a slow second circuit of the room, and something moved through his face—light, almost nothing, a small thoughtful quiet—and his hand settled more certainly at your hip. “You hardly ever go home on time.”

You sighed slightly, the breath coming out shaky. “It’s a new studio. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“You think?”

“It’s my first new studio.” You let the five minutes go. The chairs could wait; the schedules could wait; the back room could continue warming itself. You stayed inside the circle of him instead, your hands flat against the cold front of his jacket, and waited him out. He took the staying as the invitation it was and walked you backward two unhurried steps until your spine met the cool of the long mirror. His hands slid from your waist to brace either side of you against the glass, caging you in there without any hurry about it at all. “Steve, there’s chalk all over the mirror—”

His mouth had found the side of your throat, the cold of him gone warm now where the two of you pressed together, and you felt him talk against your skin more than heard it. “Don’t get to not see you for two days and talk about a mirror.”

“You went on your own—”

“I know. Bad planning. It won’t happen again.” He dragged his nose up the line of your neck, slow, and you felt the studio's quiet close around the both of you and his hand came off the glass to tip your chin up, his thumb at your jaw, and he kissed you properly. 

“Come over,” you said. “You’ve been gone two days. I’m not letting you be sad in your own apartment tonight.”

“I gotta go to mine, though,” he said into your hair, reluctant, the words practically dragged out of him. “Just for a second. I haven’t got anything at yours right now—I think. I drove straight here. I don’t even have a shirt for tomorrow.” He plucked at the collar of it, the one that had done four hours in a car. “I’ll have to swing by mine, grab a bag I packed, and then I’ll meet you at yours. It’ll be like forty minutes.”

You made a disgruntled sound.

“Tops.” His mouth found your jaw. “Maybe thirty if I speed. Which I will, for you.” Then, he huffed a laugh against your skin. “It’s a stupid amount of driving to do in one day.” 

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes slightly careful now. “This would all be easier,” he said, “if I just lived with you.”

He hadn’t planned to bring it up here, or now even. You could see that his words had surprised him a little, the way that had walked out of him on the tail of a sentence about his shirt. But it was, for what it was worth, out, and he chose to not dress it up. He just held still inside it, his hands gone careful at your waist, watching your face like he’d just flipped a coin and was waiting to see which side it landed on.

“I think—”

He pushed a hand back through his hair. “I keep meaning to do these things right and I keep just—” He breathed, and it came out cleaner. “But I’m basically there all the time. I drive to my place maybe four times a week to pick up stuff, and I drive to yours and that’s—what I think of as home. I don’t know.”

He’d set the whole wish down in the open at last; months of it and a drawer and half a marriage's worth of his things migrated quietly into your kitchen, all of it finally said.

You felt the want lift in you to meet it. The seventeen-year-old who’d agonized over a future she’d been so sure of, she was still there, and she wanted this, wanted the shared address and the one coffee maker and the door that didn't shut between you, wanted it with her whole chest.

And underneath it, in the same breath, the other thing turned over. The small, flat, cold thing that had signed a lease alone and aged six weeks doing it. The part of you that had wanted—needed—one set of rooms in the world that were yours because you decided they would be, after four years of spaces that stayed someone else’s no matter how long you stayed in them. The apartment was the first thing you had chosen. And some part of you, the part you kept the lights off in, did not want to give back the only door you'd ever gotten to stand on both sides of.

Both of them at once, in the same body. Two true things could sit in you.

You sighed. “You’ve been driving for hours.”

You heard your voice reach for a warm register, the soothing one, because it was easier and that was a thing you knew how to do. 

“That’s not a no,” he said quietly, going hopeful as he watched you. 

“It’s not a no.” You went up and kissed him, soft, and he took it gratefully, probably because this hadn’t ruined anything. “You’ve got road-brain. We can talk about it when you’ve slept and got a real reason to be sure.”

“I am already—”

“We’ll talk when you’ve slept, Steve.”

He looked at you a moment longer, and then he let it go. You watched him fold it back up, the way he folded up the things you weren't ready for, and pulled you in against his chest instead, his chin coming down on the top of your head, the cold of his jacket and the warm of him underneath. “Okay,” he said into your hair. “Thirty minutes. Don’t start the good part of the night without me.”

You got home with your shoes already half-off, one of them surrendered somewhere between the cab and Steve’s door because the night had that loose-jointed quality the good ones got. There was a cake somewhere near you still, THREE MONTHS piped on in a blue that had stained both your tongues. Steve had eaten the corner piece with the most frosting and had been unrepentant about it. He’d done the whole thing at the studio. He’d strung cheap battery lights along the barre when he thought you weren’t looking, the same kind from the water tower a hundred years ago, and you'd pretended not to recognize them so he could have the reveal, and he'd known you were pretending, and neither of you had said so.

Now his apartment was dim and warm around the two of you. You were on the couch with your feet in his lap and his hand around your ankle, thumb moving in absent circles. You were watching him tell you something about Eddie that he kept laughing too early in, ruining his own story, starting it over. The lamp was the only one on. Your jacket had missed the hook. The night felt like it required nothing more, where the day has been gotten safely through and the two of you are just spending what's left of it down to the wick.

“You aren’t even listening,” Steve said, delighted, because you’d been watching his mouth instead of listening to the story.

“I’m listening,” you said, making a vague motion with your hands as if to wave him off. “Eddie. The thing with the thing.”

“The thing.” He huffed, and his hand tightened once around your ankle, fond, and he tipped his head back against the couch to look at you down the length of it, and the lamp did something gold to the side of his face

“Tell me again,” you said. “I’ll listen this time.”

“It’s gone now. You killed it,” he said mournfully, and you laughed, and he grinned at having got the laugh. 

He pressed his thumb into the arch of your foot, and you made a sound you didn't mean to make, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself about it.

“Don’t do that.” You nudged him in the stomach with your other foot, lightly, just to feel him catch it, which he did, folding his hand over it like he was collecting the set. “You’re being annoying.”

“It’s called being affectionate.”

“They can look the same. With you.” But you'd already given yourself away, the smile doing the thing it did, and he'd already seen it, and there wasn't much point in either of you pretending you meant the complaint. 

He went quiet after a moment, though. His thumb kept its slow work at your ankle. He was looking at you in a way you could feel without checking. “It was a good one tonight.”

You felt your lips twitch up. “I had a lot of fun.”

Something moved through his face, fond and a little undone by itself. “Thank you. For letting me have it.”

You laughed, almost in disbelief. “Thank you for making me celebrate three months of opening the studio. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did,” he said simply. “It’s a long time. Had to put frosting on it.”

“Somebody had to eat the frosting off of it.”

He tipped his head back against the couch again, looking at you down the length of himself, and for a second he didn't say anything else, just looked, and you let him, because you'd gotten better at being looked at. 

Then, he shifted reluctantly. “Okay, I’m gross. I’ve been running around all day trying to get everything together.” He moved your feet off his lap and onto the cushion, careful about it. “Five minutes. Stay right here.”

“Yeah, I was planning on going back home,” you said drily.

“You would never.”

You threw a cushion at him. It missed by a wide, unbothered margin and he didn't pretend to dodge it. He grinned, and then the bathroom door, and the pipes shuddering as the water came on, and his voice picking up underneath the rush of it, tuneless and muffled and happy, a song that wasn't quite a song.

You stayed where he'd left you. You kept his spot warm, because of course you did. You lay there with your eyes on the ceiling, smiling at nothing. 

The phone rang then. You almost let it go. It was late, and the couch was warm and some lazy part of you was sure it would stop on its own. It didn’t. It ran again, loud in the small apartment over the muffled rush of the shower, and so you got up and crossed Steve’s apartment in your bare feet and lifted the receiver with not one thought in your head.

“Steve Harrington.” A woman, already mid-stride, skipping clean past every formality a hello was built to carry. “I cannot believe you. Jonathan has left you two messages—two—and you can’t manage to pick up the phone? He’s going to drive out there himself—”

The shower ran on behind the wall and you listened to the voice you’d never heard before talk to him—talk at him, easy, exasperated, with a sort of buildup that can only be born out of practice. She’d earned the right to do so, you thought. You waited for her to finish the sentence so you could correct her, feeling no alarm doing it. You want, later, to be able to find the alarm somewhere in that moment and you never can; there wasn't any. There was just you, full of cake, holding a phone.

“Sorry,” you said when she finally drew a breath, voice coming out almost breathless. “Steve’s actually in the shower right now. Want me to pass him a message?”

It went quiet for half a second. “Oh—” Her voice came back scrambling pleasantly, embarrassed at itself. “God, sorry. I just assumed it would be Steve—you must be—” She said your name then, punctuating it with a small chuckle aimed inward. “Sorry. Let me start over. I’m Nancy, a friend of Steve’s.”

Two soft syllables, a stranger being polite on the telephone, and for a whole second it was nothing at all. And then it landed somewhere with a history attached and you felt the floor of the kitchen do a small, slow thing under your bare feet.

You had known the name for years, the way you knew a scar you no longer looked at directly; Nancy, who Steve had seen while he was still holding your hand, Nancy from the part of the story you had folded up and put somewhere high and not taken down. You had never had a voice to go with it. Now you did and it was a nice voice. It was warm and a little flustered and it was being kind to you, and that was somehow the worst available version of it.

“Hi,” you said. You were faintly, distantly impressed by how even it came out. 

“Hi,” Nancy said and you could hear her smiling, hear her relax, because she had no idea. “It’s so nice to finally talk to you. God, this is so silly, we’ve never actually—Steve talks about you a ton, though, I feel like I already—” She caught herself, laughed again, light. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Could you just tell him two things? Jonathan, obviously. Jonathan’s been waiting for a call back; he thought Steve was just ignoring him but I think you guys were probably busy. And tell him that we landed on the weekend, finally, so he doesn’t need to keep holding all of them. It took us long enough—”

She kept talking and you let her. Her voice went on being warm in your ear, small ordinary words with no weight holding onto a single one of them. She was only reciting logistics, and you stood in the middle of them, and felt each one go past you and not stop, and understood—slowly—that you were being told something. The thing you were being told was being handed to you plainly, kindly, and with no idea it was being handed over to you at all. And that you had not known any of it, the size of it; the long ordinary four-year shape of a thing that everyone, apparently, had simply always known about except you.

“—Anyways, I’ll let you go. Sorry about the interruption,” she said, and you caught onto the tail-end of it.

“It’s no interruption,” you said, and it came out warm. Your hands knew how to do this even when the rest of you had gone somewhere cold and far. You'd had years of practice being gracious over things that were costing you something. “I’ll tell him. Jonathan. The weekend. I’ve got it.”

“Thank you, genuinely.” Nancy's smile was still right there in her voice, easy. “It’s really nice to finally talk to you. Okay. I’m letting you go, I mean it this time. Tell Steve I said hi.”

“Will do.”

“Night.”

“Goodnight,” you said, and you waited for the click. It came, and then there was the long flat tone of a line with no one on it, and you stood with the receiver against your ear a few seconds longer than there was any reason to, listening to the nothing, because putting it down meant the next thing and you did not yet know what the next thing was.

You set the receiver back into the cradle the way you'd set down something you didn't trust your hands around, and then you didn't move, because moving was a decision and the part of you that made decisions had stopped reporting in.

You found your hand come up over your mouth and press there. You tried, honestly, to work out the size of what had happened—tried to hold it up and measure it—and you found you couldn’t get a grip on its edges. Was it large? It had to be large; your body had decided it was large. But when you reached for the why of it, the Nancy of it—his ex, every month, all of them—some flat honest part of you turned the answer over and set it back down, unconvinced. That wasn’t it, you knew it. You’d have known if you cared like that. 

If it wasn’t that, then why was the floor gone?

You were still standing there with your hand over your mouth, when the water shut off.

You didn’t have time to arrange your face. You had perhaps a minute and you weren’t able to think of  a single thing to do with it. You couldn't decide what your face should be, couldn't locate the version of yourself that would walk back to the couch and keep his spot warm. There wasn't one. You just stood where the phone had left you.

The bathroom door opened with its gust of steam. “—okay, I changed my mind. I’m starving again,” Steve said, coming out rubbing the towel over his head, damp, warm-looking. “Do we have anything in the fridge?”

He saw you then, and you watched his face do the involuntary brightening it always did when he found you. You watched it get halfway up and then stop, because the rest of his face had caught up and read yours and could not make it agree with the night he thought he was in. He took the towel off his head.

“Hey,” he said, careful. The good mood had drained out of his voice in real time, draining with a practiced patience. “Hey—what. What is it?”

“Nothing,” you said, and then heard how it sounded, then tried again. You laughed, or at least your mouth reached for the shape of one and a little air came out of you, and you both heard the failed attempt at one. “Um, you’re supposed to call Jonathan back,” you said too quickly, like you were in a hurry. “And they—the weekend, they picked the weekend. I forgot the exact date, so you should probably ask.” 

You felt your brows draw together as you spoke, mouth moving on autopilot. 

Steve had gone still by the bathroom door. The towel hung from one hand. He was looking at you like he was reading you—and he was good at it, he had always been good at it, years apart had not cost him the knack—and you watched him not be able to make the read come out clean.

“Ohhhh-kay,” he said gently, addressing you like you were a spooked thing. “Okay, hey.”

He started crossing the kitchen to you. He did it in the same way he always did when you were upset, unhurried, without asking for permission because that had never once been a thing he’d needed for this. His hands came over your waist, warm still from the shower, settling there with bone-deep certainty. The gesture worn so smooth between you that it had stopped being a gesture and become a place you lived.

You stepped back without deciding to. There had been no moment you chose, your body simply took a slow half-step out of the circle of this arms and left his hands holding the shape of where you’d been. You felt the surprise of it move through you the same moment it moved through him. You hadn’t known you were going to. You didn’t, even now, know why. You only knew that his hands had come up to you like they had a thousand uncounted times, and that this time something in you needed the inch of air, had reached for it the way you reach for a breath, and had taken it before you could be consulted.

Steve’s hands stayed in the air for a second too long where your waist had been. Then he reluctantly took them down, back to his side.

He looked at the small new distance between the two of you—eight inches of his own kitchen, nothing, a width you’d closed a thousand times—and not understand it, and be frightened by not understanding it. You’d stepped out of his hands. You, who leaned in. You, who’d lain awake for hours in his arms rather than move an inch off him. He stood there with his palms empty and his hair dripping a slow line down the side of his neck and looked at you like the floor had gone out from under him now too, like he'd been handed a thing in a language he'd never been taught.

He shook his head slowly then, lips pursing as he looked at the distance, then your face. “I’m worried,” he said. 

“I know,” you said, voice coming out gently. It was just that the level, flattened thing your voice had gone to had a softness on the surface of it, the way deep water looks calm, and you heard yourself be kind to him and could not have stopped it if you'd wanted to.

“I just need a second.” You wrapped an arm across yourself, your hand closing around your own opposite elbow, holding on to something. “I need to—trying to work something out. I need you to let me work it out before—” You stopped, took a deep breath in that felt like your chest constricting on itself. “Just give me a second.”

And the worst part, the part that you felt land on him and felt land on yourself in the same breath, was watching him obey it. Steve—who crossed rooms toward you, who had never once in the entire span of you needed to be told to keep his distance—plant himself by the with the towel still strangling slowly in his grip, and stay.

He stayed because you'd asked. It was visibly costing him, every cell of him angled toward you and held back by nothing but your sentence, and you understood that you had taken the one tool he had and set it down out of his reach, and he had let you, because he could tell—even without knowing why, even with the floor gone under him too—that reaching for you right now would be the wrong thing.

His eyes went down to your arms—at the way they were wrapped tight across your front, your hands fisted on its opposite elbow like you were holding something inside your ribs that wanted out—and you watched his jaw work once around nothing. 

“Baby, I’m really worried,” he said, the last word breaking in his voice, coming out uneven. “I really am. Whatever this is, can you just—I’m right here.” His voice had gone careful, every word picked up gently and set down again where he hoped you could reach it. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just—going to stand here. Tell me, please. Whatever it is.”

His hands had come up again without him meaning to. He noticed this time. They froze halfway and he made a small frustrated sound at his own arms, at himself, and lowered them slowly back to his sides like he was setting down a thing that wouldn't stop trying to be useful.

“I’m scared,” you said, between a shaky breath, because that was the only thing that you could muster up then. You needed to get the words out because, despite it all, you couldn’t take seeing Steve like this. “I don’t wanna say the wrong thing, or do something and have it be the thing that—I don’t want to break it. I don’t want to be the one who—”

“I don’t know what I’m scared of.” Your hand tightened on your elbow. “I’m scared and I don’t know if I’m being—” The word ‘crazy’ almost got out. You bit it back. You would not give yourself that word, not even tonight, not even to him. “I don’t wanna get it wrong. I wanna get it right, and I’m scared I can’t.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice coming out soft. “Whatever you say, you can’t get it wrong. There isn’t a wrong. It’s me.” He took a breath. “It’s me.”

That had always been true. It had been true always. It’s me, coming from Steve, had been the safest sentence in your life. And he’d meant it, and you felt the held shape of you start to give. 

Your body decided to move before you could, the way it had when you stepped back from him. One step, and then the next, and then the rest of it, slow, the way you walk toward a thing you can't be sure of and can't make yourself not walk toward. Steve watched you cross. He didn't move his hands. He didn't say anything. He stood very, very still by the bathroom door and let you come.

You stopped just short of him, close enough you could feel the warmth coming off his bare shoulder and the shower-damp of him not yet dried. You couldn’t unwrap your arms from around yourself just yet, so you leaned forward, slightly, until your forehead came to rest against the side of his throat where you used to sit and stayed there.

You felt his breath catch under your forehead, the small unsteady intake of it, and you understood he was going to refrain himself from putting his arms around you and he was killing himself to do so. 

You stayed there a long moment, feeling the pulse at the side of his neck creating an unsteady tap against your skin.

“I just realized now,” you said into his throat, into the warmth of him. “That Nancy goes to Philly with you. She—well, Eddie didn’t say, you didn’t say, Vickie didn’t, no one—I just. I picked up the phone and she was—she’s very nice, Steve, and I just—”

The sentence didn’t finish. You just pressed your forehead harder against his and felt him swallow. 

His hand came up slowly to tilt your face up off his throat with two fingers under your chin, so, so gentle the way he used to do when there was something he needed you to see in his eyes. He looked at you and his eyes were wet, a small crease formed between his brows as he tucked his lower lip between his teeth in what looked like contemplation. 

“Baby,” he started, voice coming out soft. “No, that’s not it. Nancy’s a friend. She has—Robin’s there, everyone’s there, the whole—it’s a group of us. It’s always been a group of us.” He shook his head, thumb moving once at your jaw, certain, soothing. “There’s nothing there. Nothing. I would never, ever do that to you. You know that.”

His whole face was lit with how much he meant it, his eyes searching yours, his thumb steady on your jaw, a man putting his hand into a wound and being absolutely certain he was helping.

You felt something go quiet inside you in a way that was anything but relief. It was worse than that. It was the kind of quiet that arrives when a thing you have been turning over and over without being able to read it finally turns the right way up.

You felt your head start to shake, small, slow, almost not moving. His thumb stilled at your jaw.

“I don’t—” you started, head shaking still. “I do, well, know that,” you said dumbly. “No—God, Steve,” you said, through a breath, in disbelief. “Why is that—why is that what you—”

Steve opened his mouth, brows furrowing further. “I—what did you think then?” It came out faster than he’d meant for it to, and you watched him reel back his words. “I mean—when you said her name, I just thought you—”

You forced yourself to keep your eyes on him. “Why didn’t you just tell me she was there?”

His mouth opened, then closed. “You never asked.”

“I couldn’t have asked, Steve,” you said, voice level. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Okay, but—” He exhaled, the breath unsteady. He was trying to find a way in and there wasn't one. “I told you about Philly. I told you about—”

“I didn’t know there was anything to know.”

His face caved in slowly, and he paused his words for a moment. His thumb stayed on your chin. His eyes had gone glassy again and he was looking at you and you watched, with a clarity that had nothing pleased in it, how lost he looked, unable to figure out how to talk to you, and trying to, and getting it wrong, and trying again, and getting it wrong, and not understanding why.

“You just—” Your voice rose slightly, realization settling. “Assumed I thought you were—what? Cheating?”

Something went out of him by inches; his teeth caught his lower lip, it usually did when he was working up to something, except there was nothing to work up to here. You watched him realize that, watched the bracing collapse into the plain stunned understanding underneath.

“That’s what you thought,” you said, shaking your head slightly.

“I—” His voice broke a little. “Baby, I didn’t want you to—I didn’t want you to feel like this. I didn’t. I didn’t want you to react like—I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

You felt something in your body give at his words. “Listen to yourself.”

“What?” His voice rose then, out of confusion or disbelief that he was, for once, not able to get through.

You stepped away from him then. “Why would you think that would’ve made me feel bad?”

“Because—obviously—there’s—you know, history there,” he said, words spilling out quick. “And that night—before we started again you—” He stopped his words, like the memory of it all was too much to say. 

“I’ve been standing here.” Your voice cracked then. “I’m not hurt, Steve. I’m not—insecure—”

“I never said you were,” he said immediately.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, voice quieter. “You didn’t say anything because you think I am. Because of—what? Because I couldn’t stop remembering everything one night? That’s what made you decide I couldn’t hear that she’s a part of your life?”

He took in a long breath. “You know that’s not true.”

“I don’t know that. Fuck, Steve.” Your voice cracked at the end, on his name, and you watched him step closer. 

“I just never wanted to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I love you. I didn’t want to see you hurt.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “And I love you,” you said. “But I really, really don’t like how you see me.”

“That’s—” His brows drew together, the wet earnestness on his face cut with something almost wounded. “That’s not how I—” He couldn’t get a sentence out. He shook his head, half-laughing under his breath, small and ruined and without any humor. “You don’t even know. God, you don’t even know how I—”

The sentence trailed off and he held himself back from finding the rest of it. He stood there with his hand half-lifted between you, and you understood, watching him, that he had hit the bottom of whatever he was reaching for. He couldn’t find the next word; You could feel him trying for it and not finding it, the way you'd been not finding things all night.

“I should go home.”

“What?” His head came up, the frozenness going all out of him and being replaced by a feature more panicked. “No. No, baby—no. Don’t do that. You don’t have to.”

You felt your own grip slip as he talked. “Steve.” His name trailed off uneasily.

“It’s late. Stay, come on. We don’t do this.” His hand came up again, the hand that had been half-raised in the air, and reached for you, and you took a step back from it, and his face did something unbearable. “We’re so, so far in. We don’t go to bed like this, we don’t do this.”

“Please, Steve.”

“What do you need?” The words came out fast, scared. “Whatever you need, whatever it is, tell me. I’ll sleep on the couch. I won’t sleep. You stay here—” His voice broke on it. “Just don’t go. Let’s not let it be this.”

You closed your eyes. The please in his mouth was its own knife, because you had been hearing him say it in beds and on couches and in the warm dark for nine months, and tonight it was at his front door, asking you for the one thing you couldn't give him.

“I need you to let me go home,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m not—I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving your apartment. That’s not the same thing.” 

“They feel like the same.”

“I know they do, but they aren’t.”

You could see his chest moving with it, the small unsteady rhythm of a man trying not to come apart in front of you, and you had to look away from it for a second, at the cake, at the towel still on the bathroom floor, at anything else.

“We’re not in the same place right now,” you said, and your voice was almost gentle, because you didn't have the energy for it to be anything else. “We keep talking and we keep—Steve, we keep saying things and they keep meaning different things. I can’t—we can’t fix that by staying. I’ll just say more things, and you’ll hear them wrong. You’ll say more things, and I’ll hear them wrong. And—and one of us is going to say something we can’t take back, and I—I don’t want that. I’m trying not to do that, I’m trying really hard.”

You watched him hear it, not all of it—you didn’t think he had room in him to hear all of it—but enough. He’d heard enough that the reaching hand finally came down. He stood there and looked at you, and you saw, for the first time all night, that he was exhausted; he’d been holding himself up through the whole conversation on terror alone, and that had finally burned through.

You put your hand on his cheek. He made a sound. Small, breathed-out, for he had been waiting an hour and a half to be touched by you, and the touch was goodbye. His eyes closed. His head turned into your palm. The wet of his cheek caught on the heel of your hand.

You let him have it for a moment.

Then you stepped up onto the balls of your feet—the way you used to have to, since you'd been seventeen—and pressed your mouth to his cheek, just once, the spot below the bone where you'd kissed him a thousand uncounted times. He smelled like his shower, the warm of him. He smelled the apartment and the cake and the night that had been your night four hours ago.

You held the kiss for longer than you meant to. Then you came down off your toes and your hand came down off his face, and his eyes were still closed, and you watched him keep them that way, because opening them meant looking at you leaving, and he was buying himself one more second of not having to.

“Can you—” His voice was small. “Can you call me when you get there? Just so I—”

“I will.”

“Just so I’ll know.”

“I’ll call.”

You turned to pick up your jacket from where it had missed the hook hours ago. You found your bag. You found, in the entry, the one shoe you'd lost coming in; it was under the small console table, and you had to crouch to get it. You put it on standing up, one hand braced against the wall.

You kept yourself from looking back at him before you opened the door. You couldn’t, was the thing. If you looked back you wouldn't go, so you didn't look. You opened the door, and the hallway lights were a different color than the apartment lights, cold and fluorescent after the lamp, and you stepped into them, and you pulled the door shut behind you, and you stood for a second in his hallway with your hand still on the knob from the outside.

Thursday came, indifferent to what happened on Tuesday in Steve’s apartment. The drive to the field was the same one you took every Tuesday and Thursday. You sat in the car for a minute after you turned it off because the practice was running a little long, and you watched, through the chain-link, Steve in the middle of the diamond with one hand on his hip and the other moving in the gesture he did when he was explaining a thing for the third time. The kids were standing in a loose half-circle around him. One of them was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Carter was at the back, with his hat askew, doing nothing in particular.

You got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the fence, putting your hands on the chain-link as you waited. 

Steve saw you, his body registering your presence before he could even decide to turn to look at you. He finished the sentence he was on with the kids—you watched his mouth move; watched the bouncing kid stop bouncing; watched Carter's hat get pushed back into a more reasonable place by the kid next to him—and then he clapped his hands once, and the half-circle broke up.

He crossed to you with a slower gait than usual, a little hesitant. “Hi.”

It had only been a day in-between now and the night in his apartment, and the only exchange you’d had with Steve was over the phone; the first, to let him know you’d made it back home safely, and the second being yesterday. 

The second one had been yesterday, him checking in on you. The way he always had been—calling you at the end of the day for nothing except to put his voice in your ear before you slept, if you weren’t sleeping next to him. Except there had been a reason, and it was sitting in the phone between both of you, and he called anyway, because to not call would have been making a statement you didn’t think he could make, one that you weren’t sure you could take, either. He’d asked how you were doing, and you heard how careful he was being with the ordinary words, like the line might break under any weight at all. 

You’d said you were okay and he’d said okay; then you both sat in in the silence you’d never had, not since he’d become a part of your life once again. You'd both spent the last however-many months building something with no room in it for that quiet, and here it was anyway, breathing on the line, sounding exactly like the thing you'd promised each other was over. He'd tried. You’d heard him try—the small intake of breath, the one you knew better than your own—and then nothing, the sentence abandoned somewhere it hurt to leave it. You both said goodbyes that were too quick, then. You'd hung up and sat with the phone in your lap for a long time, and missed him so much it didn't make sense, given that you'd just been talking to him.

“Hi.”

He came around the gate and you met him halfway. His hands found your waist and you put yours on his shoulders. He leaned down and kissed you, his mouth landing where it always did on your mouth briefly, the one you’d calibrated for a fenceful of eleven-year-olds. His mouth was cold from being outside. 

Half a second later, his forehead tipped down to yours, his cold nose brushing the side of yours, breathing you in once like he was topping off something that had run low. His hand had slid from your waist to the small of your back somewhere in it and pressed, just barely, just enough to tell you exactly how much of this he was holding still on the leash for the sake of you; his thumb dragged one slow line up your spine before stopping itself. You felt the whole weight of him decide, with visible effort, to behave.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, chaste, a consolation prize to himself. Then he made himself do the small adjustment that ended it, and you made yourself help him do it, the two of you stepping back out of the moment by mutual mechanical agreement. 

“Hey, you,” you said, and your voice just didn’t sound right.

“Hey,” he murmured. His thumb did a small swipe at the bone of your hip where his hand had been. “Did good today. Did you see the last drill?”

“Missed it. I was on the road.”

“Carter ate Mason’s lunch. He took the entire—anyway. There’s a whole thing Devon’s gonna find out.”

You laughed lightly. “You’re supposed to make sure he has room for dinner.”

His face flickered slightly. “I’m not getting involved. I’m a coach, not a peacekeeper.”

It was the closest thing to them you'd had in two days, and you watched him hear it land and not push past it, watched him stand there in his coaching jacket with the wind catching the ends of his hair and the late-afternoon light doing something gold to one side of his face, and you understood, with the kind of clarity that arrives in unsupervised moments, that you were not going to be able to keep doing two more days of almost-right. You couldn't. He couldn't. Standing in the parking lot performing okay-ness to each other was going to break something neither of you wanted broken.

Carter showed up at your elbow before you'd worked out how to ask.

“Ice cream today?”

“No,” you said through a chuckle. “I just heard you ate Mason’s entire lunch.”

Carter turned to look at Steve with what looked like betrayal. 

“Sorry. Had to tell her.” Steve nodded, grave. “You can’t go around eating other people’s food.”

“You’re not supposed to be on his side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side, bud.”

You let them go. You waited until Carter had finished cataloguing the day and Steve had finished pretending to take them seriously, and Carter had gotten distracted by a stray ball at the edge of the lot and ran after it. Steve turned back to you and his hands went into his jacket pockets and the off came back into the air immediately, the way it had been getting into and out of the air the entire time you’d been here.

You'd been working it out in your head for an hour. You said it before you could re-litigate the saying of it.

“Hey, do you—do you maybe wanna come with me to drop Carter off?”

Something shifted across his face. “Yeah. Yeah. I—”

“You don’t—I just thought. If, after I drop him at Devon’s, we could—” You couldn't quite finish it, and you watched him not need you to.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and rubbed once at the back of his neck. “Let me grab my bag. Two seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

He looked at you a second longer than the moment required. The corner of his mouth tried for something and didn't quite get there. He turned and crossed back toward the dugout, and you stood there at the fence in the late afternoon with your hands in your jacket pockets and watched him go.

“Shotgun,” Carter said the second he registered Steve coming back toward the car with his duffel slung over one shoulder, still truly believing saying the word was a legal claim that overrode everything else. He was already moving for the passenger door.

“No,” Steve said flatly, slightly amused, without breaking stride.

“Why?”

“Because that’s my seat, kid.”

It came out matter-of-fact, the way Steve said things that weren't actually up for discussion, and he didn't even slow down. He was already at the passenger door before Carter had finished processing the sentence. He pulled it open with the easy proprietary motion, like he had no intention of pretending otherwise in front of an eleven-year-old.

“You can’t just—”

“Watch me.”

He ducked into the seat with his bag still on his shoulder. Carter, in the small horror of having his entire announced shotgun-call overridden by the largest available adult, stood there with his mouth half-open.

“You can’t be mean to me. You’re my coach.”

“Not right now. I’m off the clock.” Steve was settling in, knee against the glove compartment, one hand reaching back to push the seat the inch he always had to push it because the last person in it had been considerably shorter. He had not so much as glanced at Carter through the open door. “Back seat. Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

Carter made a sound of pure adolescent grievance—somewhere between a groan and a ‘seriously?’—and stomped around to the back door with his backpack dragging on the gravel.

You got in the driver's side buckled your seatbelt and adjusted the rearview that didn't need adjusting and Steve, in the seat beside you, took up the exact amount of space he always took up, his knee canted toward the console, his arm along the door rest, his attention undivided.

“You’re mean today,” you said to Steve.

You glanced at him. The smugness was still there, lower now, settled in, the version of it that lived in him on Sunday mornings when he watched you stretch in his bed and pretended he was looking at the window. He didn't look away when you caught him. He never did, anymore. There had been a few months early in when he would have, when getting caught had been a thing he had to bear, but somewhere he had stopped pretending he didn't watch you.

Carter, in the back seat, mumbled, “She doesn’t even want you there.”

Devon raised a hand at you from the porch, and you raised yours back. The screen door closed behind Carter and the porch light, which had been on since before you got there, finally registered as the only light on a slate-blue afternoon. You stayed in the driveway. You let the car run a second longer, then reached and turned the key, and the engine quieted, and the car began the small ticking-cooling sounds it made when you'd been driving with the windows up.

Steve was angled toward the passenger window still, hand on his thigh. 

You leaned back against the headrest and let your eyes close for a second. The off—the one between you and Steve—came back into the car fully, for there was no Carter to push it back out. The car held it, you held it, he, beside you, was holding it too. You kept your eyes closed; you wanted, briefly, the world to wait.

The world did wait for about fifteen seconds. Then Steve said, quietly, to himself, “Fuck.”

You opened your eyes and he was looking through the windshield at Devon’s porch with his jaw set. His hand had come up off his thigh and was pressed flat against his own forehead, the heel of it dug in over one eyebrow.

“Sorry.” The word came out fast and low. “Sorry. Sorry. I have to say something. I can’t sit here—baby, I can’t do another minute of—” He gestured at the air of the car, at the ‘this,’ the two days, and his voice came apart somewhere in the middle of the gesture. “I really, really can’t.”

He took his hand off his forehead and turned in the seat, his entire body, knee knocking the console, and looked at you. His eyes were wet, they likely had been for a while, and you just hadn’t looked because you were too afraid to find it. 

You turned your head against the headrest. The driveway had gone very quiet given that your car wasn’t making its usual white noise. Your pulse was going unevenly under your jaw; it had been doing since Tuesday, a thing you weren’t able to talk your body down from. “Me too,” you said. “I can’t either.”

He made a small sound and his head dropped, his eyes going to his own knee. “Me too’s got a lot of—that could mean a lot of things.” His jaw worked, and he let out a chuckle devoid of any humor. “Just tell me you’re not—” He breathed in shakily. “Because I keep thinking you’ve finally—” He shook his head, like he could maybe get rid of the sentence and the thought entirely. “I don’t wanna say it. If I say it, it’s like—I’m not going to say it.”

“No,” you said too quickly, your hand coming off your collarbone toward him before you'd decided to move it. “No. God, Steve. Not that.”

“Yeah?” His voice came out rough.

“Steve, I haven’t slept.” Your hand had come up off the wheel without your noticing, was pressed flat against your own collarbone. “And I miss you. So much that it doesn’t feel real. And—” You took in a breath. “I have to say some things. Can I—can I just talk? For a minute? I don't think I have it all right. I just—I have to—I have to try.”

He nodded once and reached to lay his hand flat on the console between you, palm up.

You looked at the steering wheel. “I just, I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m going to break.” You forced yourself to keep your eyes forward. You heard him take in a quick, sharp breath, the words sending him into fight-or-flight immediately. “I’m not—I’m not breakable. I’ve been hurt before. I got hurt really badly, by you, actually—” you huffed, and he flinched. “I lived. And I’ll be hurt again. And I—I keep finding out you think I am. Breakable. Insecure.” The word came out with more bite than you’d intended, and that was maybe the small part of you that wanted to fight against the label.

“Baby, I don’t—”

“I know. I know you don’t think you do—”

“I don’t think you are—”

“On Tuesday, you didn’t tell me about Nancy because you thought I’d—”

His jaw worked. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay, yeah—I hear that,” He dragged a hand down his face. “But I don’t think you’re breakable, or fragile, or insecure—whatever it is you think I think of you.”

You fiddled with your hands in your lap.

“I have never thought that. Not once. I think—you’re the toughest person I’ve ever known.”

You let out a small chuckle then—it sounded almost meanly sarcastic—as you shook your head. 

“I’m serious.” His hand on the console opened wider, like he was offering the words on a flat surface. 

“I hurt you. Once. And I never—I didn’t ever fix that. I just left and you left and it stayed broke. And now every time I think something might hurt you, I—I want to move it out of your way before you can—” His voice became looser. “I always want to take care of you.” He shook his head, slow, almost disbelieving at himself.

“But it wasn’t that, though. I felt sick when I realized that when you left. It’s never about what you can’t take, it’s about me. I can’t—I don’t want to be the one who does that to you again. So I just, don’t let it near you. Even if it is nothing.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum, hard, the way he did when something hurt there and he wanted it to stop. “I messed up by leaving stuff out rather than risk being the guy who hurt you again. That’s so—it’s been such a shitty thing I’ve been doing to you.”

He turned to look at you then. “I’m sorry. For making you feel that way, for hiding everything. I will—will, if you let me—try harder.”

You watched his hand on the console for a long moment. “I just, I don’t know. I just want to be part of your life,” you said into the console. “I’m scared you’re going to have things I don’t know about and people I don’t know and weekends I’m not in—and one day I’m going to wake up, and your life will just be different. And I’m scared, I think, of being on the outside of you again. That’s—I think that’s what this is.” 

“I can’t—” He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest. “You let me back in. That’s the, I broke the whole thing, and you still let me try again. And I keep—” His words shook slightly. “I'm so scared of losing it again I hide stuff from you. Which is the thing that loses it. I know. I know that.”

“Steve.”

And a part of you knew you were talking in circles yet again, that maybe this conversation was a whole front to hide how truly terrified you were.

He shook his head, forcing his eyes away from you. “You being outside; that’s backwards. The four years was the outside. That was me. I don’t—” He stopped, then started, words slowing down. “Now, there’s no part of any of it I want with you not in it. None of it is—it’s just stuff I’m doing until you’re there, too.”

He looked at his own hand on the console. “I think about stuff, with you.” He moved his jaw. “I have been, since I was sixteen. I never stopped, not even when I was being an idiot.” He took a rough breath. “So you’re not gonna wake up outside of me. You’d have to leave. And I’m just gonna be here.” He turned to look at you. “However long you will have me.”

You took in a breath that felt too sharp. “You can’t promise that.” 

“No.” It came out fast, like he'd been waiting for you to catch it, almost relieved you had. “No, you’re right. I can’t. I can’t promise you’ll never feel it. I'm not gonna stand here and lie to you, I did enough of that already.” He tilted his head like he was looking for the right words. “But I can work, I’ll work at it so you never have to feel like that. That's the thing I can actually promise. Not that it won't happen. That I'll never stop trying to make sure it doesn't.” 

He looked at his hand again. “And you gotta tell me when I’m doing it. Because clearly—” He let out a short laugh. “Clearly I’m not good at seeing it myself. I thought I was protecting you and I was just—so you gotta say it.” He swallowed. “I’ll believe you over me. Everytime.”

You stayed silent for a moment, letting the words soak you up. It was with a sharp, almost comforting feeling you realized that—even if you do end up in this situation a million times over—you would be in, all in. But you stayed quiet a moment longer than that, longer than was comfortable, because the old reflex to fix Steve’s face, smooth the ruin off it, was there. Watching Steve hurt was always the thing you couldn’t sit in, but you forced yourself to sit in it now. 

And he let you, waited with his hand open on the console, breathing wrong and letting you take the time. He was doing, already, the exact thing he’d promised ten seconds ago, before the promise had even cooled. 

So you did put your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours like he’d been waiting his whole life for the permission to. He made a sound that was in the middle of being broken and relieved; he brought your knuckles up to his mouth and held him there, lips breathing against them. 

“Okay,” he said into your hand. 

“Yeah,” you said, the word coming out in a breath.

The engine had gone cold under the hood. The porch light was the only thing left of the afternoon, and neither of you moved toward leaving.

“Tell me what you did,” he said eventually, lowering your hand so he was still holding it. “The two days. All of it. What did you do?” 

You laughed shortly. “It was a day and a half. We talked on the phone.”

“That doesn’t count.” He made a face. “That was awful. What’d you actually do? Hour by hour. Go.”

“Nothing happened. It was the most normal day and a half of my life.” 

“Good. Perfect. Tell me the normal.” He shifted lower in the seat, getting comfortable, settling in for it, your hand kept hostage in his hold. “I missed it.”

“Mm. Went on a date in the morning, looked for a new—”

“You can mess with me,” he said, quieter than the joke deserved with his brows raised. “I don’t even care. I’d still be grateful you’re talking to me right now.”

You blinked at him. “You’re supposed to play along.”

“I know. I can’t. You’re being mean and it’s making me like you more.”

“Oh my god, I hate you so much.”

Steve clamps his jaw shut, looking over at you from the corner of his eyes.

“I agree.” Nancy nods. “I’ll go check with Mrs. Byers.”

“I’ll go,” Jonathan says. “I know where they are—she’s busy with Will.” He pauses, then sighs out the word, “Probably.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the four of you standing in a square, Robin’s shoulder pressed against Steve’s, while you look from them to Nancy, concern etched over your face. 

“This just feels,” you say, “I dunno. Bad.”

“Yeah, because it is,” Robin says. “This is like, the worst bad it could possibly be. Like, Defcon level 5 bad.”

“That’s the least bad one,” Steve says.

“What?” Robin asks, absently, almost like she forgot what she’d just said.

“Defcon 5,” Steve repeats. “That’s the lowest one. Defcon 1 is the really bad one.”

“Ok, then it’s Defcon 1,” Robin echoes him. “Whatever. Any Defcon sucks!”

The group lulls into an introspective silence until the front door to Jonathan’s house opens and he returns, clutching a handful of straws. He returns to the circle, fidgeting with the straws until he’s back between Nancy and Robin, and then just holds out his fist so you can all pull a straw from his hand.

“Three long,” he specifies, “two short.”

He offers them to Nancy first, who takes a breath, chooses a straw, and—admittedly—looks a little bit miffed that it’s not a short one.

Robin reaches out next, plucking a straw from Jonathan’s hand before you can. She tugs it free. 

Long.

Jonathan moves his hand over to you and Steve, and Steve gestures to you to pick first—there’s only one safe straw left, and he’ll suffer Jonathan if he has to, to make sure that none of the women in the little quintet you’ve cobbled together are in danger.

Taking a breath, you pinch the straw on your right between your thumb and index finger, before changing to the one on your left. You ease it out of Jonathan’s hand, and just swallow thickly when you see you’ve pulled a short straw. 

A slight tension settles over the group as you huff a short laugh through your nose, because of course that’s your luck. 

“Great,” you say, wanting to flick the plastic away but instead you hang onto it, watching as Steve and Jonathan stare each other down.

“You’ll be fine,” Nancy says. “Steve or Jonathan will be with you.” She steps closer. “Do you want to trade?” she adds surreptitiously. She’s more capable than you, she’d be the obvious choice—but you were screwed over by your own idea, so your integrity feels like it’s forcing your hand.

“No, it’s—you need to stay here with Mike. And…Will. If Jonathan ends up going with me. I’ll be ok,” you reply, glancing over at her. “Thanks, though.”

“Just pick one,” Jonathan is saying to Steve, and you watch as Steve reaches for the straw you almost chose first, taking it with no hesitation from Jonathan’s closed fist.

It almost pains you to see that it’s also short, so you’d have been going no matter which you chose. Typical.

Jonathan opens his hand to show his straw is long, just for the fairness of the game, and you turn to Steve, ignoring the way Robin is bouncing a little in place, hands curled into the hem of her sweater before she releases it and just crosses to you, putting her hands on your shoulders.

“You’ll be so fine,” she says. “Steve won a fight against a, like, Russian soldier.”

“He what?” you ask, but before you can get an answer, Steve just steps between you and Robin and meets your eyes.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’re gonna need to gear up before we head down there again.”

&&

You end up with an old canvas jacket over a tank top, one that Mrs. Byers found for you in the back of the hall closet, the sleeves a little too long. Nancy approached you, shoving her own boots into your hands, and said you’d be better in those, as opposed to the tennis shoes you had on. Steve is still in his jeans too, now wearing an old t-shirt that Jonathan provided. It looks a little too small for Steve, his shoulders a little broader, but it’s hidden beneath his bomber jacket. He only shrugs his shoulders, stretching the fabric out over them before he leads you outside, Jonathan trailing behind, the designated driver to get you to the crossover point.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, mostly to you, because Steve looks a hell of a lot more composed than you do, your breath a little thin, your eyes unblinking as you fixate on nighttime scenery as it passes by. “It一shouldn’t be like, you know, before.”

“No bats?” you ask, almost laughing, because even though you saw the evidence of their story firsthand, even though you’ve been around long enough to know every detail they provided is true, it still sounds crazy to speak it aloud.

“No bats,” Jonathan promises, even though there’s no way he could realistically know.

“Ok,” you say, looking at Steve in the backseat. His jaw is set, and when he feels your eyes on him, he looks over at you.

“You can still sit this one out,” Steve says, and to his credit, Jonathan doesn’t speak for you.

“What do you mean?” you ask, frowning. “I一got a short straw.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, “but you shouldn’t一have to. You’ve never gone down there, and you should keep it that way.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jonathan glance up to look at Steve in the rearview, undoubtedly wondering if the fucking Hair is gonna try to pull him along and leave you with the car.

“It was my idea,” you say. “I pulled a short straw fair and square.”

“Having to go down there isn’t fair,” Steve says.

“Well, you went last time, so having to go again is what’s not fair, isn’t it?” you counter.

“That’s not what I said一” Steve tries to protest, but again, you speak over him.

“I’m going,” you say. “End of story. The quicker you accept that, the easier this will be. Stop一thinking about me and focus.”

Steve huffs a little noise of disbelief, but quietens down and the rest of the drive passes with just the sound of the engine and the tires speeding over the asphalt, potholes and cracks in the road making him slow the car to a stop.

“This is as far as we can drive,” Jonathan says, holding his foot on the brakes as you and Steve both hesitate, looking at the red glow of the rift a bit further up the street, the entire area abandoned and desolate, destroyed by the X-shaped fissure quadrisecting Hawkins’ downtown.

What look like ashes or fiery motes dance above the broken earth, and you force yourself to move so Steve has no choice but to follow.

You feel for the door handle, not taking your eyes off of the red glow ahead of you, and push open the squeaky door, stepping out of the car. The gravel crunches underfoot as you stand and move back a step, slamming the door. Behind you, you hear the rear driver side door creak and slam too, and you look back to meet Steve’s eyes over the roof of the car. Neither of you speaks, but neither of you has to.

“I’ll be here waiting,” Jonathan says, to Steve一he’s rolled down the window on his side. “As long as it takes. But don’t take too long.”

“No sweat,” Steve says, clapping his hand onto the roof, displacing some of the dust that’s already settled onto the car, just by virtue of idling in one place. “We got this.”

You wait for Steve to start walking forward, joining him as you traverse the rocky, destroyed street, the headlights from the Byers’ car illuminating you from behind as you go.

“What’s it like down there?” you ask, carefully stepping over a large chunk of blacktop.

“It’s…” Steve says, his voice trailing off. “Not great.”

“That helps,” you snip, because you’d like maybe a little preparation before you dive in.

“I’ll go first,” Steve says. “it’s一a little trippy. Just… give me a sec after I go through, and then I’ll catch you.”

“Catch me?” you ask, but Steve’s already adjusting his jacket, fiddling with the flashlight he’s holding, running a hand back through his hair, dusted with whatever the fine granules are that have been falling over Hawkins constantly for the last day.

“It’s一I mean, it’s called the Upside Down for a reas一you’ll see. Just. The dizziness will pass quick, promise.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but even as you do, you realize you have no idea what to say or to ask. So instead, you just watch as he crouches down beside the rift, fingers curling over the edge, and as he leans forward, you look back to Jonathan, who’s standing outside the car now, leaning against the hood, watching you both.

When you turn back to look at Steve, he’s gone.

You startle, because yes, you expected it, and yes, you knew this was all real, but for some reason his there-one-second-gone-the-next disappearing act throws you.

“You can go,” Jonathan says, encouraging. “He’ll一be ready by now.”

“Have you gone down there?” you ask.

He pauses, then shakes his head. “Not yet.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, then snicker. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

He hesitates, then smirks. “Bon voyage.”

You hold his gaze for another moment, like he’ll stop you一of course he won’t, you wouldn’t if you were him一and then replicate Steve’s movements as closely as you can remember. Crouching down. Gripping the edge. That was all you’d seen, but you close your eyes and tip yourself forward, expecting一actually, you have no fucking idea what to expect, and as your own body weight propels you forward through the rift, you feel strong hands grip your upper arms, pulling you through the rest of the way until you’re in an environment that feels colder, inherently. Like there’s no warmth here, no sun, nothing living, only death and decay and rot.

You stumble, because like Steve told you, there is a moment when your equilibrium is so completely off it’s almost like you have vertigo. He does catch you, as promised and your hands grip his arms back for a moment until your body reorients itself and you can stand without holding onto him.

“Thanks,” you say, looking around. It’s uncanny一you’re in Hawkins, downtown. It looks the same but still so drastically different that you feel as though you’ve just stepped into a nightmare.

“Come on,” Steve says, gently, and you can tell he doesn’t want to linger in one place too long. His hand is still on your arm, even though you’ve turned enough that you can walk beside him.

All of the air is stale down here, and as you walk through the inverse version of your hometown, you start to become attuned to the strange sounds of this place, the一odd clicks off to the side, a rushing roar occasionally from behind or above you, but you never see anything, never feel anything other than Steve’s fingers pressing into your arm through the jacket.

You don’t know how long you walk for, and you lose your bearings in the dimness of the Upside Down, but Steve is confidently striding forward like he knows exactly where you are and where you’re going. Between you, it’s silent, which you don’t mind一just the sound of your breathing and a few short exclamations when your foot twists on a rock, or Steve drops the flashlight, his quiet little “Oops” actually making you smile a little as he ducks down to pick it up, wiping the dirt from the lens.

You walk further, Nancy’s boots clomping alongside Steve’s quieter hiking shoes, and when you reach the base of a hill, you both stop.

“Up?” you ask, and Steve finally releases your arm. You feel the absence like a presence, because you hadn’t realized how much it was comforting you until it was gone, but he glances over at you, nods, and then gestures for you to head up first.

“I’ll follow you,” he says, “make sure you don’t slip.”

Making sure you don’t fall一It’s thoughtful in the way you expect from Steve, even though you don’t know him that well. You’re only wrapped up in this insanity because you know一no. Knew…Eddie. You knew Eddie. He was your neighbor, a couple doors over, and you were friends in that way where you waved to each other when you were grabbing the mail, or said hi if you happened to pass at the store, or noticed when a girl died in his trailer while he was screaming bloody murder and had to go on the lam. It was hard not to get involved when you’d rushed outside to see what the fuck was going on with all the noise only to watch him split seconds later, peeling out of the lot. 

Your first mistake had been even stepping out your front door that evening. Your second mistake had been peeking inside his trailer, your third had been finding that Henderson kid he had mentioned to you a few times in passing…and probably your fiftieth fucking mistake had been suggesting drawing fucking straws to see who got to pay a fucking visit to this scenic fucking shithole.

“Over there,” Steve says, as you crest the hill, pointing vaguely in the direction of a thick copse of trees. “Pretty, uh, dusty.”

He’s right: The trees are surrounded by what looks like a hazy cloud of dust, dense enough to look like fog from afar. It’s practically shimmering even in the darkness, and as Steve shines the flashlight toward it, even though you’re a good distance away, it looks like you’ve agitated it, almost like being illuminated caused the fine particles to move faster. Like observing them made them, somehow, aware of your presence.

You dig the toe of your boot into the ground below you. “So that’s where it’s coming from then,” you say, eager to leave. “Let’s go tell Hopper and Dustin and everyone.”

You start to turn, ready to head back the way you came, but Steve’s arm hooks around your elbow again. You try to suppress how having him back in contact with you does make you feel a little bit better once again.

“No, come on. We need to see if something’s…doing that.”

“It’s just us, Steve,” you argue. “We don’t know enough about anything down here to just go walking into…whatever that is. It looks like…someone cast cloudkill or something.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow at you. “Please tell me you didn’t just bring D&D into this.”

“That’s what it looks like!”

“Dustin would be so proud.” He smirks a little to himself. “Ok,” he says. “I’m gonna go take a closer look. They’ll want to know more and I’d like to be able to answer whatever questions we can when we’re back topside. Just wait here.” He takes off down the hill, minding his steps as he goes. 

“Wait,” you try to call after him, not wanting to be too loud. You watch as his flashlight beam moves over the dust again, the swirling almost appearing to move faster as he approaches it, like it wants him to reach it. “Steve!”

You hiss the word as loud as you dare, and he pauses, stopping at the bottom of the slanted ground. 

“It’s ok,” he calls back up to you. “I’ll be right back.”

“Let’s just go back!” you say, glancing around behind you as something一somewhere back the way you came from一makes a noise that disrupts the otherwise quiet landscape. That clicking sound again.

“I promise it’s fine,” he says. “I won’t be long.”

“No, Steve—” you say, and he pauses, watching with pursed lips as you start forward.

“Come on, then,” he says, resigned, waiting for you as you also make your way down, the ground uneven and the dirt sliding beneath your feet as you descend.

He’s still in the same spot when you reach him, and he holds out a hand for you to take if you need it. Your gut wants you to reach for it, for him, but you ignore the impulse; you’re back on (mostly) flat ground now, you can walk without assistance. Besides… you both might need both hands readily available if shit goes sideways. Or, uh. Upside down.

You flinch at yourself for even thinking it, because that was stupid. So stupid.

“Hold on,” Steve says, holding his arm out horizontally so you stop walking, because while you were in your own little world lamenting your dumb joke, you’d gotten even closer to the treeline and the dust is very, very much thicker here.

“Oh,” you say, because the way it’s clouded there, it reminds you of when freshwater and saltwater meet but can’t mix, different viscosities preventing them from commingling. “That’s…”

“Weird,” Steve says, and before you can suggest that this is definitely enough information to bring back to the group, he steps forward, approaching the trees.

“Steve!” you hiss. “What the hell, why are you like this?”

He looks back at you, a faint smile quirking up one side of his mouth. “I wish I knew.”

You stand outside of the range of the… dust, or whatever the hell it is, until he reaches the trees. Even from where you’re standing, you can see when he shines the flashlight over them, they look diseased, dead, the bark crumbling, the trunks covered in thick vines. They shine a little in the light, covered in sap or… something far more vile.

“Come back,” you implore him, but he doesn’t listen, and you’re not sure if he can’t hear you or if he just ignored your request. “Steve!”

“It’s fine,” he says. “Come here, it looks like… just come here.”

You don’t want to, but you do, because the entire reason you’re even here is so Steve didn’t come down into this place alone. The air doesn’t smell or taste different when you take a step forward, but it feels softer almost, brushing against your skin like baby powder, and by the time you reach Steve, you feel like you’ve been wrapped in silk, or velvet maybe, like the very air itself is cradling you.

“Look at this,” he says, moving the flashlight closer to the vines. “Do you see that?”

You look closer, not sure what he means at first, until you do see it. It looks like a stem broken off of the vine, like a flower had been there and was now gone. You can see a scattering of them all up and down the vine, and the vines beside it; the entire tree is covered in the same stems. Like it had sprouted blooms once, but they’d shriveled, losing their petals but the central disc where the pollen collected remained.

“Flowers?” you asked.

“I don’t know…” Steve said, reaching out toward one of the stems.

“Hey!” you said, grabbing his wrist with both hands, stopping him before he can touch it. “We’re not touching them. No way.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said. “Just… back up a little.”

“Please don’t,” you say, not moving. Steve extends his arm again, using it to guide you back, and then presses one of the un-petaled flower stems down. You hold your breath, but nothing happens, and when Steve moves his hand back, the stem just rises back to its previous position, unremarkably.

“See?” Steve says, looking back at you. “It’s fine.”

You exhale heavily, nervous still, even though you now have the empirical evidence that yes一it was fine.

“I guess,” you admit, and before you can react, Steve is walking past the treeline, between the old, creaking trunks, twigs snapping beneath his feet. “I swear to god, Harrington…” You mumble it mostly to yourself, and then follow him, because you don’t want to have to explain to anyone that you lost Steve because you were too scared to follow him into some trees.

Even though you’re fairly certain, like, anyone would understand.

He’s stopping at random trees, shining the flashlight on them, but every flowered vine you find looks the same as the first one一flowers, no petals, the center bare of any pollen or residue.

“Maybe we can just一take one of the stems and bring it back. And leave. Now.”

“We don’t know that’s what’s causing the dust,” Steve says, and you actually grab him, spin him around, and stare him down with your hands on your hips.

“I think,” you say, lifting your hands exasperatedly into the air, “we can extrapolate that they are what’s causing it.”

But he’s not listening. You can tell because he’s looking behind you, the flashlight just a little bit off to your left. You turn to see what’s caught his interest, and find it immediately. It’s one of the flowers, but not barren. The petals are a sickly green-blue, the same as the rest of the vines, and the disc is very clearly covered in a thin layer of pollen. Steve shuts the flashlight off and you see how he noticed it一it’s bioluminescent.

“Oh,” you say again, looking back at him. “That’s…even weirder.”

“We should bring that one back,” he says.

“I still don’t think we should touch it,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees, surprising you. “Probably not, but一I mean…if we can learn anything about anything it’ll be from that one, right?”

“I…” you start to say, then sigh. “I guess.”

“All right, just,” he says, handing you the flashlight. “Hold this.”

“Do you need the light?” you ask, running your thumb over the button to turn it back on.

“No,” he says, stepping past you and reaching up toward the flower. “I got it一”

As soon as his fingers touch the stem, the flower reacts一actually reacts. It appears to contract, the way you’d expect a Venus fly trap to close when its prey triggers it, and then the petals fall away, down over Steve’s hands, his face, and the pollen follows, the glimmering particles landing on him, on you, wisping away through the trees to settle, no longer glowing, wherever they fell through the stagnant air.

“Steve!” you scold him, but even as you do, you start to feel… off.

“You ok?” Steve asks, turning to you. His eyes meet yours and you feel a pull, you feel the same vertigo you felt when you first arrived here.

“Yeah,” you say, before the world slides sideways. “Wait. No.” You move to brace yourself against the tree, pressing the side of your forearm against it, letting your forehead rest there for a moment as you try to compose yourself.

“No,” Steve echoes you. “Yeah, me… me neither.”

“What the hell was that?” you ask, turning the flashlight on. With the beam lit up again, you can see how shaky your hands are, because you angle it up and despite your best effort, you simply cannot keep the stem of the flower that exploded centered in the light. “Jesus Christ,” you mumble to yourself, dropping the lit flashlight because seeing yourself so obviously affected by whatever you just inhaled is making you feel even more scared than you already are.

You register Steve moving away from you, walking around in the tight space, shaking his hands out like he’s trying to rid them of something.

You suck in a breath.

“Are you like. Hot?” you ask, pulling off the heavy jacket and draping it over your shoulder, just to have something to do with your shaking hands.

“What?” Steve asks in return, but you can hear the tightness in his voice.

You swallow, stepping away from the tree, and because whatever the fuck is happening to the two of you is happening, you bump into him just as he nears you with his pacing, neither paying any mind to the other. Where his hand brushes your arm, your skin tingles, tightens—feels like it’s going to blister. And then it happens to the rest of your body.

But just as quickly as it does, it dissolves away, leaving you feeling cold, wanting.

“Are you ok?” Steve asks again, in a way that you can tell he felt whatever that was too. But also in the way that you can tell he’s, maybe, handling it a little better.

“Still no,” you say. 

“Right,” Steve says. “Yeah. ‘Cause you just…” he trails off, and as soon as he mentions it you realize, belatedly, that the searing feeling of his bare skin against yours—your arms mind you—made you loose a moan from deep in your chest, low and unbidden, soft but heavy.

The moment hangs between you for a second, your heart hammering in your chest, an uncomfortable pressure starting to build between your legs.

“Hey,” Steve says, and you look up at him, and when you do you realize he’s much closer than he was moments ago, and he was already right beside you. “Hey, do you, um…” he trails off, and in the ambient light emanating from the flashlight on the ground beside you, you can see his gaze drop down to your lips.

Instinctually一because all of a sudden you feel like every single impulse and sense you have has been reduced to its basest level一you let your eyes lower to his mouth too, and when you see them, when you watch as his teeth worry his lower lip between them, when you see his cheeks hollow for a moment, when you catch a brief glimpse of his tongue, the same question that you’re certain he was about to ask you pops into your mind, and you answer what he didn’t even ask.

“Yes,” you say, and without further hesitation, without any thought at all, you take his face in your hands and press your lips to his.

Simultaneously you feel both immense relief and immeasurable desire, your stomach churning, your lips parting as Steve groans into your mouth. You can’t help but press your hips to his, parting your lips to let his tongue lick against yours, and your hands curl into his hair as you kiss him wildly, tongues and teeth and absolutely no reticence, the desperation clear on your part and his.

“Fuck,” you mutter as his hands tug your tank top up, pushing it over your tits, not bothering to unclasp your bra but just shoving that up and over your chest too, and you don’t even care that he’s undressing you in the middle of the weird ass woods in some alternate dimension. You don’t care that you’ve been stricken with the urge to fuck some guy you barely know, and only know because of some of the direst circumstances in history. You don’t care that he’s caging you in against the tree, the vines and bark scraping against your back as he leans down to bypass your neck completely and latch onto one of your tits, his mouth working at you in a way that you could tell on an ordinary night in an ordinary bed in ordinary Hawkins would feel wonderful, but now is only making the ache between your legs worsen, because you need part of him in contact with part of you and it’s not his mouth on your nipple.

“Steve,” you gasp, tone high, thready. “I need一oh my god, I can’t一” you stop yourself, because you know what it is that you want but you can’t very well tell him that you need his cock. You do not know each other like that, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, he pulls back from you, shrugging off his jacket as well, letting it fall to the ground behind him as he undoes his jeans and shoves them down.

You’re on him before he even pulls his hands away from the waistband一both hands wrapping around his shaft, coaxing him to hardness even though he’s already most of the way there. Your entire being shudders with relief as soon as you feel his hot, girthy cock in your hands, and he rushes you back against the tree, mouth taking yours again as you stroke him with both hands, smearing the copious amount of precome he’s leaking all down his length. He’s so wet it coats your hands, your wrists even, as you accidentally let them brush against him as you jerk him off.

“This is”一you gasp out as he breaks away to move his lips down to your neck一“weird, right?”

“Yes,” Steve answers, but even as he says it, he’s moving his hands from your waist to your front, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans and slipping the button. He undoes the zipper and doesn’t even bother trying to lower your pants down to your thighs like his are一he just shoves his hand into your underwear, palm skimming below your belly button until he reaches your mound, his middle finger sliding between your lips to touch your clit, the pad of his finger rubbing over it, not gently, but hard, harsh, immediate pressure that should feel good, but does absolutely nothing for you.

Strangely, you realize一you’re getting more enjoyment out of touching him, than you are from him touching you.

“God, that’s good,” Steve breathes against your mouth, and you realize he must be feeling the same一only getting any relief when he got his hands on you.

“What’s happening?” you ask, lips on the corner of his, breath warm on his cheek.

“I don’t know, I一” Steve says, licking into your mouth before pressing his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes as he thrusts his hand down further into your jeans, the force of it moving them down your hips without any help, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds. “You’re一so wet一I, I never felt anyone like, like this一”

“This is fucking,” you stammer, but the thought of exactly what it is leaves you as he curls two fingers inside of you, and he shudders in relief. You pull him closer by his cock, letting one hand move over it as you reach lower, cupping his heavy balls in your hand, massaging them and tipping your head back, eyes fluttering closed as you do.

“We should一stop,” Steve says, but you shake your head, then nod, then shake your head again.

“No, we can’t… Don’t want to,” you admit.

Steve’s voice is thick like honey, dripping with arousal as he speaks to you, tucking his cheek against yours so he can whisper directly into your ear. “Take一take everything off. Turn around.” It’s dark and deep and you reluctantly release his cock, let him slide his fingers out of you, and then the two of you strip the rest of your clothes off, denim landing on the dirt and leaves, his shirt landing in a heap as he helps you with your bra, and then you’re both naked in the cursed forest, and he’s pressing himself against your back, hands roaming your front. It feels nice but does nothing to assuage the arousal still coiling in your belly, and you push yourself into him, the heated skin of his cock smearing precome over your ass as his hips slide against you. 

“Steve,” you whine, and your tone spurs him into action, his hands landing on your hips, pushing you down, down to your knees and then all fours, and then one of his hands is sliding down your spine to stop between your shoulder blades, and then the next thing you know, your shoulders and tits are being pressed into the dirt, your ass up in the air, presenting yourself to him. You turn your head as much as you can to look back at him, straining as he holds you down.

He’s kneeling behind you, and you watch as his eyes meet yours, hazy with lust, with desperation, and he only nods once at you before you see him reach for his cock with his free hand and press the head against your weeping slit.

Your whole body quivers, and you would have pushed back if he wasn’t keeping you firmly in place, your arms trapped beneath you, hands scrabbling for purchase on your own thighs, holding onto yourself as you feel the pressure on your pussy increase when Steve leans into you with purpose.

He enters you in one deep, thick stroke, and as soon as you engulf him, as soon as you feel him splitting your walls open on his cock, you shudder and come instantly with a loud cry, sobbing from momentary relief, pleasure raining down over you as the sheen of sweat on your skin worsens. Your entire body is aflame like you’ve got a fever, and you clench around Steve's cock when you feel his hips grinding against your ass as you realize that he came too, suddenly, with a harsh gasp. 

But then he’s moving again, back out of you and then pushing in, pushing desperately, chasing the feeling again. Because your first orgasm wasn’t satisfying, barely any of the edge siphoning off despite how much it affected you, and the way he’s digging his fingertips into your hips as he pounds at you tells you his wasn’t either. He’s fucking his come back into your pussy, easing the slide, your thighs dripping with it already as flecks of his release land on your skin. 

“Steve,” you say, voice watery, because you haven’t even come down from your first orgasm and you can already feel another one cresting on the horizon.

“Do you一does this一feel good for you, t-too?” he asks, and you know he’s asking because he must feel the same as you一unsatisfied, wanting more, chasing another and another and another.

“Yeah, it一” you say, gasping as he leans over you, drilling his cock into you even deeper, reaching places inside of you you’ve never felt on your own. “You feel so一so good, Steve, please just一” You falter again, but unless you say it how will he know? How will he know how badly you want this, want him, unless you tell him? “Just keep一going, keep, keep coming in一in me, oh, god, I…” 

You’d feel embarrassed to sound so wanton and lewd if not for the way he answers you, pressing his hand more firmly against your back, sliding it up to your neck, and then finally, relenting for a brief moment so he can tangle his fist into your hair and use it to press your face down into the dirt.

“You have no一idea,” he replies, his hips snapping against your ass, his cock coated with his own spunk, your fluids, dripping down onto his balls, onto the forest floor. “How good you一you feel, around一fuck, you’re so一so一” He fucks into you again, and you feel his cock twitch deep within you, coming again, his release flooding you, his rigid cock not softening and not leaving your cunt, not fully anyway.

His voice sounds slightly more even when he speaks, but still frenzied.

“You feel that?” he asks, and you nod, sliding one of your hands up your stained thigh, sticky with your arousal. “Feel me inside you, right? Feel how一what you’re doing to me?”

“Steve,” you whimper, as he starts moving again, the wet sounds coming from between your bodies obscene, the sound of him fucking his own come loud, filthy, and it ensnares you, your lips parting of their own accord as you feel the saliva dribbling out of your mouth, but you can’t do much to stop it, not with him holding you down, with your arms tucked beneath you, with the way you’re now rubbing at your own clit because you feel so full with two loads in you that you need to come, need to feel it leak out of your hole around his cock, need the force of your orgasm to empty you so he can do it all over again on a clean slate.

“I can feel you,” Steve says, voice choked as he slams into you and stops, straightening up, releasing your head and your hair and clamping his hands down on your hips, rolling his front shallowly against yours, letting his cock just barely move out before it dips right back in, and the stretch of your slit around him, the feeling of your own hand working at your clit, finally sends you over the edge and you turn your face into the ground, hiding your shame as you realize he just came a third time, your pussy milking the orgasm from him as it spasmed and clenched down, begging it from him. The dirt sticks to your face, your lips and chin and you squeeze your eyes closed as you feel him pull out一again, not fully, only partly because you chase him, leaning back into him, wanting him to stay rooted deep within you一but even as you do, you still feel the thick drops of his come ooze out of you around him, rolling down your thighs, collecting in the crease of your knees.

“Do you feel any一better?” Steve asks, and in spite of the question, he pushes back into you, displacing more of his semen, forcing more of it out around him, staining your front along with his this time.

“Yes,” you answer, “no一can you fuck me a-again?”

Steve’s hands smooth over your back一you feel a little less heady, a little less one-track minded, but the burn is still there, the one that needs him moving into you again, pounding his front against your back, giving it to you over and over.

“I still need it too,” he says, and that makes you feel marginally better until he leans over you, letting his back rest against your front, letting your legs support his weight on top of you as he circles both arms beneath you, one hand pressing against up against your stomach, the other moving between your come-covered thighs to nudge your hand away and let his fingers work at your clit this time.

“Fuck一Steve,” you sob, because he’s not moving this time, just letting his cock sit inside you, heavy, slick with his own spunk, and his breath is heavy in your ear as he just rubs your clit, letting you squeeze down on him, unmoving inside you. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and Steve’s hand on your clit feels worlds different than your own did一your orgasm takes you over by surprise, hitting you out of nowhere so strongly that you buck back against him, wanting to feel him deeper even though he’s fully seated in you, riding out your orgasm with you until you sigh, eyes closed, cheek pressing to the dirty ground, smearing your own drool against the detritus below you.

His fingers slip away from your clit and he starts moving again, and even though you want it, you whine, the noise in your throat crackly and petulant, and without pulling out of you, needing to stay joined the exact same way you do, he holds you tight against him and rolls the both of you onto your side. He’s still inside you, and with the same arm that he’d just had looped around your stomach, he hooks your leg on his wrist, pulling your leg up to the side and holds it there, out of his way, exposing your cunt as he fucks you from behind this time, the new position just as intense but so, so much better, your back resting against his front, his skin slick with sweat as he clings to you, almost as desperate as you feel. 

“Almost一almost there,” he says, and you’re not sure what he means, because you’re still bleary with arousal, still want to come on his cock countless more times, still want to feel him lingering inside you for days.

“Please touch me,” you beg, “need you一need it to be you, it doesn’t一work when it’s me, Steve, please一”

“Sh,” he hushes you, his voice soft as he leans a little further into you, rising to prop himself up on his elbow. He doesn’t release your leg一to the contrary, he leans forward, pushing your leg further up to the crook of his elbow, holding your legs open at an even wider angle, and lets his now free hand slip between your folds to find your clit.

You sob when he does, because you come again the moment he touches it, the swollen bead throbbing beneath the pads of his fingers, kicking under his ministrations as he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, and you rise to your peak again, barely even coming down from the first一or maybe you just didn’t stop coming. You don’t know, you don’t care, because after this many, you’re starting to feel like yourself again, but the feeling is still there, you still need more.

“It’s一so much,” you mumble, and Steve presses a short kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“You feel so good, though,” he says, his hips still curling into yours, his cock not as deep now, both of you contorted around each other, back to front, limbs entangled, his fingers on your clit, the head of his cock in the perfect position to rub repeatedly against your g-spot, and you shudder a sigh as you feel yourself come again, weaker this time, your cunt sopping and sore.

“Come in me again,” you ask weakly, because each time he did, each time he filled you to the brim and it spilled out of you, a little bit of the haze lifted, the feverish impulse lessening.

“Almost,” he replies, thrusting into you, the head of his cock nudging your g-spot and you feel another orgasm beginning to rise, but not strong enough to overtake you yet.

“Please,” you beg, desperate now that you can feel the end might be in sight. You taste dirt in your mouth and feel itchy, skin irritated from twigs and leaves on the ground below you, but they’re the first sensations you’ve felt other than all-consuming arousal since the flower disintegrated onto you both, and you welcome them.

“Just一hold on another一another一” Steve says, and you feel him circle your clit quicker as he fucks into you, his cock dragging against your walls as you tighten up around him, and when he snaps them forward, up into you, shot after shot of his come spurting from the tip of his dick, your whole body tightens, loosens, releases after another orgasm一weak, feeble, and final, you hope一and then you still. Both of you, still, filthy, sweaty messes on the ground, dirty and sticky, skin slick between your thighs, his chest sticking to your back as you pull away from him. You stay on your side, wiping your face with the cleaner of your two hands, scraping away the dirt and spit stuck to your chin. You hear Steve behind you shuffle to his feet, and then his bomber jacket is draped over your shoulders, just to give you some modicum of modesty until you can stand and dress yourself.

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, wiping at the rest of your face now, adjusting the jacket to cover yourself as you feel his spend slowly trickle out of you. You twist, looking up at Steve where he’s standing, pulling his jeans back on. He uses his shirt to wipe his dick clean, his thighs, and then looks over to you.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, and zips his fly before kneeling beside you, making to lift the jacket to wipe you clean with his shirt too, but you bat his hand away. You wanted him so desperately, had him, even, the two of you unable to control yourselves, and now you don’t even want him to look at you.

“Can you get me my一shirt,” you ask, pointing to where your tank top landed.

Wordlessly, Steve gets you your clothes, handing them to you and looking away as you shift yourself to your knees. You suppress the whimper as you feel yourself gaping, the sticky mess of his come falling from your pussy lips, and you try to clean yourself up as best you can, dressing yourself in your jeans and snapping the jacket closed to hide the fact that you’re now shirtless. You both leave the other soiled garments in the woods.

The first half of the walk back is silent, your stoic expression unchanging even as Steve continues acting exactly as he had before: Letting you walk ahead of him, keeping an eye on you to make sure you don’t trip, illuminating your path with the flashlight rather than his own.

“Um,” he says, once you start to see the reddish glow indicating that you’re nearing the rift. “Can we talk?”

You sigh. Heavily. “About what.”

“About一what just happened.”

“What happened?” you ask.

His eyes widen, like he’s not sure whether you’re really asking. “We…had一”

“I know what happened, Steve,” you snap. “I mean, why? What was that stuff?”

He closes his mouth, then his eyes, lifting his hand to cover his face for a moment before letting it fall to his side again.

“I don’t know. But I just一I wanted to check whether you’re ok now.”

“I’m fine,” you say, a little sarcastic, but biting it back because he got the same faceful of fuck pollen as you did. “Don’t worry, you won’t catch me begging for your dick again any time soon.”

He blanches, then takes a step toward you. “Hey, that’s not what I meant.”

“Can we not一talk about it?” you ask.

Steve hesitates, frowns. Then nods. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”

&&

The drive back to the Byers house is awkward. You let Steve sit in front next to Jonathan, let Steve answer the questions, let Steve tell Jonathan no一don’t drop you at home. You end up in the driveway of Jonathan’s house, waiting inside Steve’s BMW as he goes in and gives all the details to Nancy this time. He returns the jacket to Mrs. Byers.

He’d been careful with what he said to Jonathan. Some trees, weird flowers, some kind of pollen. It knocked you out for a little while, he explains, some kind of fever or something, that’s why you’re both filthy and sweaty. But you both feel fine now.

Sure.

Steve emerges from the house in another shirt, a polo he’d changed out of before this whole mess, and rounds the hood of the Bimmer. You watch him, wondering why you didn’t interrupt when Jonathan offered to drop you at your place. It would have been easier. You could have shut yourself up inside and never looked twice at Steve again. You only just got involved in this bullshit. You could extricate yourself just as easily.

But you didn’t.

You’d stayed with Steve even when you had the chance for an out.

You’d allowed him to insist that he drive you home, because he wanted more time to talk to you. Which you didn’t want to do but, admittedly, was probably a good idea.

The driver’s side door slams shut as Steve climbs in. You don’t move, legs pressed together, arms crossed over your chest, and Steve fiddles with the keys, not putting them in the ignition.

“So一” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I don’t want to talk outside Jonathan’s house,” you say.

“Right,” he says, starting the car and shifting into gear, heading out back onto the road. He clears his throat. “So.”

“Yeah?” you ask, and he just clears his throat again.

“Are you ok?”

It’s the question you expected but weren’t sure if he would actually ask. Because you’re not, and he’s probably not either.

“I mean, physically,” you say. “Sure.”

“I’m sorry. Obviously I didn’t一know,” he says, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel.

“I’m not blaming you, Steve.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you say. “But I said I’m not blaming you. How could you have known, really.”

He glances over at you to find you already looking at him. You shrug as if to impart the age-old adage, c’est la vie. Even though it’s really, really not.

There’s another few minutes of silence, the car humming quietly in the night, and it’s almost peaceful except for the mess still between your legs, your body reminding you of it every time he hits a bump in the road and you feel sore all over again.

“That place… I shouldn’t have let you go down there. It changes you.”

“I’ll say,” you snarked, and Steve looked over at you, a little shocked at how blasé you were in that moment, then huffed an unamused laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. It’s一”

“No, for一bringing you. Jonathan should have一”

“I’d love to hear what would have happened if it had been you and Jonathan down there,” you say, keeping your face turned toward the window.

“Ok, well一that’s一” Steve stammers, and you can’t help but laugh a little.

It feels nice, actually, laughing after needing to use Steve’s body in the most perverse, insane way ever, and letting him do the same to yours.

“You didn’t have to drive me,” you say, as Steve turns into the lot where you still live, both of you averting your eyes from Eddie’s residence. Or… what used to be.

“I wanted to,” he says, simply, and when he pulls up outside of your door, he puts the car into park and turns it off, pulling the key from the ignition.

“What are you doing?” you ask, eyeing him as he reaches for the door handle and pockets his keys.

“Walking you to your door,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You want to question him, but you don’t. You just get out of the car, slam the door behind you, and wait for him to move next to you. You lead him, and when he follows you up the steps, holds the door for you when you open it, and enters behind you, you don’t question that either.

Nor does he wait for you to. “I don’t… sleep that great anymore, after… you know, going down there. Figured you might want. I dunno. A friendly face nearby. Just in case.”

You undo the jacket’s fastenings, but hold it closed, your bra shoved into the pocket, your upper half bare beneath the canvas.

“Ok,” you say, not fighting him on it, and just point at the couch behind him. “You can stay there. My mom works an overnight shift so if you can be out by 7:00, I’d appreciate it.”

Steve looks behind himself, then nods. “Sounds good.”

You wait for him to turn and settle down onto it before padding down the hall to the bathroom. The door sticks when you close it, so you never do, just leaving it barely ajar as you strip off the jacket and your jeans, the crotch still wet with Steve’s come. You leave the clothes in a pile on the floor and start the shower, waiting for the water to warm before stepping in; in the meantime, you examine yourself in the mirror. There’s still some dirt scuffed on your cheek; you try to wipe it away with the heel of your hand but it isn’t budging, so you just check yourself out otherwise instead. Your lips are still swollen from where you’d bitten them. You’ve got some bruises and scrapes on your shoulders and chest, your arms and elbows, but there’s no pallor to your skin so you figure you’re fucking fine. Just peachy.

You pull the shower curtain and step in, scrubbing your body hard, your arms and legs, focusing on the marred areas of skin, the places you know need some extra care. You wash thoroughly, your face, your thighs, everything in between them, and when you emerge wrapped in a towel, you see Steve dozing off on your couch. 

You pull the towel tighter around you, watch him for a moment longer, then call out to him.

“Hey.”

His eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of you in the hall, squinting a little like he might have missed something in the interim of sitting down and waking up.

“You ok?” he asks.

You don’t answer一at least, not what he asked you. “My bed’s more comfortable than the couch.”

He studies you一you can feel the force of his look even with how far away he is. He hesitates.

“I’m only offering once,” you say, and that, at least, gets him to move, shifting his weight to the edge of the sofa cushion.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you say, unwavering, and he makes his way from the couch to the hall, looking down at you as he steps past you into your room. You follow him inside and close the door behind you with a low click.

Your job, as it has been for a few months, continues to be the physical blockade between the warring friends. To be Switzerland, the Demilitarization Zone of conflict, the human embodiment of a white flag. Your role is to never spill your own personal opinions on the arguments that you’re caught between, because if you did, the scale would absolutely tip in Steve’s favor — you’ve heard quite enough of Dustin’s barbed insults in the past year, thank you very much — but as the it was, you haven’t been around the rest of the monster hunting crew long enough for your thoughts to be valued by the wider circle.

(You do like to give Steve a reassuring shoulder squeeze from time to time though, especially whenever Dustin starts insulting him outright. You’re not sure it helps, but the soft smile you get in return is enough to settle some of the lingering guilt over not being able to do more.)

But still, you fall in step next to Steve just as Dustin surges forward, catching Nancy’s attention as he asks a question you can’t quite hear. You take the moment to cast a sidelong glance towards Steve, quietly asking, “Everything alright? You hit your head pretty hard back there when the car crashed.”

He sighs, passing the flashlight back and forth between his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine. More worried about…”

His face tilts up, and you follow his gaze forward. 

Dustin.

“I think if there were any lasting damage, he would’ve complained by now,” you offer. 

“Fair enough,” he says. A beat passes before he asks, “And you? I know you were in the backseat with Nance and Jonathan, but…”

You blink in surprise. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got a face full of your headrest. No biggie.”

A hushed laugh escapes him, and for the first time since the crawl that got you all in this mess in the first place, the tension in his shoulders loosens incrementally, and he turns to look at you fully. “Well, if it starts to hurt, let me know, okay? I can try and scrounge around for—”

“Steve!”

Dustin’s voice cuts across your conversation, and you both turn to where he’s waiting impatiently by the entrance to the lab, hands planted on his hips as though he’s a beleaguered mother and not a sixteen year old boy.

Steve lets out another sigh, and with a nod towards the kid, settles a hand on your back as he guides you forward. Dustin disappears inside, clearly not wanting to wait for the two of you to catch up. You get to the door first, but Steve’s quick to dart forward, yanking the door open and gesturing you through with a flourish.

You smile despite yourself.

Nancy and Jonathan are already in deep conversation by the time you catch up, and you bite back a laugh when Steve gestures to the space around you, saying, “Wow, this looks promising.”

Dustin shoots back a comment you don’t quite hear as you take in your surroundings, eyeing the vines wrapping around every surface that you can see. Hesitantly, you reach over, fingers outstretched towards a thick tendril on the wall, but before you can make contact, Steve’s at your side, intercepting your hand.

You blink up at him owlishly.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he offers in way of explanation.

“Is it dangerous?” you ask.

He shrugs and gestures towards the faded scar around his neck. “Remind me to tell you about ’86 later.”

You nod and follow him back to the rest of the group, confused to find them in an intense discussion about a movie plot of all things (Is this really the right time? you wonder) and Steve calls across the lobby, “Why are you explaining the plot of a movie that we all know, Henderson?”

“Because, Steven, Return of the Jedi is an oddly relevant movie!” Dustin snaps.

“Yeah, and we’ve all seen it,” Steve retorts.

You frown. “I’ve never seen a Star Wars film.”

Steve winces. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say.

“Anyway,” Dustin interjects. “As I was saying…”

You listen attentively as Dustin explains his theory — even if you’re only half following it, because you’re not quite sure what a shield generator even is — and brush your hand against Steve’s wrist after Dustin once again shoots the guy a snarky comment, sticking close by as you follow the group into a staircase.

Which, in turn, causes another debate when Steve points out, “Henderson and I need some space. New groups?”

“Are you serious right now?” Jonathan demands. “Who exactly are you planning on going with, Steve?”

Steve opens his mouth, incensed and ready to retort, but you quickly draw everyone’s attention towards you when you say, “Steve and I’ll go down, and Dustin can go up with you and Nancy, alright?”

Nancy shrugs, Jonathan nods, but Dustin only shoots you a scornful look.“Really? Send the two idiots downstairs? You don’t even know what you’re looking for, much less Steve.”

“Henderson!” comes Steve’s sharp admonishment. “Seriously, man?”

You breathe in and out of your nose slowly, tamping down your annoyance. “Steve and I know enough to not touch anything suspicious and radio if we see something. That’s the point, right? Radio if we see something odd?”

Nancy, thankfully, nods, and draws Dustin’s attention away. “Come on, Dust. There’ll probably be more interesting stuff upstairs anyway.” With one more sweeping look towards Steve, she adds, “Make sure to call the second you see something.”

“We will,” he promises, lifting up his walkie as if to make his point, and without another word, he steps off the landing and onto the staircase leading down.

You offer the rest of the group a silent wave and quickly follow after.

The two of walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not until everyone else’s footsteps have fully receded into the distance that Steve speaks up.

“Hey, about what I said back there, in the lobby,” he begins, clearly uncomfortable. You pause on the steps, taking in the shape of his shoulders tensing up beneath his suede coat. “About, uh, the movie. I’m sorry. If I’d known you hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have—”

“Steve,” you cut him off gently, closing the gap between you to grab his arm. “I’m not offended by it.”

But he refuses to meet your eye. “It’s not that, it’s just — that was totally rude and I shouldn’t have—”

“How could you have known that I haven’t seen a movie literally everyone else has seen?” you ask. “Trust me, I know I’m the outlier. I didn’t think anything of it.”

And finally, finally, he turns to look at you. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you say. “Maybe being stuck down here will give me the motivation to catch up on pop culture.”

His lips quirk up, and for a moment, he looks like the twenty-one year old man he is and not the more worn version of himself you’ve become acquainted with through months of working alongside him at the station. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, I feel like I should’ve brought a flashlight with me,” you say, ducking around him. “Feels kinda stupid that I didn’t in retrospect.”

He shines the light on the next set of stairs. “Well, in your defense, it’s not like you could’ve known we would’ve gotten stuck down here when you got into my backseat. Hard to prepare for that kind of thing.”

Your laugh rings around the otherwise empty halls, and the two of you settle into an easy conversation as you go round and round, losing count of how many steps you’ve descended. 

It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him.

It’s, like, the one normal part of my day, he’d admitted to you once, his fingers brushing against your own as he passed over a mug. I love Rob, but her head’s in the clouds most of the time.

By the time you touch down on the bottom floor, your sweater is sticking uncomfortably to your chest and Steve, panting, says, “Jesus, that was way too many stairs.”

“What the hell even is this place?” you ask, because despite getting inadvertently roped into the group’s tenuously illegal activities, no one ever really bothered to fill you in on the finer details.

You turn in time to find Steve grimacing, face shining from sweat, and he says, “To be honest, no one’s ever really told memuch, but they were doing a bunch of experiments on kids here. It’s where El was raised, actually.”

“Oh.”

You think back to the quiet girl you’d only met a handful of times — always under the watchful eye of the former police chief, always hand in hand with Mike Wheeler — and take in your environment just a bit more closely.

It’s dreary, honestly. No windows, no way of getting natural light in at any point, and the electronic locks affixed to every door leaves no room for doubt as to how little freedom El and the other kids were given when moving about.

You take a few steps forward, pushing open a set of double doors to your left and immediately freeze at the sight in front of you. 

Steve crashes into your back, his hands immediately finding your waist to steady you, muttering, “What the hell is this place?”

Because surrounding the two of you is the starkest playroom you’ve ever seen: All white, with a rather unnerving rainbow painted across the wall. Toys are organized and put away neatly, and you can imagine that the real life version of this place smelled of harsh antiseptics.

In short, no place a kid should be raised in.

“This is creepy,” you whisper. “Like…”

“I get what you mean,” Steve says. “It’s like the set of a horror movie in here.”

You nod in agreement, reaching back until your hand makes contact with the hem of his coat. For all of your bravado and confidence walking into this situation, it’s definitely reassuring to have someone else with you as you explore this place.

Carefully, he leads the two of you around the room, shining his flashlight in every which direction as you search for… 

Something.

(A shield generator? Whatever the hell that is?)

Steve’s starting to glance towards the entrance, clearly ready to search other rooms in the basement, when your eyes catch on the open window along the back wall. More specifically, an odd bump in the wall, one that has you moving to climb through the window before you can think twice about it, ignoring Steve’s protests.

“There’s something back here,” you call out, feeling your way along the wall as he grunts behind you, the sound of his feet slipping along the floor as he catches up echoing through the room. “It’s like—”

A hidden latch pops, and the wall beneath your hands opening up enough to reveal an office tucked neatly behind it. You frown at the grime left on your hand and quickly wipe it against your jeans.

“That’s creepy as hell,” Steve comments, turning the light inside and gently stepping around you to go inside first.

“I bet that hole in the wall was, like, one-way glass or something,” you say, creeping inside. “So whoever could observe the kids.”

“Like I said,” he replies. “Creepy.”

He sets the flashlight down on the desk, dropping the walkie down next to it, and letting the glow illuminate the room as you separate. Steve goes to inspect the wall as you leaf through the sprawl of papers and notebooks on the desk, carefully setting aside anything that looks vaguely important to carry back upstairs. 

“This map looks exactly like Henderson’s,” Steve announces. “That’s weird, right? And this — this diagram thing. It’s, like…”

But before he can finish his thought, you lean down to open a drawer, seeing if you can find anything else of import, when it happens.

Something explodes in your face — some sort of dust, maybe? — and you stagger away, wheezing and coughing and choking as it settles across your skin, infiltrates your lungs, and within seconds Steve makes his way through the cloud, his hands hovering over your body as he asks, “Holy shit, are you okay?”

You hunch over, bracing your hands against your knees as you force out, “Fuck — just — breathed all that in—”

He thumps your back, which does little to help the aching in your chest, but the heat emanating from his hand feels nice even through the thick sweater draped across your torso. 

“Just get it out,” he murmurs gently. “There you go, get it all out.”

“Fuck,” you say again, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck, that was awful. What was that stuff anyway?”

“Not sure,” he says, helping you stand back up. His fingers linger on your arms just a little longer than they ever have, and he looks almost… pained when he finally pulls away, turning back to inspect the open drawer. “I’ve seen a lot of floating dust and shit down here, but never anything like that. Whatever, it’s gone now and there’s nothing inside here.”

“Great,” you say, leaning against the wall, rubbing your chest as an odd warmth settles in your lungs. “I probably just got lung cancer or something.”

“It didn’t look like asbestos,” he says. “Though it did kind of just… disappear. So who knows.”

You draw in a shaky lungful of hair. “How do you know what asbestos looks like?”

“My dad’s work — he owns some construction company,” Steve explains. “So when all those studies about asbestos came out in the seventies, I saw a bunch of pamphlets at home about what it looks like and what to avoid. Dad had to distribute them to the guys building houses.”

You blink in surprise. Steve’s never talked much about his parents, not in the year you’ve known him. You don’t think there’s really any tragic backstory hiding around the corner or anything; You’ve heard him on the phone with his mother, soft and affectionate in a way that an only child can be with the person who raised him, but he’s always seemed like the kind of person who grew out of the need for his parents’ involvement in his life far younger than other people. Independent in a way you’re not quite sure you’ve ever managed. 

And clearly not, because your lungs are still burning from whatever it was you inhaled (and you’re not quite sure that you believe it wasn’t asbestos, even with Steve’s expert opinion) and the burning is quickly morphing into something else. Something more, something you can’t quite put your finger on as you watch Steve hop up on the desk, legs swinging.

“So—” you begin, grasping at anything to fill the silence, to distract you from the heaviness tugging at your bones. “Your dad owns a company?”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s an odd note to Steve’s tone, one you can’t quite parse out. “My grandpa owned this, like, pet grooming business after the war. Successful as hell, and Dad went to Kelley down in Bloomington, got an MBA, started a construction business. I think originally he owned some realty thing, but there was more money in building or whatever.”

“That’s nice,” you say. “And your mom?”

“She stayed at home. Did a bunch of volunteer work around Hawkins, and, uh…”

He trails off, and you jump onto the next question. “Where are they now?”

“North Carolina,” he says. “They own a beach house there. Told them to evacuate Hawkins before lock down, and they’ve been there ever since.”

Sweat beads at your temples, slipping down your face, and you can feel moisture gathering on the back of your neck as well. “Oh, wow, uh… and—”

“No offense, but,” he interrupts, strained. “Not sure I want to talk about my parents right now.”

You nod and continue to rub the space just above your breasts, feeling rather lightheaded over the lack of oxygen from your coughing fit. You press your eyelids shut, willing the dizziness to pass, but it only molds, intensifying.

It crawls down your spine, a heaviness you’ve never felt before, a heat creeping slowly through your body, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. Honestly, you must’ve spent longer coughing than you’d thought, because you’ve never felt like this before, never felt anything like this grip all your senses to firmly, swirling around your tummy as the warmth turns up, up, up—

An uncomfortable noise echoes through the room, and it takes a moment for you to parse out that it came from Steve.

You force your eyes open, noting in an almost detached manner just how sweaty he looks. Which is odd, because it was really, really cold when the two of you descended into the basement, but now that you think about it, you’re also feeling rather flushed, aren’t you? 

His gaze meets yours, and the heat inside of you feels like it explodes, and you realize, startled, that it’s not warmth, per se, but—

“Steve.” Your voice is hoarser than you intended. “Do you feel weird?”

“Weird how?”

You swallow once, heavily, suddenly woozy from just how overpowering the feeling burning through your veins is. A feeling that you’re now able to identify with an uncomfortable clarity. “Did that dust make you unrelentingly horny too?”

There’s a sound that escapes his chest — something between a whimper and a groan, the noise of a man who prides himself on self-restraint beginning to fracture — and you blink blearily at him to find him still sitting on the desk, fingers digging into his thighs, looking just as wrecked as you feel. You glance down, unbidden, to see a rather obvious bulge in his jeans.

“Don’t ask me that,” he croaks pathetically.

“Steve,” you say. “I think we might’ve — I think we might have to—”

“No.” It comes out firm despite everything, despite the fact that the cotton bra against your breasts feels so restricting that you think you might suffocate. “I don’t care that what that shit did, I’m not — I won’t—”

“But you feel it too, right?” you ask, suddenly desperate to know. “It’s not just me, right?”

“I — yes, but—”

“Then shouldn’t we do something—?”

“No!” Sweat glistens across his forehead, and you watch with fascination as a droplet slides down his cheek, dripping onto his sweater. “I’m not going to — to take advantage of you, not like this, not when—”

“Steve.” It comes out pathetic, a whimper you can’t help as the feeling swells inside you, becoming too much for you to not do something. “Please.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, though it comes out less certain than you’re sure he intends it to. 

“Fine then,” you say, fumbling with the button of your jeans. “You won’t mind if I take care of myself, will you?”

He chokes. “What?”

You don’t bother responding though, and there’s no time for embarrassment as you shove your jeans down just far enough that you can slip a hand into your panties, finding yourself already drenched. Your heart is pounding erratically against your rib cage at the first swipe against your clit, and your knees buckle from how overwhelmingly good it feels, and you know for a fact that if you were in a more solid state of mind — if every conscious thought in your brain wasn’t slowly being eroded by the heady pressure of arousal — you’d be more concerned by how quickly the pleasure is building up in your core with only the lightest touch.

But you’re not in that state of mind. You’re here, burning up from the inside out, the fire of desperation and debauchery consuming you until it’s almost painful, as you circle your fingers faster, faster, faster until—

And as abruptly as your orgasm built, it stops dead in its tracks.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Your breath catches as your fingers slip against your clit to no avail. The pleasure refuses to grow, refuses to tip over into what you want most, refuses to let you into the sweet embrace of your orgasm. It dances teasingly just far enough out of reach to keep you on the precipice, to drive you mad with want. To drive you mad with need.

You tilt your head up, finding Steve’s gaze searing into your body, his hands still gripping his thighs tightly, and another heaving cry billows from your lips as you utter, “Please.”

He goes very, very still.

“Please, Steve,” you beg, uncaring of how you sound — not when he looks just as wrecked as you feel, not when he still hasn’t moved a single muscle. “Please, please, please help me, please — it hurts so much, I can’t — I can’t—”

Slowly, he slips from the desk and makes his way to you with controlled, even steps, and you watch as he sinks to his knees before you, his voice completely torn with need as he murmurs, “Let’s get your shoes off, yeah?”

“Steve,” you plead again. “I need you to touch me.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, hands shaking as they find their way to the laces of your tennis shoes. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

The sentiment rings hollow in your ears.

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” you insist, tears spilling from your eyes. “I want this, I want you—”

“Whatever we breathed in, that’s making you feel this way,” he insists, and you don’t understand. You don’t understand how he’s still so in control when you’re ready to burst at the seams, ready to fall apart into a million pieces at the feeling of his breath on your thighs. “But I can — I’ll help.”

He slips one of your shoes off, then the next, stacking them neatly somewhere you don’t bother to look, and with a firm grasp, he slides the denim down your legs, helping you step out. Your panties are tugged down next, and you watch somewhat deliriously as he tucks them into his back pocket. Your brain struggles to catch up as he draws your leg up and over his shoulder, tilting his head up to meet your eyes, his fingers tracing through the thatch of hair on your mound,

“I need to hear it,” he says.

You whimper. “Please, Steve. I need you.”

That’s all he needs before he pulls you down onto his face.

His nose barely nudges your clit before you’re clenching around nothing, waves of pleasure crashing into you as you come harder than you ever have in your life, chest heaving as you grip onto Steve, shaking and trembling and crying until your knees buckle.

He’s quick to catch you before you fall to the ground, grabbing your hips as he slowly lowers you down onto his lap. “Did that help?” he asks, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweater.

“Yes — no,” you whimper, your head so full of everything that you can’t think straight. “It hurts so bad, Steve, I need — need more — not enough, it’s not enough—”

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, even if he sounds a little broken as he says it. “Let me put my jacket down for you, yeah?”

You shake your head because you need it now, but Steve ignores it — ignores you — and groans loudly when you grind down into his erection, desperate and chasing any form of relief you can get as he slides his jacket off. You don’t care though, burying your face into his shoulder and breathing in the intoxicating scent of some woodsy cologne and human musk underneath, the smell of a man who has worked hard to be where he’s at right in this moment, and you roll your clit against the zipper on his jeans even harder, not paying attention when Steve lowers you to the ground, your back hitting his coat that he laid out without your notice.

It feels like it takes ages for him to settle between your legs, spreading your pussy open carefully, as if it were made of something precious, and you twitch up pathetically as his breath ghosting against where you ache the most.

“Steve,” you whine, your own hands sliding up under your sweater and beneath your bra, rolling your nipples between your fingers.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he murmurs. You meet his eyes, and your arousal grows at just how blown up his pupils are, wide with desire as a flush spreads across his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you.”

That’s all the warning you get before he dives in once more, lapping up your wetness like a starving man. You squirm, and his grip against your thighs is bruising as he holds you in place. It’s an exhilarating dichotomy: Commanding yet so at odds with how soft he speaks to you, gentle in every word. 

And when he presses his fingers into your skin just a bit deeper, you know for a fact that his composure is cracking the tiniest bit more.

Just like with your first orgasm, it doesn’t take long for the second one to build, cresting until it washes over you with an urgency. But instead of relief, the only thing you feel is a hungry need for more — more of his tongue against your clit, more of his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling up until they hit the spongy spot that makes you feel stars, more of him — and you cry out, not bothering to wipe the tears spilling down your face as you twist your nipples, trying to extend your orgasm a little longer. 

And yet, somehow, the need that has taken over every one of your sense, the fire of arousal caused by whatever it was you stumbled into, it only grows hotter, burns brighter, and within seconds after your orgasm abates you’re reaching down, winding your fingers into his hair and begging, “More.”

Steve glances up at you, his nose still firmly pressed into the seam of your pussy, and the only response you get is one long, languid lick from your entrance up to your clit. 

He looks completely and utterly ravished in spite of the fact he’s focused entirely on your own pleasure.

A ragged moan rips itself from your throat, louder than any sound you’re sure you’ve ever made before, and within seconds his head lifts from your core. You cry out from the absence, but he doesn’t leave you wanting long, instead tugging your sweater up and shoving the fabric into your mouth, hoarsely saying, “They’re going to hear you upstairs if you don’t quiet down.”

Privately, you think that you don’t actually care who hears you, but clearly Steve is still managing a level of sense that completely abandoned you however long ago because he only tucks the sweater more firmly against your tongue. Your teeth scrape against his fingers and he groans, wanton but quiet.

“Bite down,” he tells you as his hand retreats, commanding but in a way that doesn’t feel like a demand. 

You do as told, and you watch through your lashes as his throat bobs. His gaze lingers on your mouth, his body shaking with barely restrained desire, and the next thing you know, your bra is being tugged town, your breasts spilling into the cold air. Your nipples peak, and Steve’s mouth is on them before you can even blink, sucking one into his mouth while his hand dips back down to your pussy, gathering wetness on his fingers before dipping inside where you ache the most.

The effect is instantaneous. Fireworks explode under your skin, growing bigger and brighter when he slips a third finger inside. He moves at a slow and methodical rhythm, and entirely at odds with how he ravishes your chest, and you can’t help the pathetic mewl that escapes your throat, tears slipping down the side of your face.

He releases your nipple with a wet pop, and immediately delves into the valley of your breasts, sucking spots into your skin that should be painful, but the only thing you can think is that you want the marks to be tattooed into your skin forever, a permanent mark of the pleasure he’s giving you.

Spit trails from his mouth as he makes his way to your other breast, giving it the same ministrations. Sucking, teasing, biting until you yelp through the cloth in your mouth, and you can feel rather than hear the vibration of his laughter, even as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

The third orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you as much as it consumes you, forcing more tears from your eyes as you shake and shake and shake, clenching down on Steve’s fingers as he works you through it, low, soothing noises murmured into your skin as he makes his way down.

If you were in a more coherent state, you’d recognize his actions for what they were: The further fraying of carefully kept control, because he doesn’t skip a beat as his mouth makes contact with your pussy once more, not bothering to stop and check in, to make sure you still want this.

At this point, you’re both completely aware of what you want, even if he’s still refusing to fully give into the lewdness of the situation.

You, on the other hand, let the fever consume you entirely as he sucks your clit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing, fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace, driving you completely and utterly insane.

You wonder, in a vague, abstract way, if he’s this good even without the added effects of whatever it was that infected the two of you, and you know instinctively that you’d give anything to find out. Especially when his teeth graze across your clit in a way that should be painful but just has your hips jerking against the arm wrapped around your leg. 

“So good for me, honey,” he murmurs into your pussy, twisting his hand to find that sweet spot inside you once more. “Come on, come for me, honey — come for—”

Your fourth orgasm leaves you thrashing against his hold.

Stars burst behind your eyelids as waves of pleasure crash over you, ebbing and flowing but never quite stopping, and somehow — somehow — the heat only builds, consuming the very essence of your being until you’re sobbing in earnest. You scrabble to pull Steve up, up until he’s hovering over you, his face flushed and eyes wide, his chin glistening with your arousal, and your chest heaves as you weep, “Don’t you want me?”

His face cracks at your words, and all at once, you’re able to see everything that he’s been holding back: Fear, confusion, and without a doubt, complete and unadulterated desire.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, honey, I don’t—”

He cuts himself off by burying his face into your neck, the scratchy feeling of his wool sweater against your pebbled nipples doing nothing to tame the arousal burning inside you. And you realize, suddenly, that you asking for it isn’t enough, because it’s Steve — sweet, understanding Steve — who never fails to make you laugh, who always makes sure you’re safely inside after a crawl before going in himself, who has shown up time and time again in such small ways for the duration of your friendship that you know, without a doubt, that asking for it will never convince him of what you want, of your feelings.

“Steve,” you whisper, capturing his face beneath your palms and forcing him to look you in the eye. “I’m glad this was you.”

His brows furrow and his eyes tighten — once, small, pain seeping through his expression — and he throatily says, “What?”

“I’m glad it’s you here and not anyone else,” you say. “If I had to be in this situation with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

He licks his lips, and his expression blooms into something more hopeful. “Do you — do you really mean that?”

“Steve,” you say softly, full of affection. “I would’ve done this without the crazy dust. Just, you know, maybe not in a random office.”

He searches your face for a moment before finally breathing out, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods, and you watch the feeling swell in him, his composure finally disintegrating in the sureness of your fingers skimming down your side, sliding under your knee to press you open just a bit more. “If you’re — are you sure that you want this? You’re completely—?”

“I want this,” you say again, firm in your conviction. “I want this with you, and I’ll want this with you even once we’re out of here, Steve.”

You watch as your confession hits him: First quietly, then all at once. He looks at you with so much affection that for the first time since you opened that drawer, your chest aches with something other than arousal. Through the haze of pleasure, he looks down at you tenderly, brushing your hair plastered to your face away and, with more regret than you expected, “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

But he doesn’t give you any time to question what he means before he’s surging forward, self-restraint in tatters around the two of you as his mouth crashes into yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, and as his forearms bracket your head, you reach down, scrambling to unbutton his jeans and shove them as far down as you can reach. They barely make it to the top of his thighs before you’re taking him in hand, gasping with pleasure at how big and heavy and warm he feels in your fingers and give a few, lazy pumps. He shudders against your hold but doesn’t fight when you line him up against your entrance and look up at him through hooded eyes, asking one more time, “Please, Steve? I need you.”

This is all he needs to finally snap.

You can feel the last remnants of sense leave his body as his hips thrust forward, his cock pressing entirely inside you in one swift, fluid motion, punching the air from your lungs. He doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s dragging himself out slowly before pushing back in, and he sets a brutal pace that has any last coherent thought driven from your head as he tends to the fire that’s been coursing throughout your veins. 

And that fire — it changes. Whereas every orgasm he’d drawn out of you with his mouth and fingers had only left you aching, left you wanting for more, with his cock bullying its way in and out of your cunt, you can only feel the fuzzy pleasure of contentment, like there’s been a piece of you missing your entire life that’s finally found its way home.

You think he feels the same when he gazes at you with such adoration, such fondness as he presses your leg even higher, hitting a new, deeper spot within you that has you gasping for more, more, more.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Steve throughout this whole thing, is that he is nothing if not a giving lover.

He snakes a hand back down to your core, fingers slipping over your sensitive core as he breathes, “One more for me, honey?”

(Could you ever deny a request made so lovingly?)

Despite how he pounds into your pussy with reckless abandon, he’s effervescently gentle in how he circles your clit, like he’s aware of just how sore you’re absolutely going to be when all of this is said and done. 

His teeth scrape down your neck as he continues his ministrations, fingers flexing over your most sensitive spot, and it’s as he sucks a hickey into your skin that he coaxes one final orgasm from your worn body.

Your cries come out quieter this time, more exhausted as you clench down on his cock, and within seconds his hips stutter as he spills warmth inside you, and finally, finally, the fever inside you dissipates.

Steve practically collapses on top of you, only just cognizant enough to keep the worst of his weight off of your body as the remnants of whatever infected you both tapers off until the flame is extinguished entirely, leaving you sweaty and spent yet somehow feeling better than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, chests heaving as you catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, watching his face carefully as his eyes flutter open, exhausted but happy as he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay? That was…”

Intense.

It doesn’t need to be said though. You nod, dragging your hand up to his face to push his bangs from his eyes. “I’m fine. How about you? You held out super long.”

He huffs out a laugh and presses his cheek a little firmer unto your palm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Promise. Better than I’ve felt in a long while.”

You open your mouth to say something — to confess something — though what, you aren’t quite sure, then the walkie across the room crackles to life, and Dustin Henderson’s panicked voice comes through. “Steve? Steve, are you there? We found something and it’s—”

Steve pushes off of your prone body in seconds, and you’re left achingly empty as he stumbles over to the walkie, snatching it off the table it’s rested on next to the flashlight, calling into it, “Henderson, what’s going on?”

Sticky come slips from your core, wetting your thighs.

“Don’t touch anything!” Dustin demands through the walkie. “It isn’t a shield generator, and Nancy wanted to shoot it—”

“Hey!”

“Have you found anything?” Dustin asks, ignoring Nancy’s protest.

Steve sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and spares you a sidelong glance as you sit up, righting your bra and sweater. “Yeah, I think we found Brenner’s office. Don’t come down here, though. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Dustin calls his confirmation, and Steve’s quick to drop the walkie back on top of the table. He makes his way back to you in two, long strides, and kneels down.

“Let me do it,” he says, batting you away and replacing them with your own as he tucks your breasts back into the cups of your bra, gently pulling your sweater down. 

You don’t quite manage to choke down a laugh when he helps you stand up and frowns at the cum dripping down your thighs, looking around to find something to clean it up and coming up short.

“It’s okay,” you say, and Steve nods as he’s forced to accept the situation.

He doesn’t bother giving you your panties back as he draws your jeans back up your legs, holding you steady as you step into each of your shoes that he insists on tying.

He’s quiet, and it takes you a few minutes too long to realize that he’s embarrassed, like you caught him doing something that he wasn’t meant to do. It doesn’t sit well with you.

But he pushes forward with methodical ease, gathering his coat and all of the notebooks that you picked out before the two of you got into this mess, and leads you from the office with the stride of a man used to performing confidence.

Except—

You know it’s an act. You’ve seen him soft, you’ve seen him pushed to the edge, and you now know the way it feels to be the center of his universe, even if only for a singular moment, and you know that you want more.

You jog forward to catch up to him just as he hits the staircase, grasping his arm and force him to look at you.

“Steve,” you gently say. “When all of this is done — when we’re back in Hawkins and — whatever — would you go on a date with me?”

He freezes, but hope still blooms on his face. “I — what?”

“Would you go on a date with me?” you ask again, firmer this time. “Maybe you can show me Star Wars and I can finally see what I’ve been missing this whole time.”

“Really?” You can tell that the question slips out without him meaning to by how quickly his face flushes, but he barrels forward. “You’d really want to go on a date with me?”

“Of course I would,” you say with a smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted this when we were out of here. And I didn’t just mean sex, I — I want everything, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, honey.” It comes out breathless, and in the next second he’s leaning down, pressing the softest kiss against your swollen lips. “Of course I’ll have you. I just didn’t want to assume…”

“You can assume,” you reassure. “With me, you can assume.”

Jack Abbot was off today, but still skipped all the morning and afternoon activities in favor of the evening. His sleep schedule was built that way now and even on his off days, it was rare for him to be out during the day. Besides, he was hoping he’d run into you there after your own shift.

You never came to these types of events, but that didn’t stop him from hoping every time. His eyes were always searching, hoping they’d stumble upon yours.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to you much in the last two years, since you switched to the day shift. When shift change occurred, you largely avoided him. He asked Robby about you and Robby always said the same thing, “She’s a great doctor, but she keeps to herself.”

It hadn’t been like that when you were on the night shift. You were shy, sure, but it hadn’t taken Jack very long to pry you out of your shell. 

He wondered sometimes if you regretted it, now. Letting him in.

Now, he was making the rounds at the first bar of the night, not so subtly looking for you.

“You’re pathetic,” Robby teased as he sipped his beer.

“Huh?” Jack said, finally bringing his eyes back to the man in front of him. 

Robby smirked knowingly, “She is here, you know.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” He said, “But her boyfriend is supposed to be meeting her here.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, “Boyfriend?”

Robby nodded, “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone until today. I overheard her mention it to Heather.”

Fuck. Not only were you seeing someone, you were bringing him here, to meet everyone in the Pitt. You must’ve been serious about him, then.

“Do you know where she is?”

Robby tilted his head as he looked at Jack, “You sure you wanna go down that road?”

“I just want to talk to her.” He said, and it was true. Mostly. 

The two of you hadn’t had a real conversation since the week before you had requested the shift change. That night on the roof. He felt it was long overdue for the two of you to sit down and talk about it like adults. Maybe Robby was right, maybe it was much too late for that. 

But Jack couldn’t accept that.

Robby sighed heavily, “I saw her go upstairs to the rooftop bar with Heather and Samira twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, brother.” Jack clapped him on the back as he headed up the stairs.

***

You liked the quiet of the night time. Being awake and working when everyone else was asleep brought with it a sort of peaceful solitude you couldn’t quite explain.

But Jack hadn’t needed you to explain, he had understood it intrinsically.

The night shift, of course, could become hectic and even nightmarish at times. But if you stepped outside for some air, either on the roof or the ambulance bay, the quiet of the night cocooned you in safety.

And that’s where you were that night two years ago, on the roof and leaning over the railing, trying to catch your breath.

There had been a six car pile up almost immediately rushed in after the day shift had trickled out. Ten patients. Four of them were in critical condition when they arrived, in that terrible purgatory between life and death. For five hours, you, Abbot, Shen, and Ellis had bounced between them. Still, you lost all four of them.

You had kept it together for the half hour after you had called the last patient, despite the fact that you had felt Jack’s eyes on you the whole time.

But he seemed able to keep it together, to not fall apart, so you would too. The knee jerk response to impress him, to make him proud of you had never quite dulled in your two years of residency. It felt a bit fucking pathetic, actually.

Worse, still, that he seemed to notice how badly you craved his validation and so gave it freely. 

“Hey,” He stepped close to you, his warm breath caressing your cheek, “Go take a break, I’ll come find you in fifteen.”

“I don’t need a break.” You said quickly.

“You do,” He said, undeterred, “You’ve been staring dead eyed at the board for the last two minutes. Shen tried to call you over for a code stroke thirty seconds ago and you didn’t blink.”

You turned to him finally, panic on your face, “Fuck, seriously?” 

You started to walk to go find Shen and the stroke patient, but Jack grabbed your arm, “Nope, uh-uh. Break first. Now.”

It was rare that Jack wasn’t joking with you, trying to make you smile. Now he looked deadly serious. Like he would physically remove you from the floor himself if you refused. You must’ve looked like shit.

“Okay.” You said finally, “Fine.”

He released your arm, but his eyes trained on your every step as you walked away, “I catch you on a patient in the next fifteen minutes and I’m sending you home.” He called after you.

You raised your hand over your head in a thumbs up to signal that you’d heard and kept walking.

And that was how you ended up on the roof. Bathed in the moonlight with the quiet midnight streets of Pittsburgh below, silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you greedily sucked the night air into your lungs.

You weren’t aware of time passing and your mind had gone blissfully blank until you heard him come up behind you.

“How come you, Ellis, or Shen didn’t need a break?” You asked, your voice wavering, “Is there something wrong with me?”

He leaned over the railing at your side and turned his head to look at you, but you avoided his eyes, knowing they’d be soft and warm and inviting. You did not need to see him looking at you like that right now. Just like you had been trying not to notice the way he watched you more than the others, touched you more than was necessary, handed out praise to you more generously.

“Not even a little bit.” He said softly, voice rough, “You were perfect down there. Nothing else you could have done.“

You breathed out a shaky breath, “Then why does it feel so bad?”

“Because you’re human,” He said softly, “And because you were the only one of us to call time of death on a seven year old tonight.”

You swallowed, tilting your head up towards the sky so you could see the moon. A moon that seven year old kid would never see again. “Does it ever hurt less?”

“Fuck, no.” He sighed, “But it makes you a better doctor, I think. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself to try to make it all mean something.”

Finally, you looked at him, and the sight of your red rimmed eyes wrecked him, “It does make you a better doctor,” You hiccuped and gave him a small smile, “The best, probably.”

He shook his head, smirking, and looked down at his hands, “Careful, kid. You keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

Feeling brave, you nudged your shoulder against his, “I mean it. I feel really grateful that you’re my attending. I wouldn’t want to learn under anyone else.”

He pushed his shoulder back against yours and your hands brushed where they each grasped the railing, “I came up here to make you feel better and somehow you’re the one comforting me. How did you get so good at deflecting?”

You laughed through your tears and he relished the sound, “I learned from the best,” You said pointedly as you looked over at him.

“See,” He pointed at you, teasing, “That’s what I’m talking about. Much better. You’re way less unsettling when you’re mean.”

You smiled and he found himself staring at your mouth, enraptured by it, really. The truth was, he had noticed the ways in which he was better when he was around you. Both as a doctor and a teacher. You made him want to be better. He knew he had been giving you more attention than the others, bordering on an inappropriate amount. And he knew, before he came up to the roof, that he’d have a hard time being alone with you and not imagining what you taste like or what your soft skin would feel like under his calloused hands.

He thought you felt the same, but you could be hard to read sometimes. Sometimes, he swore you leaned into his touch, other times you jumped away from it as if he had burned you. Sometimes you went whole days seemingly trying to avoid him, others you followed him around like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head and for him to tell you what a good girl you are.

But now, fuck, now you were gazing at his mouth, too. And he tried, really fucking tried, to rein in the desire. He shouldn’t have kissed you. And he would think about it every day for days and weeks and months and years how badly he wished he could take it back. Not because he didn’t mean it or didn’t want it, but because it had started this downward spiral of silence and distance until you were so far away he hadn’t really seen you up close in two years. If he could go back, he would’ve told himself it wasn’t worth it. Because having only this much of you day in and day out while he yearned for more was better than having nothing at all, than you slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. 

But he didn’t know then what he knew now. 

Cautiously, he moved his face towards yours, waiting for you to pull back. But inch by inch he moved, and you stayed put. And when he was close enough to share breath with you, he met your eyes and was greeted with pupils that had completely devoured your irises. No color in sight, just an endless abyss of desire and want. Your breath faltered when his lips just barely brushed yours, and he stilled for a moment before his self restraint crumbled.

The kiss was hesitant and gentle, at first. Jack kept his hands to himself, slowly kissed you in a way that repeatedly seemed to ask Is this okay? Is this alright? Are you okay? Are you sure?

It was you who deepened the kiss first, tongue darting out to swipe gently at his lower lip.

And the cord between you, that was already so tenuous and frayed, snapped.

His hands shook as he touched you, moving from your waist, to your neck, to your face. It was like his body knew first what his brain didn’t, that he was taking too much and not enough, that hours and days and months and years of touching you would never satiate him anyway and he should just fucking quit while he was ahead. His traitorous mouth that moaned into yours was a bottomless, greedy pit and it could never have you, not really, not even as it sucked desperately at your neck in a useless attempt to mark you as his.

The marks would fade and you would fade from him along with them. 

He thinks now he probably knew as soon as you pulled away, at the panic in your eyes, that he had lost you before he had even really had the chance to have you. 

But he would deny it to himself, even as you ran off the roof ignoring the way your name came out strangled from his throat. 

He would deny it when you didn’t look at him the rest of the night, when you pretended not to hear when he tried to talk to you after the shift change that morning.

He would deny it when you handed him your shift change request form after a week of avoiding him, asking for his signature as you looked anywhere but at him.

He would deny it when his broken voice asked “Is this really what you want?” and you only silently nodded.

Jack Abbot knew he had lost you, he wasn’t delusional, but he could convince himself it was only temporary. He was patient. So fucking patient. He’d find you again, when you were ready.

***

Jack could admit that you having a boyfriend had not been part of his plan. Not that he had a plan, more so an overwhelming sense that if he waited long enough, you’d fall back into him.

But you had still been fleeing the ER at shift change without acknowledging him. He was patient, but it aggravated him to no end, the way you seemed so unaffected. Sometimes it made him feel like maybe he had made it all up in his head and that you had never wanted him at all. But then the film would play on loop again in his head and he knew he didn’t imagine your blown out pupils or the way you deepened the kiss first or the way you moaned when his mouth plucked bruises from your neck like ripened strawberries.

You had wanted him just as badly, he was sure of that. He just couldn’t understand why you were still acting like he didn’t exist.

When he got to the rooftop and looked around, he found you first at a table in the corner, eyes glued to your phone. Another quick glance around and he saw Heather and Samira talking at the bar.

Perfect. You were alone.

When he crossed the roof and sat in the empty seat next to you and you didn’t immediately look up, he realized you had marked his presence on the rooftop as soon as he got here.

The man was like a fucking sonar to your brain. You knew when he was in the same room as you before your eyes could track him. Tonight was no different.

“You look like you could use a drink.” Jack said.

Oh, you hadn’t realized how much you had missed the pleasant roughness of his voice, how it soothed you effortlessly. It practically sent chills down your spine.

You swallowed, continuing to stare at your phone. The second you met those warm hazel eyes, it would be over for you, you knew. It was the reason you had avoided him so diligently the last two years.

“Heather and Samira are getting me one.”

He wordlessly held his own drink out to you. When you stared blankly at it for a few moments, he shook it lightly, ice rattling against the glass, “It’s just a tequila soda. It’s not poison.”

Against your better judgment, and perhaps to indulge that stupid fucking instinct in your head that demanded you not disappoint him, you took it from him. You did your best not to pay attention to the sensation that shot across your skin when your fingers brushed, but the traitorous goosebumps spread across your arms anyway.

You took a sip and handed it back to him, still looking at your phone.

“Why aren’t you with them at the bar?”

“I had to take a call.”

“From your boyfriend?” Finally, fucking finally, you looked at him. It was disdain all over your face, but fuck it, he’d take it. He smirked and held his hands up in surrender, “I didn’t ask, Robby told me. Said he was meeting you here.”

Quickly, you looked back at your phone and he saw your throat bob, “He called to say he couldn’t make it, so.”

Jack watched you carefully, the way you frowned and your mouth turned down just slightly. You were upset, and not just at him. 

“I’m sorry,” He said softly, but you scoffed at his apology and shook your head. And that pissed him off, “Look, you may fuckin’ hate me, but I still care about you and I mean it. I’m sorry if he stood you up. I don’t like seeing you sad.”

You rubbed at your forehead in agitation, “I don’t hate you. I’ve never fucking hated you. That’s the problem.”

Well, that was news to him. But he decided not to comment on it. He didn’t want to piss you off anymore than he already had, which seemed to be an awful lot considering he had just got here.

“How long have you been together?” You shot him that annoyed look again, “Christ, I’m just making conversation.”

“Right,” You said sarcastically and shook your head, but you answered all the same, “Two and a half years.” You said quietly. It hadn’t quite caught up to you yet, what you were admitting when telling him that. It took a couple of moments for your brain to catch up, but by then it was too late.

But Jack’s brain was already there, making the mental calculations you had long forgotten about.

Two and a half—? No, that—That couldn’t be right. Because that would mean—

Your face and ears had reddened and you wouldn’t look at him.

Jack’s ears were ringing. He started to say your name—

“Dr. Abbot,” Heather and Samira were back, the latter handing you a drink, “Catching up with your old resident?”

He forced a smile and stood, acted like his world wasn’t fucking falling apart around him, like you hadn’t just dropped a fucking bomb on him in casual conversation.

He was impressed with his ability to hold damn near cheerful conversation with Heather and Samira until he was able to excuse himself.

And this time, it was you who called after him when he left the roof.

“Jack,” Your voice was a soft plea behind him. It was a language he used to be fluent in, but clearly, he didn’t fucking know you anymore. He was starting to think he never had, “Jack, wait—“

He rounded on you in the stairwell, you still a couple of steps above him so the two of you were eye level, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

You seemed to be caught off guard that he had actually stopped, and just blinked at him for a moment, “What difference would it have made?”

“What difference—?” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “All this time I’ve been driving myself out of my goddamn mind trying to figure out what I did wrong when it turns out I was your fucking, what, side piece? Affair?”

“Affair?” You hissed incredulously, “We kissed once!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head, “Does he know?” 

“What?”

He was quickly becoming frustrated with your inability to keep up with the urgency this situation demanded. To him, at least, the whole world had shifted around him. And you were behaving as if he was the one acting crazy.

“Your boyfriend, does he know? About us?”

“Jack,” You said breathlessly, “There is no us. There was never an us.”

Jack shook his head, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” You asked, exasperated.

“I’ve been pining after you for two fucking years and you’ve compartmentalized so goddamn well that you’ve convinced yourself it was nothing. That it meant nothing.”

For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of the version of you he used to know. Your face faltered for just a second, but then the walls were immediately back up, “I don’t owe you anything.” You said coldly, “It’s not my fault you’ve spent the last two years chasing a ghost.”

You stared each other down for a few more moments, the rage pulsating between you, before Jack broke your stare by tossing back the rest of his drink, “You’re right,” He said finally, and turned away from you to head down the stairs, “I’m sorry I disrupted your evening. Won’t happen again.”

You sighed, “Jack—“

“It’s Dr. Abbot,” He said coldly, turning back to face you again, “If you don’t mind.”

Your face fell marginally and he almost took it back when he thought he saw your lower lip wobble, but he couldn’t be sorry. If you wanted to pretend like there was nothing between the two of you, then he would do the same.

He turned again and jogged down the rest of the stairs. He needed another drink. Or seven.

***

Your hands were shaking. You stood in the stairwell staring stupidly after Jack for longer than was acceptable. You couldn’t go back upstairs to Heather and Samira like this, they’d know something was up. And you certainly couldn’t follow after Jack.

You should just go home. It was a stupid fucking idea to come here in the first place, you knew it was. And still you had come, why?

Because some part of you wanted to see him? No matter how much you denied it? Never mind the fact you had basically only invited your boyfriend because you knew his presence would keep you accountable if you were forced to be alone with Jack?

You hadn’t wanted him here, not really. Not for reasons that made sense. If you were honest with yourself, which you hadn’t been in a long, long time, your relationship had been over for at least six months.

Seeing Jack again, hearing his voice again made that very clear to you. And a part of you hated Jack for it. You had been able to convince yourself for two years that your current relationship was as good as it would get. Your mistake with Jack on the roof was just that, a mistake. Nothing more.

You had thought after all this time Jack must’ve felt the same. He fucked up and kissed his hot, younger resident, just once. He hadn’t meant to and he would be glad it was all over. You had been doing him a favor, you thought.

But when you had allowed yourself to look at him, really look at him tonight, that hadn’t been what you’d seen. In fact, he was angry with you. He had looked at you with such hurt and betrayal as if all this time he had been in love with you.

It didn’t make any fucking sense. You sat in the stairwell and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. None of it made any fucking sense.

You should go home.

***

Robby eyed Jack with silent suspicion when he joined him back at the bar and ordered two tequila sodas. He knocked the first one back in one go and then rested his head in his hands on the bar top.

“So it went well, I take it?” Robby asked mildly.

Jack glared at Robby and then looked back at his drink, “She has a boyfriend.”

Robby nodded, “Right. I’m glad we’re on the same page about that, now.”

Jack shook his head and felt the tequila make its way through him, “No, you see, she’s had a boyfriend. Since before she moved to the day shift. The same one.”

Robby was silent for a moment, then, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jack knocked back his second tequila soda and ordered another.

“Alright, I can see you’re upset, but all the tequila sodas in the world aren’t going to make you feel better.”

“No,” Jack agreed, “But maybe it’ll stop me from thinking about her for just a while.”

Just then, as Robby was trying to subtly get the bartender to cut off Jack, Robby’s phone buzzed with a text from Heather.

What did Abbot say to Y/N? Found her crying in the stairwell. She won’t stop.

He sighed heavily and turned back to Jack, “You made her cry?”

“What?” Jack looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“Heather says she’s sobbing in the stairwell.”

Oh, he hated the way that sent an ache through him. There was a time when he would’ve taken off running to get to you if he had heard that. Maybe even just earlier today. Not now, though.

“Believe me, her eyes were fucking bone dry when I left her.”

Robby’s phone buzzed again.

Never mind. Finally got her to say something coherent. Broke up with her boyfriend over the phone. Nothing to do with Abbot.

Christ. Nothing to do with Abbot. Right, Robby thought and rubbed a hand down his face, somehow he doubted that very much.

Robby looked back at his friend, debating if he should deliver this news to Jack or not. But Jack was very drunk now and he’d probably just tear after you like a man on a mission. Neither of you needed that right now, Robby thought. He’d tell Jack in the morning.

***

Heather and Samira sat on either side of you as you tried and failed to explain everything to them. You were very bad at this. Having work friends. Shen and Ellis had tolerated you, always including you, buying you coffee, but you knew really you were mostly third wheeling. And you hadn’t minded it. You had always tried to draw a firm line between your work and personal life, which is probably why the situation with Jack fucked you up so badly.

Heather started again, “So you and Abbot—“ 

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you switched to the day shift.”

“Yes.”

“And Jack also wanted you moved to the day shift?”

This is where things got murky for you. Tiredly, you rubbed your eyes, “I don’t know what Jack wanted because I never asked.”

“He didn’t know about your boyfriend then, either?”

You shook your head slowly, “I thought the fact that I was his resident was excuse enough. I left because I didn’t trust myself around him and I thought it’d be easier on us both.”

“And today was the first time you’d really spoken in two years?”

“Yes.”

“And this one conversation spurred you to break up with your long term boyfriend on a whim?”

You looked at Heather and smirked, “So you’re getting it now? Why I should be institutionalized?”

Heather and Samira both laughed, but Heather shook her head, “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re finally being honest with yourself about your feelings. Which is really fucking brave.”

“I say we go to the next bar and get very drunk.” Samira said, standing.

“Oh, I— No,” You shook your head, panicking, “What if he’s there?”

“Oh, I hope he is.” Heather laughed and the two of them linked arms with you.

***

Robby walked silently next to Jack as they made their way to the next bar, his hands stuffed in his pockets, “Brother, I really think maybe you should just sleep this one off.”

Jack turned to Robby, “It’s only 10 PM which is roughly 10 AM by my standards. So there will be no sleeping from me for a while. But you, by all means, can go home.”

Robby inhaled slowly through his nose. He was fucking exhausted, but he didn’t trust Jack in this state. And he had seen you go off with Heather and Samira not too long ago, headed in the same direction they were walking in right now.

So he kept walking, eyeing Jack every so often until they got to the bar.

He should have just gone home, probably.

Because once they got to the bar, all hell broke loose.

***

The room was spinning. The text had come in just moments after back to back lemon drop shots and your vision was blurred. You were unsure if it was from tears or the alcohol.

“Hey, what happened?” Samira was shouting in your ear over the din of the bar.

You passed the phone to her wordlessly as you ordered another shot. You needed to be belligerent if you were going to survive this.

Samira’s jaw dropped as she watched the video. She scrubbed back and forth a few times before she handed the phone back to you.

“This is the boyfriend who couldn’t meet you here because of ‘work’?”

You nodded.

“Well, you made the right call then, breaking up with him.”

You laughed humorlessly, and then you were sobbing, “I don’t know… why I care…” You hiccuped, “I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time.”

Samira sighed, rubbing a hand down your back, “It sounds like you tried really hard to salvage the relationship. Probably feels like a waste of almost three years of your life now,” This renewed your sobs and Samira looked at you with alarm, “I’m not saying I think you wasted three years, I just mean, it probably felt that way— I’m gonna go find Heather, she’s much better at this sort of thing.”

Alone, you ordered a drink and wiped at your cheeks. You knew Jack was next to you before you smelt his cologne and sighed heavily.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “I’m just getting a drink and then I’ll go as far away from you as possible.”

You only nodded. The man you had chosen to fight for had stood you up to go to a bar across town and make out with the coworker he swore for months you had nothing to worry about while your best friend unknowingly filmed him from across the room.

The man you were beginning to suspect had been in love with you for close to four years now, you had spent the last two years running away from and now he hated you.

It felt like a big cosmic joke.

You rested your head on your arms and willed him away so you wouldn’t have to confront the long string of bad decisions you’d made that had led you here.

But Jack just couldn’t resist when you looked so miserable, “Are you alright, kid? Hate seeing you like this.”

You pushed your head up and met his eyes. Despite your earlier argument, he was looking at you with tenderness and concern. He meant it, that he cared, you could see it all over him. It made you want to burst into tears again. And maybe that’s why you decided to poke the bear, see how far you could push, what would make him really, truly loathe you? It was what you deserved after all, right?

You turned your head away from him and unlocked your phone, tapping to the video your friend had sent, hitting play and sliding it over the bar top to Jack, “You’ll be happy to know this is what my boyfriend was too busy doing to meet me tonight. Some sort of fucked up karma, I suppose.”

Jack’s face betrayed nothing as he watched the video, but you thought maybe a muscle in his jaw ticked. He slid the phone back to you, “Whatever you think of me, I’m not enjoying this.”

You scoffed and shook your head, looking down at the bar top.

“I’m serious. I would never—“ You hear him sigh in frustration, “Just because I’m hurting doesn’t mean I wish you were hurting, too. If anything, if you were happy, maybe it’d all make more sense to me.”

He tapped his finger on top of your phone case, “That guy’s a fucking idiot. You deserve way better than that.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, carefully avoiding looking at him, “Hey,” He said and crooked a finger under your chin, gently pulling until you met his gaze, “You deserve better, okay?”

You were conscious of the fact that you wanted to kiss him. And you knew he saw the way your eyes drifted dangerously to his mouth. 

“I did the same thing to him.” You said quietly, still staring at his mouth, “Only seems fair.”

Jack released your chin and shook his head, “Don’t compare what we did to… To that.”

He sounded disgusted and it made you want to laugh, “How is it any different?”

“That is just drunken lust.” He leaned towards you on his forearms, “What we did meant something. Maybe not to you, but it did to me.”

“And that makes it better?”

“Did it mean something to you?” He shot back.

His face was very close to yours now, you could smell the tequila on his breath. 

“Tell me,” He said slowly, “Tell me it didn’t mean anything to you and I swear to God, I’ll walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the watering of your eyes. Of course you couldn’t tell him it meant nothing. You had thought about it nearly every day for two years. 

But you were drunk and a fucking wreck and you didn’t know anything anymore except that you still remembered exactly what Jack Abbot tasted like and that he was looking at you right now like he would get on his knees for you in this crowded bar if you asked.

“I should go.” You whispered softly, broken, and slid from your bar stool.

He let you pass, but then called after you, loudly enough that people around you quieted, “What the fuck are you so scared of?”

You turned back, knowing that your face was flushed from the attention of others, “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.”

***

“Hey, let her go,” Robby stood in front of Jack who was now trying to exit the bar and follow after you, “You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted, and when he looked around Robby, he saw it had started to downpour outside, “She’s drunk and it’s storming out there.”

“Heather will check in with her and make sure she gets home okay.”

Jack looked from the door to Robby a few times before sighing and running a hand through his hair, “Sorry, I just… She really gets under my fucking skin.”

Robby nodded and tried to stifle a yawn, “I noticed.”

Jack sighed, “Go home, Robby, seriously. I’m not gonna do anything stupid. I promise.” He shook his head, “I should probably just go home, too.”

Robby offered a sad smile and clapped him on the shoulder, “It’ll all make more sense in the morning, brother.”

Jack snorted, “Historically, that has never been true for me.”

***

It felt pretty melodramatic to be standing in the park overlooking the river as it poured. It was all very Jane Austen of you, you decided. Except Mr. Darcy would not be showing up to declare his love for you, Mr. Darcy was likely dry and headed home in his UberX.

You didn’t know where home was anymore. Luckily, you hadn’t moved in with your boyfriend yet. It was one of the many things that should have been a red flag, the fact that you hadn’t had a desire to cohabitate with him. You liked when he left in the morning and you liked the nights where he got home too late and went to his own apartment so as not to disturb your rest.

But still, there were traces of him all through your apartment. You didn’t want to be there.

You’re not sure how long you sit in the warm rain before your phone buzzed. You expected Heather or Samira, but were shocked to see Jack’s name on the banner, alerting you to a text.

Jack hadn’t texted you in something like two years.

I know I shouldn’t be texting you, it read, But I just want to be sure you got home safe. Please  text when you’re home.

After staring at your phone for a few minutes, now soaked with the rain, you attempted to dry the screen with the sleeve of your jacket. It worked only slightly, but allowed you to hold down the text and “like” it.

After about thirty seconds, the speech bubble appeared on your phone to indicate he was typing.

Well don’t just fucking like the message. Are you home?

You could lie, you supposed. Probably, you could walk into PTMC and sleep in an empty room upstairs.

But you were growing tired of all the pretending.

no. You replied finally.

His reply was immediate, Where are you? 

in the park.

It’s raining.

excellent observation, dr. abbot.

You stared at the screen as his speech bubble appeared and disappeared, over and over, for a couple minutes.

Send me your location. Then, almost as an afterthought, Please.

This was a bad idea, probably. After the events of today, you should not be sending Jack Abbot your location. You should not be speaking to Jack Abbot at all. After today, you should probably resign from your residency and maybe join a convent.

You watched as seemingly of their own volition, your hands tapped all the right buttons to send Jack a pin.

A few moments later, he texted a screenshot of an Uber being sent to your location with the car information and license plate.

i don’t want to go home. You sent him in a rush.

Yeah, I got that, he replied, The Uber is bringing you to me.

You blew a long breath out between your lips, you sure that’s a good idea?

Nope. Uber’s pulling up now.

Sure enough, headlights lit up the raindrops behind you. You turned to see the car, quickly giving the license plate a cursory once over to make sure it matched what Jack sent. 

You could send the car off. Say it was a mistake. Not get in. Showing up at Jack’s apartment soaked to the skin in the middle of the night, still drunk and emotionally unstable felt like boarding a train you knew would derail. 

You still got in the car, though. You didn’t have anywhere else to go.

***

When Jack opened the door to his apartment, the frigid air from his AC assaulted you and you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stepped aside to allow you in and you kicked off your water logged shoes.

You had been here only once before, the first week of your residency. Jack would host a team dinner (early, so you could all still make your shift in time) whenever a new resident was added to the night shift. 

You had been really nervous you recalled, until Jack had cracked a joke that made you choke on your soda.

It had been almost four years, but his apartment hadn’t changed much at all. It was neat and tidy, nothing out of place. The furniture was well taken care of, but everything was in varying shades of gray and blue. The only hints of personality being some pictures on his fridge, vinyls by a stereo, and some books on a shelf.

But one photo on his fridge caught your eye and before you knew what you were doing, you were walking to it.

Early in your second year of residency, you had presented your research on cardiogenic pulmonary edema outcomes in the ER at a conference in New York. Jack had shown up without telling you he was coming. He stayed near your poster all day while you presented to interested passersby, giving you a thumbs up or “solid work” when you needed it, smuggling you snacks, making sure you drank water. And at the end of it you remembered he took you out to dinner and told you how proud he was of you and what a great emergency medicine doctor you would be.

You had taken a picture with him in front of your poster and this was the photo on his fridge. You had a huge smile on your face and Jack had an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“I didn’t know you had this.” You said softly.

He didn’t say anything so you turned to look at him, but his eyes were trained on the photo, “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” He said finally, walking by you to his bedroom.

You watched in his doorway as he pulled a pair of clean sweatpants and a t shirt from his closet and placed them at the edge of his bed, “The shower’s in that room,” He pointed to a door off the bedroom, “There’s clean towels under the sink, use whatever soap you like.”

He started to walk past you, but you grabbed his arm, and he stopped, eyes snagging on the hand that was touching him, “Thank you.” You said softly.

His eyes slowly roved upwards until they met yours. He searched your face, though you weren’t sure what he was looking for, then pressed a kiss to your forehead before he left the room.

***

After you were showered and changed, you wandered out to the living room where Jack sat on the couch, an arm draped over his forehead. He had taken his prosthetic off and it was propped up next to the coffee table.

When he heard you pad into the room, he cracked his eyes open, “Feeling better?” You nodded. “Good. Take the bed, I’ll sleep out here.”

But you still stood there, staring at him, arms wrapped around yourself, “Do you love me?” You asked, voice small.

He stared at you for a moment and sat up, running a hand over his face, “Have I not made it painfully obvious?”

“For how long?”

He shook his head and smiled at you incredulously, “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You’ve been in control of this,” He gestured between the two of you, “From the second I fucking met you and now you’re trying to what, decode the situation? See what outcome is most advantageous? I mean, Jesus Christ, what do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“Yes,” He said, “Not what seems correct, not what seems rational, what is it that you want?”

“I—“ You shook your head, “I don’t– I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He said firmly, “Do you want your cheating boyfriend?”

You frowned, “No.”

“Did you ever want him?”

You huffed in frustration, “What do you mean?”

“I mean when you chose him over me, was that what you wanted?”

“That’s not a fair characterization of what happened—“

“Was it what you wanted?”

You faltered, “It was what was safest.” You said softly.

He smiled at you sadly, “He couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t love him, right?”

You stared up at the ceiling, willing the tears back into your eyes, “I didn’t think it meant that much to you.”

“You never gave me the chance to tell you.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, “I’ll ask you again, what do you want?”

You looked at him, eyes watering, and you swallowed hard before you moved to him. He watched you as you placed a knee on either side of his legs, straddling his lap. His eyes followed your every movement reverently, your face just above his as you rested your forehead against his. His hands knotted themselves in your hair, “I’m scared,” You breathed shakily into his mouth.

“Of what?” He asked, his mouth near centimeters from yours.

“Of you. Of wanting you too much. Of losing you. Of everything.”

“I can’t promise you that this will work,” He said softly, “But I can promise I’ll fight like hell to make it work.”

You swallowed, “Because you love me?”

Finally, he laughed, “Yes, I fucking love you. Now be quiet.” He said before he kissed you.

He tasted exactly like you remembered, except tonight, there were remnants of tequila on his tongue. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, the way he kissed you on that couch. He pushed his tongue into your mouth almost immediately, like he was searching for something he’d lost. Already, you were out of breath, hips grinding down on him without realizing. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently, groaning when you rubbed yourself on his growing erection.

“Slow down,” He chastised.

“You started it.” You reminded him.

“Fuck,” He moaned and then pushed you off him so he could crawl over you, “You’re sure?” He asked as you looked up at him, hair fanning around your head on the couch cushion like a halo.

You nodded, “I want you.”

He smirked and lowered his head to yours again, pulling kisses from you as one hand worked its way under your t-shirt. Your skin was smooth and soft there and he inched up slowly, until his fingers just brushed the underside of your breast. Touching you like this, he thought a lot about that night on the roof, the way he had kissed you like he knew he was already out of time.

Now… Now the world seemed to open up. He could take as much time as he wanted. You weren’t going anywhere, not this time. You were his and he wouldn’t let you go so easily again.

Gently, he tugged the t-shirt over your head so he could look at you and he was unable to suppress the sigh that tumbled from his lips. He squeezed your breast with one hand, thumbed your nipple and watched it pebble as you sighed. Still watching you, he pinched your nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger and your eyes rolled back into your head as you writhed beneath him.

He kissed you, fingers still teasingly rolling your nipple between his fingers, and then he began to kiss down your jaw and neck until he was able to suck your nipple into his mouth. The moan that fell from your lips when he swirled his tongue around you went straight to his cock. 

He was overly conscious of the fact that because he had imagined this very moment for two years minimum, likely longer, because he had imagined it hundreds of times while getting himself off, it was likely he would last all of thirty seconds once he was inside you, once he felt the real thing. So he would make this last for you.

Jack shimmied the sweatpants off of you and forgot that because you were here and you had just showered, you weren’t wearing panties. And suddenly, he felt feral. 

“Jesus Christ,” He shook his head looking at you, it felt like maybe he was dreaming a little, having you naked beneath him. He felt almost delirious with it.

You looked up at him, those pupils once again whole saucers, “Touch me, please?” You whined.

He kissed you again, licking into your mouth as he reached a hand down between your thighs. You gasped as he fully sunk a finger into you. When he moved his mouth back down to suck on your other nipple, your back arched and it sent him into another dimension, being able to make you feel like this.

With two of his fingers pumping you slowly and a thumb on your clit, he felt the moment when you climaxed before you cried out, “That’s it, sweetheart,” He said softly, “Look so pretty when you come for me like that.”

As you caught your breath, you watched as he pulled his fingers out of you and then sucked your juices from his digits. “Taste so good, too.”

Your eyes stayed locked on one another as he reached for a wooden bowl on the coffee table. He took the top off, pulled out an aluminum packet, and closed it again. And suddenly you were giggling, “What?” He asked, ripping the package open.

“D’you fuck mad bitches on this couch or something, Jack?”

He rolled his eyes, but smirked, “Shut up.”

When he slid into you, forehead pressed to yours, you gasped at the sensation. You had thought about this countless times before, Jack Abbot above you, like this. What you had never really thought about was that maybe while he did it, he’d be looking at you like he was in love with you. And it nearly shattered you.

“I love you,” You murmured into his mouth as you felt him beginning to come undone, “I love you so much.”

He moaned your name as he finished and collapsed against you, damp and breathless, “You love me, huh?” He said after a moment.

You lightly scratched the back of his head, “I’ve loved you for years,” You said softly, “Just spent a lot of that time denying it.”

He pulled his head back and kissed you messily, your chin grasped firmly in his hand. 

A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"

Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.

After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?

Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.

Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.

Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.

She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."

"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"

Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"

"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"

"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."

"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"

"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."

You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."

Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.

"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."

You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."

You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."

"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."

As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.

You sighed, "shit."

As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.

But that wouldn't stop you from trying.

"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"

"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"

She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.

You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Yes."

You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.

"That's it?"

You shrugged, "Yes."

He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."

"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."

"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"

You sighed, "Yes."

He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."

"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."

"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"

You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."

"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.

"I won't," you called back.

Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"

Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."

He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"

"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."

He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."

Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."

Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.

"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.

"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."

Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.

"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"

"You got it."

***

You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.

Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.

"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"

"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."

"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"

Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."

It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.

"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.

You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"

"You're too good for triage?"

"I know you're doing it to punish me—"

"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"

"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"

He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."

You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.

But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.

Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.

"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."

"Not now, later."

You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."

"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."

His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"

"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."

You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."

He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.

"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."

You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."

You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."

You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.

You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.

How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.

He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.

In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.

And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.

"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."

You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."

"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."

You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."

At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."

You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"

You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."

He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"

He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.

"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."

His grin widened, "Atta girl."

And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.

***

The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.

After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."

Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."

He frowned, "What was that?"

"What?"

"Did you just apologize to me?"

The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."

"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."

The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"

You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"

"Your sister's wedding."

You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."

His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"

You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."

Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.

"If you don't go, they win."

You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."

He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."

"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"

You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"

He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."

Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"

Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."

You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"

He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."

You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"

He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."

You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."

"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"

You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."

After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.

"I left my car at the hospital."

He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."

As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"

Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."

His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"

You snorted, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."

Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."

"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.

You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.

But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.

Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.

You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"

"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."

"Mom—"

"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"

"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."

"He seemed nice. Handsome."

You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."

Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."

Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.

Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.

You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.

***

You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.

When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"

You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"

"You think I didn't already think of all this?"

He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.

You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"

He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."

You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.

He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.

You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"

"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.

"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."

He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"

You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."

The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."

You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."

He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."

You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.

***

As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.

You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.

"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."

It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.

"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.

"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."

Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.

But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.

Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.

You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.

When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"

You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."

"Yes you can and yes you are."

"Abbot—"

"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."

You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.

He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"

You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."

He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"

Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."

You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"

You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.

"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."

***

As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—

"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.

He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"

You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."

After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"

You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."

He frowned, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."

His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"

You nodded, "Yep."

"And they're… Fine with that?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."

Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"

"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."

He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."

You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."

After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."

You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?

So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.

***

A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.

You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.

What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.

He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.

And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.

He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."

You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"

"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."

He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."

Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.

He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."

"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."

"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.

He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.

"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.

"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?

"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.

"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."

He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.

But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."

Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.

"Mom, you remember Jack."

He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.

"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."

"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."

You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.

"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."

You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"

"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."

You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"

Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."

"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."

Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.

"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"

"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."

The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."

You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.

Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—

"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"

You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"

"Your cane or crutches or something—"

He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."

"But—"

"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"

You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.

Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.

He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."

"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."

Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."

"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.

"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."

"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"

Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"

You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"

"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."

You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"

Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."

You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."

Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."

You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."

He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.

"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

***

Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.

A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.

No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.

Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.

There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.

So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.

Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.

So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.

That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.

You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.

You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?

You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.

***

"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.

"Do you need to sit down?"

You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.

Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.

"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."

You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."

"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"

"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."

Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"

Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.

Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"

Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."

"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"

You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.

"Could you kiss me, you think?"

Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"

Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.

Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.

It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.

"What do you think? Did it work?"

You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."

Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"

You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"

Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."

You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."

Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.

Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.

But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.

Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.

And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.

"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."

You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.

Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."

You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."

Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"

"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"

He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.

But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.

It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.

***

"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"

Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.

You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.

The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.

You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.

Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.

And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.

"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."

She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.

"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."

Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."

You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."

She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."

Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"

"You're lying!"

"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."

Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"

"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."

There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"

"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."

You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.

Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."

The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.

"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."

Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.

But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.

"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"

Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.

So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.

"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."

Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."

You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.

"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.

"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."

When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"

"That's not true—"

"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."

The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.

"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.

In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.

"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."

You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"

"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."

His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"

He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."

Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."

His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"

You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."

With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.

***

"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."

Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.

"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.

You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."

Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."

You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.

"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."

For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.

"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.

"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"

You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.

But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.

You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.

***

Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.

But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.

"So, when're you gonna tell her?"

Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Sorry?"

"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"

Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."

Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."

Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."

"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."

He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."

Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."

Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.

He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.

He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.

You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.

***

After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.

You bit your lip, "Can I help?"

He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Please."

He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.

You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.

He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"

"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"

He nodded, "Much."

You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.

You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."

He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."

You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."

"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."

You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.

"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."

"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."

He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"

He nodded slowly, "'Course."

As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.

When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.

He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.

***

Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.

When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.

"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.

Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.

You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.

In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.

As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.

The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.

You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.

"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.

"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."

He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.

"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."

He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."

You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"

He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."

"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."

As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.

"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."

For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.

You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.

"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"

You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."

That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."

You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.

***

Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.

But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.

He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.

You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.

But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.

When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.

You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.

He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."

David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."

Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."

For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."

When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.

"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.

"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.

You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."

"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"

He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"

Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."

He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."

You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.

"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"

Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.

"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."

You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."

Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.

"I don't need you picking me apart as well."

He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."

You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"

Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."

There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.

Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."

His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."

He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."

It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.

Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.

But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?

Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"

Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.

You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."

***

Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.

His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.

It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.

He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.

The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.

But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.

When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.

You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.

Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.

When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.

Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"

You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.

Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.

There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.

But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.

And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.

He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.

"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—

"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"

Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.

Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.

"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"

"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."

He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.

This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.

At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.

Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?

But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.

After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"

When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.

"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.

"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"

He sighed, "That was out of line—"

You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."

Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."

When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.

He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.

You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.

"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…Could you hold me?"

Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.

He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.

When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."

He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.

***

Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.

As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.

Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.

You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.

"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.

"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"

He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"

You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."

He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"

You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."

You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."

Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"

You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."

He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."

You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.

"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.

Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."

Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.

"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.

Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"

"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."

You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.

And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.

His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."

***

The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.

The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.

Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.

"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"

"Jack—"

"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"

Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"

You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"

He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"

You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."

He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."

You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"

You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.

After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.

Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."

You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"

His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.

As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.

"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."

Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?

***

You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.

"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.

You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."

And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.

You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.

"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.

You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."

Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."

You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."

You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.

"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."

You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.

Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.

She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."

You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"

"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"

"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"

You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"

"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"

"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"

"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"

It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.

"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.

Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.

"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.

"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.

"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.

"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.

Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"

"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.

David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"

You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.

"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"

"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."

David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"

Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"

"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"

"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."

"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"

Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."

"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.

You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.

And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.

You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.

You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.

"You can talk to me right here."

Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"

"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"

"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"

You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.

Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."

You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.

You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.

It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.

Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—

"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."

Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.

"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."

Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"

You frowned, "But I—"

"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."

You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."

***

Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.

When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."

David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"

Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."

Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."

With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.

There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.

"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"

She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."

Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"

God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."

Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."

She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."

Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."

***

You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.

You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.

It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.

It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.

And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.

So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.

For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"

"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."

You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.

It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.

"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.

"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"

He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"

You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."

His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"

"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"

"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."

Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"

"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."

You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.

"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"

You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"

He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"

"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."

His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"

He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.

"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.

Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.

"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.

You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.

The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.

Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.

So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.

***

Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.

On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.

"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."

Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"

"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."

Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."

Jack frowned, "I don't follow."

Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."

She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.

He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.

Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.

The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The third night, he snapped.

"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"

"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."

He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.

As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.

He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.

When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.

You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.

"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"

Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.

You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm sick."

Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."

You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."

He tilted his head, "You don't?"

Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"

"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"

"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"

"Scared of what, honey?"

Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."

Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.

"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."

You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"

He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."

You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."

He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.

With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"

You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."

He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."

You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."

Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.

He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.

"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.

He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.

He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.

Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.

"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.

"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."

"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"

You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"

"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"

He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."

***

It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.

You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.

Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.

"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.

His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"

You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."

His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.

Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.

When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.

His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.

"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."

Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.

"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"

"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."

There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."

As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."

"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"

Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"

"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."

You nodded, "Me too."

He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."

Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."

He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."

Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.

"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.

When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.

He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.

Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"

Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.

After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.

He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."

Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.

With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.

You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."

You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.

"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.

You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."

His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.

With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."

Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.

He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"

"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."

He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.

As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.

The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"

You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"

"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."

For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.

Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."

***

With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.

"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"

You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."

He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."

"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."

He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."

As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.

With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.

Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.

Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."

Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.