collection point for all lost and unloved things.

Chp 2

You stepped out into the hallway, your heart still doing a frantic tap dance against your ribs every time you thought about Jack’s "proposal." You paused where the hall curved into the ED. Chest pressed tight to the wall, radio digging into your ribs, you poked your head around the corner like a convict trying to escape prison, as you scanned the corridor. Half-hoping to spot him so you could gauge his mood (disgust? regret? amnesia?), and half-praying he had been abducted by aliens so you wouldn't have to face him.

You found him near the nurses' station, and unfortunately, the aliens had returned him. Or more likely, they had accosted him before his first cup of coffee, and his ire had vaporized them. He was reviewing a chart, looking devastatingly professional in his navy t-shirt, his curls slightly mussed. 

“Ignorant bastard,” you mutter as you take him in. It was so unfair; you were up for hours, spiraling last night, until exhaustion finally caught up to you. You looked as if you had been dragged backward through a hedge, and no amount of concealer was going to hide those dark circles. Yet, he looked as if he had just left a Men’s Health magazine photoshoot.

You fought the urge to scowl. This was just unfair! He could at least look as if he had a sleepless night that he had spiraled as long and hard as you had. It was only polite! After all, last night was just supposed to be about takeout and ranting about the Battle of the Bulge. Pulling away from the wall when nurse Jesse VanHorn spotted her lackluster spying as he was heading toward the Trauma Bays with an armful of sterile gauze. With a pathetic squeak, you popped back around the corner, turning to press your back to the wall and put a calming hand over your heart. 

You had work to do, and hiding near the locker room would help no one, so gathering the dregs of your dignity, you smoothed the wrinkles from your uniform and adjusted your utility belt. You took one more deep breath and strode around the corner.

He looked up the moment you rounded the corner, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just—looked. It was a heavy, grounding gaze that made it hard to breathe. 

Before either of you could address the elephant in the room, the doors to the waiting room, affectionately known as "Chairs," burst open—the roar of the unwashed, unwell, and unhappy washed over you.

"Welcome to the flu apocalypse," Bridget, the night charge nurse, muttered as she brushed past you, carrying a stack of emesis basins. "Don't breathe too deep, out there, kid.” She warned, eyeing you over her glasses. “The air is 90% viral and 10% sadness. And the people 100% grumpy.”

When you had hoped for a busy shift so you could avoid an awkward encounter with Jack before you had time to plan out what you were going to say, you hadn’t asked for utter insanity. After Bridget’s warning, a loud grunt echoed through the area, followed by a crash. It was the universe's metaphorical starter pistol. And they were off. 

You hadn’t sat down once since shift began. A constant stream of insanity had kept you moving. There was no time for coffee, snacks, or bathroom breaks. Dimly, you wondered as you charged toward South 10, hand resting on your taser as you dodged patients lining the walls, zigging and zagging through the traffic. This time, it was a patient brought in by the police—a would-be purse thief who had greatly misjudged his target and had now escaped his handcuffs and was trying to mount an escape through the ceiling. 

You had been there when the officers had brought the man in. He was barely out of his teens, a beanie pulled low on his head, that was now saturated with blood. His lip was split, his left eye puffy and nearly swollen shut, and his nose was crooked and pouring blood. His target apparently had been a former Taekwondo World Champion and had made her displeasure obvious. 

By the time you reached South 10, a cop was already on a ladder, his head poked up into the drop ceiling. But a loud scrabbling sound caught your attention as you stood outside the door. It sounded as if it were coming from somewhere off to the left. You followed ears straining until you made it to South 12.

The room was occupied by Dr. Shen and a man in his fifties, whose mocha skin was beaded with sweat, eyes tired, and that familiar droop of misery, which was practically another symptom of the flu. You offered up a grimace of apology.

You had opened your mouth to explain your sudden presence when a loud, ominous creek sounded overhead. 

“Ah, fuck me!” You muttered, just as the tiles gave way and a lanky young man in grubby jeans and a Guns N' Roses t-shirt fell through with a girlish scream. 

The patient on the bed looked over to the moaning boy curled up on the floor by his bed. Looking as amused as a man with the full-blown flu could be, because apparently, when the would-be Houdini fell through the ceiling, he had also upended the full emesis basin on the counter and effectively coated himself in vomit. 

Then the man offered up some sage life advice to the youth. “See, son,” He shook his bald, sweat-speckled head. “Crime don’t pay. You could’a been out with a pretty girl—“ the paused cocking his head to the side. “Or boy, I don’t judge. Instead, you’re covered in puke.”

The boy moaned, holding his now misshapen wrist, as Shen attached a C-collar fetched by Jesse, and the older man tsked through his teeth. “If that’s not God callin’ you a dumbass, then I’m a turnip.” 

Shen, still crouched over the yowling moron, groaned, turned, and bellowed for a gurney. Two officers pelted into the room with Princess on their tail. She took one look at the scene and cursed in what sounded like Cantonese. It took not only Shen, Princess, Jesse, and you to get him on the gurney, but also the two cops who had allowed him to flee, since even a busted wrist and puke had not killed the kid's will to escape.

Vomit boy was barely back in his room before the radio crackled to life again. Your head drops, chin grazing your chest, as you curse yourself for hoping to be able to avoid Jack during the shift. You knew better and had willingly pulled a Shen to avoid an awkward situation—rookie mistake. With your feet screaming silently at you in protest, you leave Shen to manage and pivot on your heel this time, heading for the ambulance bay and the inbound psych patient. You took off at a run.

It was another hour before you managed to pee. It was another half an hour after that that you got to sit down and gulp down some juice and a stale granola bar from the vending machine. That lasted all of twenty minutes before it came to a swift end. 

Near the entrance to Central 2, Dr. Parker Ellis was sitting on a trauma bed, her face twisted in irritation. Dark eyes narrowed at the wall that separated her from Central 1. The thermal long-sleeve shirt she was wearing under her black scrub top was rolled up to her elbow and stained red with blood. A terrified-looking intern was perched on a rolling stool, irrigating a nasty, jagged bite mark on her forearm.

You paused on your patrol, surprised to see one of the senior residents occupying a bed. When you saw what had sent Parker there, you winced at the sight of torn flesh. It looked to you like a chunk had been torn out. If you had been forced to guess, you would have thought a dog had gotten the better of her. 

Parker hissed, wincing as the saline hit raw nerves. "I survived med school, meth addicts in the throes of a psychotic break, and Myrna! All without a scratch! And I am taken down by a first grader on a gummy bear bender."

"Edibles?" you asked, pausing to crane your neck to catch sight of the tiny chomper in the next room. But saw nothing but Princess taking the vitals of an older man, and chatting with a flirty older gentleman, while his granddaughter was crouched by the wheelchair taking selfies. You rolled your eyes; you were never really one for social media. Sure, you had the usual Instagram account, an X account you scarcely used, and a defunct Facebook account, which you checked maybe once every few years. 

You shook your head and turned back to Ellis. 

"His older brother's stash," Parker gritted out. "Apparently, little Timmy thought they were regular candy. He ate four. Instead of taking a nap like a civilized stoner or eating Funions while watching cartoons, he’s having a paradoxical reaction. Acute agitation, psychosis, and apparently, the jaw strength of a fucking pit bull."

“I could use some help in here!” Shen’s voice called out, and you hurried into the next room, pulling open the curtain. You felt your jaw drop.

Inside the room, John Shen was engaged in a high-stakes game of tag. But every time he got too close to his target, the boy, draped in a flapping hospital gown, jeans, and pumpkin socks, attacked. At some point, the boy had gathered up an arsenal that he was now pelting at John. 

"Timmy, please! I just want to check your heart rate!" Shen pleaded, ducking as a plastic pitcher flew over his head and smashed against the wall.

Timmy was standing on the gurney, eyes blown wide, screaming that the floor was made of lava and that Dr. Shen was a lava monster.

The boys' mother was terrified and frantically trying to soothe Timmy, promising ice cream, a new action figure, and, in her desperation, a trip to Disney World. Lucky for mama and unlucky for you, and Shen Timmy heard none of it. You pushed past the older brother, who was trying to become one with the cinderblock wall. The boy’s eyes found you, and he went into a defensive crouch before snarling and throwing his high-top sneaker at your head. You caught it, and that seemed only to antagonize little Timmy.

After nearly five minutes of playing a demented game of Duck, Duck, Goose, and after one lucky shot and taking a pulse ox to the forehead, you, with the help of Shen and a nurse who arrived with the required sedatives, it was night-night, Timmy. Which meant the mother’s attention was now firmly on her eldest.

The next thing to come over your radio was about a brawl in chairs. When you met Ahmed, the main waiting area had been transformed into a satin-draped battlefield. It was the Montagues versus the Capulets, if the Capulets were from the South Side and the Montagues were from Shady Side, and both families had been popping Champaign corks since noon. 

The bride was in tears, her wedding dress a full-skirted princess dress with a full, bell-like skirt. That was now torn, covered in smears of frosting, food, and what you were hoping was wine. Her mascara was dripping down her face, her lipstick was smeared, and a bright purple bruise was beginning to swell on her cheekbone. 

The groom, on the other hand, was cowering behind the best man, who stood as a human shield, hands extended, trying to play peacemaker. He was failing miserably. 

"He slept with the planner!" The bride shrieked, throwing a gem-encrusted stiletto like a tomahawk at the groom’s head. The best man ducked. The groom did not, and it bounced off the center of his forehead; the sharp crystals drew blood. 

The mother of the bride was yelling into her phone, already on the phone with divorce attorneys—two older men, who you assumed were the father of the bride and the groom. Both were clustered together by the doors, bent over a phone. Over the yelling, you could hear a mention of the Penguins game. The two shared a look, and slowly inched their way to the door—no doubt bound for a nearby bar. But you had enough on your plate and had no shits to give about them sneaking off. That was a family issue. Until fists were thrown, they were not on your radar. 

The desperate groom, his face bearing the evidence of his new wife’s manicured claws, a bruising hand mark on his right cheek, his head craned around his best man's bicep, his eyes desperate. 

"I didn't! I swear it, baby! It was a joke! Cousin Steve is a pathological liar and an idiot! Everyone knows that!” The groom pleaded, shielding his face with his forearms as the Maid of Honor—a woman with the upper body strength of a CrossFit champion and the moral compass of a vengeful Valkyrie—lunged at him, brandishing her fists.

"It was a praaaaank!" Cousin Steve giggled, swaying dangerously in the center of the room. Where he stood on an empty chair, bare-chested, cummerbund tied around his head like Rambo. Streaks of something that looked like Spinach dip smeared in streaks across his chest. He swayed happily on his chair, humming what sounded like Endless Love. 

Over the scent of sick, aniseptic, and rage was a potent mix of marijuana and beer. "Just a joke, bros! Gotcha!"

It was a record scratch moment. The room froze; even a woman hacking in the corner paused mid-hack and took in the scene. The bride hiked up her skirt, her face flushing an unhealthy shade of puce.

“Get him!” Her voice was a snarled whisper. Then the mosh pit moved as one. 

High on weed, booze, and stupidity, Steve raised his fists and bobbed on the chair like Rocky. “C’mon, I’ll take all you bitches!”

The maid of honor must have been a gymnast or track champion because she leaped over an occupied row of chairs, clearing the head of a kid icing a broken nose, and with one fluid movement punched Cousin Steve right in the throat. The man gaged, staggered, and fell off the chair, thankfully into the laps of waiting patients, instead of into the mob baying for his blood. Not that it suddenly made Steve reconsider his life choices as he staggered to his feet, fists up. 

You groan and, out of the corner of your eye, see Jesse entering chairs and situating a gurney. The tall nurse throws you a conspiratorial wink. You share a look with Ahmed. He gave a slow nod. Okay, plan ‘B’ it was. An empty seat acted as your lane toward Cousin Steve. Your knees protested the jump, but you pushed forward as Steve bobbed and weaved, swinging wildly, to keep the crowd at bay. 

Ahmed was helping to keep the crowd back as Jesse stepped up behind the shorter man and, with ease, lifted the man onto the gurney. Steve landed with a grunt, but we would not be defeated so easily. He squirmed, kicked, and jerked, loosening Jesse’s grip just enough. Then he took a swing at the nearest person. Who happened to be a large woman in a habit and wimple, who had earlier been trying to soothe the angry crowd. A nun, Christ Almighty, he had punched a nun. The bride cried out, “Aunt Mary!” When the woman staggered back under the blow and landed in the lap of a flu patient, unconscious.

With a growl, you launched toward the shirtless man. This was a move you had practiced in the training room, but never thought you'd use on a half-naked drunk in a room full of flu patients. You hopped onto the gurney with him, sliding into a textbook Side Clinch. Your chest pressed against his side to pin his arm, your legs scissoring to stabilize your weight, your arm wrapping under his head to control his neck.

"Drive, Drive!" you yelled.

Jesse released the brake and grabbed the handles of the gurney. Ahmed hit the door release, and you went flying backward through the double doors into the main ED. Ahmed at the foot of the bed, stabilizing the out-of-control gurney from tipping.

"Let me go! I have freedom of speech!" Steve wailed, his voice raspy and painful sounding, no doubt from that punch to the throat, thrashing against your hold.

"You also have the right to remain silent!” you grunted, tightening your grip on his shoulder and keeping your head tucked to avoid his flailing headbutts. "So shut the fuck up!”

Steve seemed to give up on breaking your nose and instead settled for trying to sink his teeth into your flesh. “Jesse, faster! He's trying to bite!"

The gurney careened down the hallway, wheels screeching. Nurses flattened themselves against the walls. Dr. Shen, now free of Timmy, pressed his back against a supply cart, eyes wide.

And there, standing right in the path of your runaway gurney, was Jack.

He looked up from a computer terminal just as Ahmed drifted the gurney around the corner like a race car driver. 

Time seemed to slow down.

Jack took in the scene: You, straddling a hysterical shirtless man on a moving gurney, your hair escaping your bun, your face flushed with exertion, your arm locked around the man’s neck in a chokehold that was technically perfect.

For a split second, you saw it. The look Mel had told you to watch for.

His eyes didn't show disgust. They didn't show annoyance.

His lips parted slightly, his eyes dilated, and a flash of something hot and dark—admiration mixed with a primal sort of possessiveness—flared in his gaze. He looked at you like you were the most magnificent thing he had ever seen.

Then, the doctor in him snapped back online.

"Central 9!" Jack barked, abandoning the computer and hurrying alongside the gurney. "What do we have?"

"A fucking dumbass, three sheets to the wind and ready to set sail, and a death wish!" Jesse yelled over Steve’s singing of 'Baby Got Back'. "He's combative!"

"B-52!" Jack ordered to a nurse running behind him. "Benadryl, Haldol, Ativan. Now!"

Jesse slammed the gurney into the bay, locking the wheels in place. You didn't let go, riding out the momentum as Steve bucked. Ahmed lunged forward, throwing his body over his legs. 

"I didn't mean it!" Steve sobbed, his mood swinging violently. "I just wanted attention!" His head jerked, and you were forced to lighten your grip so you didn’t hurt him. His glassy eyes found you, and a slow, dopey smile spread across his face.

“Oh, you’re pretty.” He slurred, and despite the circumstances, you flushed. “But most women buy me dinner before we share a bed. You want to... get out of here? Go to Aruba?"

His breath reeked, and you cringed back, nose wrinkled, as he blew a sloppy kiss at you. “No, can’t say I do.” You muttered in disgust as he settled for contorting his neck and kissing your wrist. Jesse jumped in to brace the drunk’s head, in case he switched from smarmy Romeo to biting badger, again. 

Eyes inadvertently flicking up to Jack, who stood by the edge of the bed, his eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched. "Hold him steady, Y/N," Jack said, as he bent, his voice calm and right next to your ear. He stepped up to the other side of the gurney, his hands coming down to pin Steve’s free arm.

For a moment, you were working in perfect sync. You hold the upper body, Jack securing the arm, his shoulder brushing against your thigh as he leans closer. The smell of his soap—clean, masculine, familiar—mixed with the hospital antiseptic.

"On three," Jack murmured, his eyes flickering to yours. "One. Two. Three."

The nurse injected the sedative into Steve’s thigh.

Steve let out one last, long whine, then slumped back against the mattress, snoring within seconds.

You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the locker room. Slowly, you untangled your limbs from the unconscious wedding guest and slid off the gurney. Jack is hovering behind you, arm hovering in case you stumble. Your heart was hammering a mile a minute.

You looked up at him. He was breathing a little heavily, a lock of hair falling over his forehead.

"Nice form," Jack said quietly, a corner of his mouth tilting up. "Side control. You've been practicing."

"He was slippery," you managed, breathless. "He punched a nun and was about to die a gruesome death."

"Effective," Jack nodded. He glanced down at the sleeping Steve, then back up at you, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before flicking away. The air between you crackled with electricity, thicker than the morning fog over San Francisco Bay. Then his brow furrowed as if it finally registered what you said. 

“Wait, he punched a Nun?”

You groaned and rolled your neck, giving a low moan of relief when it gave a satisfying pop. Your eyes were closed, so you missed the way. Jack’s eyes seemed to darken at the sound. 

"You okay?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, intimate despite the chaos around you.

"I'm fine," you whispered. "Just... a normal Wednesday."

"Right," Jack said. He didn't move away. "Normal."

++++

====

The wind on the roof was biting, a sharp, icy thing that whipped around him, but Jack barely felt it. He stood near the safety barrier, his parka zipped to his chin, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

The adrenaline from the ED was fading, replaced by a different kind of thrumming energy. He kept replaying the image of you on that gurney. The way you had locked your arm around that drunk’s neck, your focus absolute, your body moving in a way that made his breath hitch.

For a moment, his brain had gone offline. A full blue screen of death appeared before his instincts had come back online, and he was directing Jesse toward a room. Seeing you in such a way was both terrifying and arousing in equal measure. He gave a loud, long groan that was swallowed by the wind. 

He needed to sell you on the logistics: the clean medical history, the proximity, and the fact that he already knew you liked your coffee with two pumps of caramel and one pump of chocolate, as well as that you were afraid of birds. Any birds, pictures, nature documentaries, you could handle as long as there were no owls in sight. Because every time one of those feathered fiends appeared on her screen, you flinched and muttered: “Freaky exorcist bastards.”

To you, it was unnatural that a head should turn in such a way. And that you were always waiting for the owl to turn its head, open its beak, and drone “Your mother sucks cocks in Hell, Karras.”

The first time you had said that, he’d nearly snorted lemonade out his nose. Jack shook his head and chuckled at the memory, rubbing a gloved hand down his face and bouncing a bit to bring warmth back into his legs. It was things like that that had doomed him. Laughter, non-sarcastic, non-mocking chuckles or huffs, but true belly laughs. It had been years since he laughed like that. 

And the first time it happened, it had shaken him to his core. Not right away. He had been able to finish watching the Dirty Dozen, get home, and go through his usual nighttime routine, and was dozing off when it hit him. Tired eyes had snapped open to lock on the ceiling as his mind whirred. The realization had kept him up the majority of the night, and when he arrived the next night for his shift, he had been planning to avoid you. To give his mind time to process, but fate was a spiteful bitch. Because as soon as he walked in the ED, there you were, glaring at Robby. Hands on hips and scowling. Declaring for all to hear that he looked like an angry grizzly with the Hangries. 

Robby had scoffed and given you an exasperated look when you quizzed him on when he last ate. Jack had seen this scene play out more than once, but this time something hot and sour had flared in his gut. 

As Robby argued with you that he was a grown ass man, who had been taking care of himself since she was in grade school. You had looked unimpressed. Dana, however, was leaning on the desk, taking in the scene with a delighted look. Her twinkling eyes met Robby's, a slow smile spreading across her face that made the older man freeze and give her a wide-eyed, pleading look. But she ratted him out anyway. Happily telling you that he had six cups of coffee and a bag of Funions from the vending machine. 

His eyes narrowed as you lifted your hand to poke Robby in the arm. Her expression called him an idiot. While Robby whined about Dana being a traitor, you were pulling off your backpack and digging through it. Your hand reappeared, holding two tinfoil-wrapped hoagies, and you tossed one at Robby, who caught the sandwich. Before turning your eyes to Dana. “And don't think I don't know you didn’t do any better.” Before holding out the other sandwich. “Chicken Parm sandwich, with mushrooms, and extra matz.”

Robby had grumbled as he lifted the food to his nose and sighed happily. “Cheesesteak Hoagie?” His voice was hopeful.

You rolled your eyes. “With extra fried onions and peppers. Now eat before you swoon, and end up with Langdon playing doctor with you. Trust me, no one wants to see that.”

“Hey!” Langdon called out from across the hub, popping up from behind a charting terminal with a wounded expression. “I’ll have you know my wife used to love playing doctor with me!” he cried out.

You crinkled your nose, reached into your bag again, and sent something sailing in his direction. Frank caught it before it smacked him in the face. “And Frank, way too much information. Now shut up and eat your nuggets, you overgrown toddler.”

The resident beamed, holding up the grease-stained bag. “Love you, Y/N!”

You grunted. Samira, who had appeared as if scenting the food like a bloodhound, popped up as if by magic and happily accepted her veggie wrap. Mel and Whitaker appeared next. Mel happily snatched up a bag of trail mix as she happily rambled about her and Becca’s plans for the night, while Whitaker practically hugged his pastrami sandwich to his chest like a newborn.

Jack’s jaw shifted slightly as he took in the scene. Dana caught sight of him first, her eyes taking in his expression, the clenched jaw, the tight line of his shoulders, and the death grip on the strap of his backpack. A knowing look entered her eyes, and she beamed at him. Eyes knowing and absolutely tickled by the situation. 

Before Jack could flip Dana off, you turned and spotted him. Your eyes light up, and a smile spreads across your lips. As if you were thrilled to see him, and that ugly feeling clawing at his gut eased. 

His eyes were so busy taking in your expression, he didn't notice her unearth something else from her pack. “Now, I know you're better at feeding yourself than some people,” you pause to turn and glare at Robby, whose cheeks were now bulging with steak, cheese, and onions.

Mouth full, giving you sad puppy eyes, Robby muttered. “Wude,”

You scoffed, with a theatrical roll of your eyes, and held out another tinfoil-wrapped sandwich. A smile inadvertently curled at the corner of his mouth as he reached out with his free hand and took it. The warmth inside the foil warms his palm. That angry, snarling beast in his chest that had awoken when you were feeding and fussing over Robby curled up and went back to sleep. 

“Extra spicy chicken fajita, sandwich.” You shook your head, looking exasperated, before poking a finger into his chest. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re breathing fire by ten pm.” Then you were gone, heading over to the guard booth, where Christian was waiting. 

Things had continued from there—more movie nights, documentaries, and even book exchanges. At least once a week, Jack ended up on your couch. The best nights were when he didn’t make it home. Falling asleep on your sofa, either with your feet in his lap, or your head on his shoulder as the TV droned in the background, and Pebbles, your Westiepoo, curled up by his hip.

Now, Jack only had to manage to do this without grabbing your shoulders and confessing that he’s been half in love with you since you lectured him about the 101st Airborne in the breakroom. If he spooked you now, you’d retreat into that shell of self-deprecation, or worse, back to the binder of anonymous weirdos.

The heavy steel door groaned open, cutting through his thoughts. A gust of wind nearly snatched it, causing your feet to drag along the roof, until you caught your balance before you were able to close it with a slam. You grunted back, pressed against the metal, as you readjusted your pink beanie with the white Pom-Pom that had slipped down over your eyes, your fleece jacket zipped, and a scarf wrapped around your neck from chest to chin. Cheeks flushed a bright pink that had nothing to do with the cold. 

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the city below and the distant wail of a siren. You rocked on your heels, shifting your weight from left to right, your eyes darting from his face to his boots, only to recoil when they landed on a pigeon pecking at the gravel. Smirking Jack bent down, gathered up some gravel, and tossed it against the side of the HVAC unit. The sound startled the bird, and it took flight. 

You turned to him, a grateful look on your face. But it was like the moment your eyes locked on his, the dam broke.

“God, this is ridiculous!” You moaned as a gloved hand that matched your hat came up to cover your eyes. “We’re adults. I shouldn’t be so nervous about a conversation!”

Jack rested his back against the rail and opened his mouth to reply. But there was no stopping the flow of words pouring from your mouth. You started to pace in short, tight passes. 

“IVF is the safe option.” You say, your eyes fixated in a thousand-yard stare, so caught up in your own thoughts and fears, you saw nothing else. “If that doesn’t work, I’d be sad, but the only thing I really lose is money.” You pause, your eyes flickering to him, desperate to take in his expression. “If this thing,” you wave a hand between you. “Goes south, I lose you. I don’t think I could handle that.”

You stopped pacing long enough to look at him with wide, frantic eyes, the wind whipping loose strands of hair across your face. Willing him to understand your fear wasn’t just over the mechanics of sex or the morning after. It was deeper. It was the terrifying possibility that if this went south, you wouldn't just lose a father for your child; you would lose your best friend. You’d lose the Pad Thai nights, the history debates, the only person who understood why you hated owls.

Jack jerked upright and looked as if he wanted to interject, but you waved him off. 

"But it’s not only that!" You were off again, pacing in a small circle in the gravel. "The point is, this... us... the 'traditional way.' Jack, look at me! I am a disaster. My dating history isn't just a red flag; it's a fucking Soviet parade."

You gestured wildly to the frozen skyline. "I mean, somewhere out there is 'Lizard Guy', who is probably still hissing at breadsticks. Then there's the 'Mommy Guy'. Which, for the record, is entirely Samira’s fault. I am absolutely billing her for the therapy I’m going to need to unpack that trauma. And don't even get me started on my complete lack of experience!"

You stopped, turning to face him, your face burning hot despite the biting wind. "I’m serious, Jack! Even if I wasn’t obsessed with my grades in high school, I couldn’t give it away!“

You stopped pacing long enough to look over the city, with frantic eyes. "And then there’s Whitaker! Poor, sweet, traumatized Whitaker. I think I broke him. Kid thought Samira invited him to brunch, and he was forced to thumb through the sperm binder!”

Jack’s eyes darkened and narrowed at that. Whitaker knew before he did? The innocent little farmboy who still didn’t know that Nurse Kelly was flirting with him. 

“Then today, I walked into the locker room, and he was sitting there like a hostage. He is currently convinced that he’s going to have nightmares about your… prowess."  

Jack’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing into his wind-blown curls now flopping over his forehead. He looked simultaneously amused and deeply disturbed. "My… prowess?" 

"He thinks you yell 'Charge!' when you cum." You whispered loudly, throwing your hands up. "The poor kid just wanted to eat his pudding cup in peace, and now he’s more terrified than ever of looking you in the eye.”

Jack stared at you. The image of Dennis Whitaker, clutching a pudding cup and white with fear of his bedroom voice, was too much. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, catching him off guard. It started as a snort and quickly dissolved into a wheeze. Bent at the waist, one arm draped over the railing, the other curled around his ribs as his shoulder shook with laughter. 

"He thinks I yell 'Charge'?" Jack choked out, shaking his head.

"It’s not funny!" you groaned, though a small, reluctant snicker escaped you. "He asked for a lobotomy, Jack!”

"He’ll survive," Jack said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, his shoulders shaking. "Though I might make Robby, have him do rectal exams for a week just for the mental image." And for having the audacity to know about this situation before Jack, who had been one of your closest friends for months, had to find out by accident. So the little med student would suffer.

You felt your shoulder relax as he laughed. Jack’s unrestrained laughter was a rare thing indeed. The way his eyes crinkled, hazel eyes glowing in amusement, and a genuine smile curling over white teeth, exposing those dimples that never failed to make you melt. 

A soft smile formed on your face as you watched him. Slowly, the laughter tapered off. He stood up to his full height, arm dropping from his ribs, as he wiped the tears from his eyes. 

The question, like everything else you had said in the last few minutes, came out without thought. “How would this even work?”

You absently pulled off a glove to gnaw at your thumbnail. “ I’d need to download a cycle app. I need to track my basal body temperature. Do you know how hard it is to track temperature when you work night shifts? My circadian rhythm is a suggestion at best! My ovaries probably think I live on the moon.”

You began pacing again, your boots crunching on the gravel. “Plus, what if we have no chemistry? I mean, friendship compatibility is electric. You’re my people! You speak history nerd as fluently as I do!”

Your discarded glove, clasped in your right hand, fluttered in the breeze as you moved. “But in the bedroom, what if things are clinical? Or worse, what if I’m terrible at it? Cause let's be honest, my virginity probably grew back.” Then you frowned. “Not that I remember much, both of us were really drunk.”

Jack stepped away from the railing. He didn't say a word; he just moved into your orbit, cutting off your pacing path.

"First," Jack said, his voice low and devoid of the earlier humor. "You are a woman who has had the misfortune of dating idiots who didn't know what they had. Or what to do with you.”

He took another half-step, the toes of his boots bumping against yours. "Second, Whitaker's nightmares are his problem. And third..." His eyes darkened, scanning your face with an intensity that made your knees feel like jelly. "We aren't going to be clinical. I can promise you that."

"But—"

"No buts," he interrupted softly. "You're worried about chemistry? You're worried we'll ruin the friendship?"

"Yes," you breathed.

"Then we test the theory."

He lifted a hand, slowly, giving you time to pull away, and tucked a loose strand of windblown hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your jaw, his skin rough but warm against your cold cheek.

"Kiss me," he whispered. "If it's terrible, we reevaluate. 

You nodded, a jerky, barely-there movement. Your heart was pounding in your chest so hard that you wondered if you would be able to see it through the layers of clothing. 

You moved, surging up on your tiptoes, propelled by adrenaline and nerves. It was—clumsy. You came in too fast, your nose bumping his chin, your lips landing slightly off-center, catching more five o’clock shadow than lip. You froze, mortified, ready to pull back and apologize and maybe take a flying leap off the roof. As you tried to jerk back, Jack wouldn't let you.

He made a low noise in his throat, a sound of amusement as his lips curled up in a smile, and his hands came up to cup your face, his gloved thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. He tilted his head, correcting the angle, and captured your lips with his.

It wasn't the fireworks. It was better like a low, warm spread of honey through your veins. That seemed to seep into every inch and made your toes curl in your boots. You had always thought that romantic nonsense. But apparently not. Or at least not with Jack. 

His lips were chapped and a little rough from the cold, but incredibly warm, moving against yours with a slow, deliberate presses. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring. One of his hands slid from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hair at the nape, holding you steady as he deepened the kiss.

It was a question and an answer all at once. It was needy—a desperate, pent-up thing that spoke of months of stolen glances and 3 AM debates. But it was also teasing, his tongue sweeping against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up, to let him in.

When you finally did, parting your lips with a soft sigh, Jack groaned against your mouth, pulling you flush against his body. You could feel the solid wall of his chest, the heat radiating off him through the layers of winter clothes. The taste of him—coffee and mint—flooded your senses. The anxiety that had been buzzing in your brain for the last twelve hours dissolved, replaced by a heavy, languid heat that pooled low in your belly.

You clung to the lapels of his parka, your fingers curling into the fabric to keep yourself upright as the world narrowed down to the friction of his lips and the warmth of his hold.

When he finally pulled away, it was only by an inch. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged, matching your own gasping breaths. His eyes were dark, blown wide, and shining with a terrifying amount of hope.

"Well?" he rasped, his voice rougher than usual. "Verdict?"

You blinked dazedly up at him. “About what?”

His answering chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest that you felt through the thermal layers and down to your very bones. “I think we’ve put that fear to bed.”

He pulled back slowly, adjusting your hat and scarf. 

"It's freezing up here," he said, glancing at the door. "We should go somewhere warm. Grab some actual food. Hammer out the details."

You blinked, effectively crashing back down to earth. You looked at him, then at the hospital door, then back at him. You wrinkled your nose and cocked your head to the side.

“Where the fuck does one go to discuss ovulation cycles?”

++++

====

Apparently, the place to discuss ovulation cycles was Jack’s apartment after a stop at the diner around the corner from the hospital. You could honestly say you never ordered pumpkin pancakes to eat while discussing your menstrual cycle.

You toe off your boots, clutching the greasy paper bag from the diner to your chest like a life preserver. Your eyes wander over the room. Two large, framed art prints hung above the sofa—one a stylized movie poster of Indiana Jones, the other a vintage Connery Bond Movie poster.

"I didn't peg you for a Bond movie guy," you murmured, moving further into the room. “Indy, sure. Every history junkie has seen the movies. But Bond? No.”

"I'm a man of many layers," Jack said dryly, locking the deadbolt behind him. "And I bought the place fully furnished from a graphic designer who was moving to Berlin.“

"Sit," Jack commanded gently, gesturing to the leather beast. "I'll get plates. And napkins. Knowing us, we'll need a lot of napkins."

You snorted. True, she had dumped half her dinner down her front during her freak out, but before she had vacuumed her rug within an inch of disintegration. 

You dropped onto the sofa, sinking into the plush leather. Your socks are sliding against the plush, deep blue carpet with a light gold geometric pattern. The leather of the sofa was soft, cool against your palms, and smelled faintly of him—that clean, woodsy scent that always made your brain short-circuit. 

It was strange, after nearly a year, to be sitting in Jack’s apartment, not for a movie but to nail down a plan to have a baby. You nearly snorted at the insanity. You had wondered more than once why movie nights were always at your place. But every time you mentioned it, he had wrinkled his nose, muttering about his neighbors. But you suspected it was because he loved Pebbles, although he would never admit it, even after you caught him smuggling her treats, and his building's strict no-pets policy.

You unpacked the styrofoam container overflowing with pumpkin pancakes, a side of extra-crispy bacon, and Jack’s western omelet. Unlike your table, there was no sprem donner binder hidden under an old magazine, but he did have a metal sculpture that he was using as a remote control holder. 

But with how fucking ugly it was, at least this way it held some kind of purpose. Besides that, was his iPad and a small metal model of a Sherman Tank. You nudged it away and popped open the lids, releasing a wave of steam and nearly groaning at the smell of pumpkin spice and bacon.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, as Jack rummages around in the kitchen. “Time to put on your big girl panties.”

You fall back into the cushions, drawing your feet up as you unlock your phone and navigate to the app store. Your thumb hovered over the search bar. You typed in Ovulation Tracker and were immediately assaulted by icons featuring pink flowers, babies, and serene-looking women who clearly didn't have to worry about the logistics of sleeping with their best friend.

You download the one with the highest rating and watch with bated breath as the blue circle slowly inched around. When the circle turned into a tab reading ‘open’. Drawing in a shaky breath, you bit the bullet and clicked it. 

“Okay, Tea for me. Hot cocoa, for you.” Jack announced, returning to the room with two steaming mugs and a stack of paper plates. He set them on the tree-trunk table and sat down next to you. 

Not too close. But close enough to still feel the heat radiating off his thigh against your feet. He plated his omelet and cut it with his fork as you eyed the bright pink screen of the app.

“Found one,” you remarked. “It was the highest rated, and didn’t have a vagina related slogan. Seemed like a winner.”

"So," Jack said, spearing a forkful of omelet. "How does this work?"

"Well," you said, clearing your throat. Your foot bounced on the cushion as you read the direction prompts. 

“First, I have to feed the algorithm. It wants to know everything. Age, weight, average cycle length, last period—social security number, blood type, Zodiac sign, and my favorite color, probably."

Jack chewed slowly, watching you. "Standard medical history. Go on."

You crunched on a piece of bacon, the salt and grease providing a momentary distraction. "Okay. Last period start date…" You scrolled back through your mental calendar. "The 12th. No, the 14th. It was the night Langdon accidentally set off the fire alarm with his burnt popcorn."

You punched in the date.

"Average cycle length?" Jack asked, leaning in to look at the screen. His cheek brushed your shoulder, and you nearly dropped your bacon.

"Twenty-eight days," you squeaked. "Give or take a day for stress-induced delays caused by work or how often Myrna bites a cop. And ends up in house.”

Jack snorted and sat back up, reaching for your container and plating a few pancakes, then smearing on a bit of butter and adding a few strips of bacon before holding the paper plate out, with an arched brow and a pointed look. You rolled your eyes, setting your phone on the arm of the chair and resting the plate on your knees, accepting the plastic fork Jack was holding out without having to ask.

As the app calculated the data, you cut into your pancakes with your fork and happily shoved a forkful into your mouth. You gave a happy little sigh. 

“So, how was Ellis after her encounter with little Timmy?” You ask, adjusting slightly to look at Jack. “I didn’t see her after she got a chunk taken out of her.”

“Yeah, you were dealing with the wedding party from hell.” Jack winced and offered you a small smile. "Ellis is fine," Jack said, swallowing a mouthful of eggs and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Though she is currently on a prophylactic course of antibiotics and plotting the destruction of the edibles gummy industry.”

He took a sip of his tea, a grimace crossing his face as he recalled the rest of the shift. "Timmy, on the other hand, woke up right before I clocked out. Shen was up to his elbows in a chest tube insertion in Trauma 1, so I went to check on the little asshole."

Jack paused, looking down at his fresh t-shirt, which you now realized was definitely not the one he had started the shift in. "Apparently, the sedatives wore off, but the nausea from the overdose hadn't. I leaned over to check his pupils. He opened his eyes, looked me dead in the face, and projected—" Jack gestured vaguely with his fork, "—everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours all over my scrub top."

You folded your lips tight over your teeth, shoulders shaking as you fought back a laugh. "So," you managed to wheeze out, eyeing the way he casually cut another piece of omelet as if discussing the weather and not being used as a human emesis basin. "Did that change your mind? About the whole... kids thing? Because babies are essentially tiny, leaking facusets, that scream at all hours of the day and night.”

“I’ve been covered in much worse than puke.” Jack deadpanned, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “Blood, piss, shit, it's all ended up on me at one point. Whether in a combat hospital or in the ED. At least babies are cute.” He pulled a face and shrugged. “Thirty-year-olds with food poisoning not so much.”

Butterflies took flight in your stomach. Despite all the anxiety and lack of sleep, somewhere along the way, you had become attached to the idea. It was probably responsible for at least 50% of your spiral. Fear that he would have slept on it and come to the conclusion that he had gone temporarily insane. This was like a dream for you. If everything went according to plan—and if biology cooperated—you would be having a baby with the man you loved.

You let your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the way his curls fell over his forehead. You pictured a chubby baby, hopefully with those unruly curls and those devastating hazel eyes. Please, God, you prayed silently, taking a bite of your pumpkin pancake so as not to blurt out the thought. Just don't let the poor kid get your Grandma Betty’s Dumbo ears. It had taken your poor cousin years to grow into hers. You didn't want to inflict that aerodynamic trauma on an infant.

"Cute," you repeated, your voice softening. "Yeah. They are."

Your mouth was full of pancake and bacon when your phone dinged. The load circle giving way to an unfurling flower, then a calender. You inhaled and very nearly choked in surprise at what was glaring up at you. You may not have choked, but you did make a very unflattering sound that sounded vaguely like a hyena's cackle. Jack twitched at the sound and turned to you with a forkful of omelet halfway to his lips. 

You were thinking you would have a few weeks to get your head around this. A month, maybe. Time to buy new sheets, shave your legs, schedule a waxing appointment, and a shopping trip, and mentally prepare for the sight of Jack Abbott in a bedroom setting sans clothes, without combusting. 

But glaring up at her in all its Pepto pink glory. According to the calculations, the little blue circle was terrifyingly close to the little pink flower. You had five days before ovulation occurred.

"Five days," you croaked, your voice an octave higher than normal. 

Jack frowned, taking the phone from your hand. You watched him, holding your breath. You expected him to panic.

Jack looked at the screen. He zoomed in on the calendar. He looked at the little highlighted droplet that indicated 'Peak Fertility.'

He didn't flinch. He didn't pale.

"Okay," he said, handing the phone back to you as he picked up his fork again. "Five days until ovulation. That means the window starts Tuesday."

He looked at you, his gaze steady and warm, grounding you when you felt like you were floating away on a balloon of panic.

"Ideally," he continued, taking a bite of his eggs, "we should start trying two days before. To maximize the chances."

You stared at him, your mouth slightly open. "So... Sunday?"

"Sunday," Jack agreed, a small smirk playing on his lips as he caught your terrified expression. “Relax, sweetheart.” His mouth curled into a slow smile that did things to your insides. “I don’t bite, unless you ask nicely.”

++++

====

Despite the potent mix of anxiety, anticipation, arousal, and stone-cold fear, that in only two days, you would be falling into bed with Jack, exhaustion was winning the battle. 

After a long day, you felt gravity doing its best to merge you with the leather cushions. You dreaded the idea of peeling yourself off Jack’s sofa and trekking home in the cold. You had texted Mel on the way to the diner, and true to form, the girl was an early riser even on her day off. She had excitedly agreed—in all caps and half a dozen puppy emojis—to stop in, feed, and walk Pebbles.

You snorted, staring at the screen. Mel, wonderful, dependable Mel. When you texted her about the sudden change in plans, she had not only agreed to dog duty but had immediately declared this an "Emergency Girls' Day" situation. The woman was god-sent.

She also must have drawn Samira into the mix, who was currently blowing up your phone with confirmations for a last-minute waxing appointment for late tomorrow morning. Samira sent that message with five grinning emoji faces. Her enthusiasm for ripping hair out of your follicles was slightly alarming. But you appreciated the effort. 

Your eyes began to droop as a documentary on Pompeii played on Jack’s large screen. Even the constant messages from Samira and Mel, and then Dana, were not helping to keep you awake. If you had been sharper and not seconds from dropping your chin to your chest and drooling, you would have noticed when Parker had been added to the group chat. You also would have balked when Samira texted about how she had booked and confirmed a spa day for all of them on Saturday.

Now you were stuck. The reservations confirmed, and your complaints about Samira dipping into her trust fund would fall on deaf ears. 

Which meant it was time to get your ass home and into bed, before you ended up blindly agreeing to pole dancing lessons. Again. Your friends had finally realized that when you were sleepy, you were very agreeable. You also didn’t want to explain to Robby about how you got another concussion from falling off the pole, landing on your head.

With a mournful groan that started at your toes, you dropped your feet to the floor and stretched your back until it cracked. Jack was half-dozing on the other end, his head lolling back against the cushion, his breathing even and deep.

“You need to sleep,” you remarked softly, trying to smother a massive yawn behind your hand. “And so do I. So I'd better go.”

Jack, bleary-eyed and looking like a rumpled bear roused from hibernation, shot a hand out. His fingers wrapped around your wrist as you went to stand—warm, calloused, and anchoring.

“Or,” he offered, his voice gruff and raspy with exhaustion, and made you want to curl into his chest to feel every rumble. “You could just stay. I don’t mind taking the couch. I collapse here more often than not.”

You scowled down at him. “Nope. I am not kicking you out of your bed in your own house, Jack Abbott. That is rude.”

You stood there, hovering between the coffee table and the door, and suddenly caught your lip between your teeth as an idea took root. The idea hit you—terrifying and logical all at once.

“Well— and tell me if this is stupid,” you stammered, your heart giving a nervous little flutter. “We could share the bed. I mean—in a few days, we’ll be doing much more than that. May as well get comfortable.” 

Your face took on an embarrassed rosy hue. “And let’s be honest. This won’t be the first time I’ve drooled on you.”

His eyes popped open fully, hazel depths catching yours in the dim light and taking on a warm amber glow. He wasn't teasing now. He was reading you, scanning your face for any sign of discomfort. Sure, you were nervous—your hands were fidgeting with the hem of your uniform shirt—but you knew if this was going to work, you needed to jump in with both feet. If you went home now, you’d spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking until you talked yourself out of it.

"You sure?" he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, a jerky movement. You were never more glad that you always kept an extra pair of leggings and a t-shirt, along with a small travel-sized bottle of shampoo, in your oversized purse. Usually, they were for an emergency girls' night. Like when Langdon had returned from rehab, his marriage on the rocks, and Mel fell hard. No one had been surprised. Mel was the only one who could make Frank stop and think about things. She had this way of getting through to him that even Robby didn’t possess. And Frank always seemed to orbit the blonde, always looking proud when she beamed at his compliments. The betting pool on when Frank would get divorced, along with a subcategory bet on when he would ask Mel out, was already up to $4,000. 

So when Mel had finally noticed what everyone else was seeing, you and Samira had converged on Mel’s place. While Samira and Mel drank themselves into oblivion, you had only been tipsy and had spent the night making sure neither woman choked on their own vomit. Dana arrived early in the morning with pastries and strong black coffee, along with her youngest daughter. Using the zombie-fied forms of Mel and Samira groaning into their coffee as a teaching opportunity. 

A soft smile broke through his exhaustion. "Come on then."

You followed him into his room. It was cool and smelled distinctly of him—cedar, sandalwood, and laundry detergent. The blackout curtains were still drawn tight against the winter sun.

You hovered by the door as Jack sat on the edge of the mattress. With practiced efficiency, he rolled up his pant leg. For a second, he hesitated, his hands hovering over the release mechanism of his prosthesis. He glanced up at you, a silent question in his eyes. You didn't look away. You didn't flinch. You just offered him a tired, soft smile.

After that, the routines were quickly performed. Teeth were brushed, showers had, and clothes changed. Then, the moment of truth. You crawled into the massive king-sized bed. Taking the left side by the window, Jack settled into the side closest to the door.

The sheets were cool, crisp cotton that was soft against your skin. You lay on your back, staring up at the dark ceiling, acutely aware of the dip in the mattress as Jack settled beside you after flicking off the light, plunging the room into darkness. 

“Okay?” His voice was soft, as if he was worried anything louder would spook you. 

"Yeah," you whispered, surprised to find that you meant it. The anxiety that had been eating you alive all day had quieted. "Okay."

Jack lay perfectly still, listening to the rhythm of your breathing as it slowly evened out.

You were in his bed.

It was a scenario he had played out in his head a thousand times—usually with a lot less clothing and a lot more exertion—but this? Hit him much harder than expected. 

He could smell your shampoo—something fruity mixed with vanilla—melding with his body wash, you had borrowed. The mingling scents were a sucker punch to his libido. He bit back a groan, tossing his forearm over his eyes as his dick twitched and willed his body to behave. You had already made a leap of faith; he didn't need you rolling over right now and noticing his situation. 

Baby steps. He had waited over six months to kiss you or have you in his bed. Albeit not in the way he assumed, so that he could wait two more days.

He could hear the soft rustle of the duvet as you shifted, trying to get comfortable. He wanted, with a physical ache that was almost painful, to reach out and pull you against him. To tuck your head under his chin and tangle his legs with yours. To breathe you in and bask in not being alone. 

But he held back. He knew what this was. This was you being brave. So he kept his hands to himself, fists loosely clenched at his sides.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Pitt; it is without prejudice property of HBO Max, John Wells Productions, R. Scott Gemmill Productions, and Warner Bros. Television.

Chp 1

The Battle of the Bulge was raging on the television, the narrator’s voice solemn over grainy black-and-white footage of snow-covered tanks, but the real conflict was brewing on your living room sofa. 

"I got you the extra spicy Pad Thai," you called out from the kitchen, balancing two perspiring sodas and a bag of shrimp chips. "I know you say your stomach lining is made of Kevlar, but I bought Pepto just in case."

Some days, you were not sure how one small, impromptu babysitting of a twelve-year-old boy, whose mother had been rushed upstairs with a bowel rupture, led to lecture to a twelve-year-old boy had led to this. As you paused to close the refrigerator door with your elbow, you thought back to that night. 

The fluorescent lights of the PTMC Emergency Department hummed with that specific, headache-inducing frequency that only existed between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 AM. When the body of even the most dedicated night shift regular was running on fumes, it was the witching hour—when the drunks had mainly passed out, the traumas had been stabilized or sent up to the OR, and the remaining staff were moving just to stay upright. 

You were currently stationed near the central hub, leaning a hip against the desk. Your charge, Theo, who was up way past his bedtime, was dragged from his warm covers by his mom’s stomach pain, which was actually a ruptured bowel. Now he sat wide-eyed at the desk, dressed in a faded Spider-Man pajama top and flannel printed sweats. Scattered around him were a half-full juice bottle, an empty bag of chips, and his history textbook and notebook. 

Usually, this job would be for the social worker, but the ED’s two designated workers for the night shift were currently eyeball deep in a possible abuse case. The nurses, doctors, and med students were bogged down in the normal flow of patients for a Friday night. Flu season was almost upon them, and an unlucky dozen were puking into basins in chairs waiting for a bed. So that had left you. To not only babysit Theo but also Myrna, who had already attempted to escape her psych hold three times. 

Your security uniform was rumpled and torn at the shoulder from an altercation earlier in the evening, though the fabric bagged a little around your chest and was snug across your belly—a fact that usually made you self-conscious, but tonight, you had bigger fish to fry, like keeping Myrna from mentally scarring a tween or escaping. 

Seated on one of the rolling computer chairs, slowly spinning in a circle, a pencil tapping against his chin. His notebook now resting in his lap. Tear marks drying on his cheeks, Theo looked up at you with wide, red-rimmed eyes that told of his frightened tears, which had finally abated. 

When you had asked if he had any homework, it had been out of desperation. The poor boy was shaken; his only parent was in pain and needed surgery, and he needed a distraction. You were just glad he had asked for help with anything besides math, but silently thrilled when he pulled out his history book. Finally, being a history nerd would be helpful in her everyday life. 

Now distracted by his upcoming project on Market Garden, her furrowed his freckled brow in confusion. 

"I don't get it," Theo mumbled. "Why did they think it would work?"

"Because arrogance is a heck of a drug, kid," you said, crossing your arms.

The familiar squeaking of a wheelchair announced Myrna’s approach. You briefly closed your eyes and swallowed back the curse. When you opened your eyes, there was Myrna, no longer a safe distance away from the little boy and within your line of sight, but now right beside him. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks; her bright red lip stain was fading, and her smoky eyeshadow gave her a grim, malevolent look under the bright lights. 

Catching your eye, she smiled slowly, and you mentally braced for impact. “Hey there, Merryweather.” 

Myrna rasped at you, and you huffed a sigh through your nose. The chubby blue fairy from Sleeping Beauty. Admittedly, your favorite character from the movie as a kid. Still, you can’t say you were thrilled with it. But it was miles better than Fruitcake or Cocksucker, for that matter. Robby was not so lucky. So you forced yourself to roll your eyes.

“Behave, Myrna,” you tell her, nodding your head toward the boy. The blonde woman scoffed and threw her cuffed hand in the air, the light glinting off the metal of the handcuff. 

“I am behaving,” she drawled, the words slurring just enough to keep you guessing about her actual sobriety levels. She leaned precariously out of her chair toward Theo, who shrank back slightly, clutching his mechanical pencil like a shiv. “I’m just here to help the kid study.”

You rubbed a hand down your face, exhausted. “He’s studying Operation Market Garden, Myrna. Unless you were a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne, I don't think you can help.”

Myrna cackled, a sound like dry leaves scraping over concrete.

“Always so by the book, aren’t you? Officer Merryweather,” she teased, putting a mocking emphasis on a title you didn’t actually hold. “Then explain it to me like a good little nerd. What did Patton do to get your panties in a twist?”

"We aren't talking about Patton, Myrna. We're talking about Montgomery," you shot back, rolling your eyes. You turned your attention back to Theo, softening your voice. "Look. Operation Market Garden. September 1944. Ideally? It was a genius plan to end the war by Christmas. In reality? It was a logistical cluster-you-know-what."

"Cluster-what?" Theo asked, cocking his head to the side, and Myrna cackled, eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, Professor,” Myrna purred, leaning forward in her chair, and you caught a whiff of musky perfume and stale beer. 

"Cluster-mess," you corrected quickly. You grabbed a handful of tongue depressors from the counter to demonstrate. "Okay, look. This is the British XXX Corps. These are the bridges. Montgomery is the guy in charge. The problem wasn't just the Germans. It was that old Monty was so obsessed with his own plan that he ignored the intel saying, 'Hey, Panzer divisions are resting right where you want to drop paratroopers.'"

"Myrna thinks Robert Redford made good points in the movie," Myrna droned, finally looking up to glare at you. "And he has great hair."

"Robert Redford played Major Cook, and he spent the whole movie paddling in circles!" you argued, gesturing with a tongue depressor. 

"That doesn't change the fact that Montgomery was a moron who stretched his supply lines too thin! You can’t drive an entire armored corps down a single-lane highway in the Netherlands and expect traffic to flow smoothly.“

"It was a bold strategy," Myrna sniffed.

"It was a disaster!" you grunted, stepping away from the desk, your voice rising just enough to catch attention. "He sent men to secure a bridge too far because his ego was bigger than the Rhine River! If he had just listened to the Polish brigade, or looked at a single aerial reconnaissance photo—"

A gruff, tired voice interrupts your monologue. “Technically,”

You jumped in surprise. You knew that voice. It was usually calling orders or snarking at Shen. Your head turned slowly to gaze at the man, with whom you had exchanged maybe five words since you were transferred to nights. 

He wasn't looking at the chart, though. He was looking at you.

Your grip tightened on the tongue depressor as you eyed him uncertainly. "Dr. Abbot."

"Market Garden failed for a number of reasons," Jack said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked from the tongue depressors in your hand to Leo’s textbook. "But you’re omitting the radio silence. The radios didn’t work. The British 1st Airborne lost comms almost immediately. They couldn't coordinate air support."

You blinked. You expected him to snip at you for loitering. You didn't expect him to fact-check you.

"Well, yeah," you managed, recovering your footing. Shifting slightly to rest your forearms on the desk. "The radios were bricks. Well, actually, bricks would have been more useful. At least they could have thrown those at the enemy. But the radios didn't matter if the tanks couldn't move. The ground was too soft for armor to go off-road. Once the lead tank was hit, the entire column came to a standstill. They were sitting ducks."

Jack’s lips twitched. It was a microscopic movement, but you caught sight of it. He looked at the tongue depressors laid out on the counter, representing the Highway to Hell.

"True," Jack conceded, leaning his hip against the counter next to you. The proximity was... alarming. He was of average height with broad shoulders highlighted by the scrub top, and having him this close made you acutely aware of your own size. Your forehead barely came level with his pectorals. Yet still he leaned forward on the desk, setting his tablet aside to catch your gaze. 

"But you’re right about Montgomery. The man was a narcissist who ignored the intelligence reports about the 9th and 10th SS Panzer Divisions."

Myrna let out a loud, dramatic sigh. "Great. Now there are two of them."

Then she fixed you with a piercing gaze. “You never snuck out, did you? Not once? Never kissed a boy you knew would break your heart?” Myrna tsked, shaking her head. You felt your face flush and bit back a mortified groan. “Tragic. You need to break a rule, Merryweather. Just one. Before the universe breaks it for you.”

Myrna then turned her eyes on Jack, still there, still observing; this time, not a historical study session, but your humiliation. “Tell her, Soldier Boy, that she needs to get laid.”

Theo, sweet innocent Theo, just had to ask the question. “What’s laid?”

The only thing you could do was give a pained moan as Myrna cackled and used her feet to Fred Flinstone herself away from the epicenter of her chaos. 

Even now, months after that initial meeting, everything changed. That was the starting point, and you had become Jack’s favorite partner for three am debates on military strategy. Whenever there was a slow moment, you seemed to find each other. That had slowly melded into where you were now. With Jack in your living room, sprawled on your sofa as if he had always been a fixture there, with your dog lying on his feet. 

What you hadn’t counted on was falling for him. Sure, you knew he was handsome. You had eyes, and even though you had only been on night shift for a short time. You would be lying through your teeth if you didn’t admit, at least to yourself, that the sight of those broad shoulders, those curls that were made to be played with, and fuck his arms were a new undiscovered wonder of the world.

But as much as his looks had made you flush, it was not your kryptonite. That was his eyes and his seldom-seen smile. That was what five months ago, standing in the breakroom, talking about whether The Longest Day or A Bridge Too Far was more accurate, when he had done both, and it had been like a punch to the chest. 

You knew then you were in trouble. But you wouldn’t trade your documentaries and Band of Brothers binges for anything, so you half convinced yourself it was a fluke. Just a hormone spike that had knocked you for six. 

You knew you were fucked two months after that. When, after a long shift the night before, Jack’s leg had been bothering him something fierce. Not that he would ever admit it. You had held your peace through dinner, even the first episode of Masters of the Air. But when he winced and shifted, you gave him a look—telling him pointedly to get comfortable. He had eyed you for a long minute, gaze locked on yours as if searching for some answer to some secret mystery. He must have found what he was looking for because he removed his prosthetic with a grateful sigh. 

When you woke the next morning, still on your overstuffed sofa, your head pillowed on his bicep. Jack had still been asleep, his head pillowed on a plush throw, his legs kicked up on the built-in ottoman. His face relaxed and his body free of tension. It had hit you then in the early morning light like a devastating blow to your equilibrium, when he looked like he belonged there. On your couch, his prosthetic forgotten on the floor, in your home. There was no stopping the fall after that. It was swift, brutal, and heartbreaking. 

You shake off the thoughts as your bare feet pad out of the kitchen and into your carpeted living room. A paper bag sat on the edge of her coffee table, unopened—your brows furrow. Usually, Jack was like a ravenous hyena when he arrived at your apartment—spending most of his day off sleeping or running errands.

Your eyes found him. Jack was sitting on the edge of the sofa, the coffee table cleared of the remote and your mail, and the trashy tabloids Samira had forgotten from last girls' night, and you froze. Eyes snapping wide, and mouth dropping open. The soda cans nearly dropped from your hands as you took in the scene.

In his hands, resting open on his knees, was The Binder. The navy blue, innocuous-looking binder that contained the biological specifications of twelve potential fathers, currently categorized by eye color and genetic health history. The same binder you had taken to brunch this morning and had looked over with Samira, Mel, and a very reluctant Whitaker, who mistakenly thought this was just brunch. 

Poor boy had turned several stages of red before he finally deflated and hovered over Samira’s shoulder, scowling at one profile. Shaking his head and pointing at one sentence, "That’s dude speak for ‘I’m thirty-two, I live in a basement, and I refer to women as females.’” 

Whitaker had said, jabbing a French fry at the binder, after Samira read from the following profile. ‘Free-spirited Artist with a zest for life.’ “Trust me. You want the accountant who likes hiking. This guy? This guy is going to haunt your genetic line with a predisposition for acoustic guitar covers of ‘Wonderwall.’”

Samira had laughed so hard she choked on her mimosa, sending it spraying from her nose down her blouse. Donor 142’s profile had a large ‘X’ drawn through it by Mel, before the blonde turned to you and asked you to pass the salt. 

Now, standing in the entryway of your living room with the condensation from the soda cans dripping onto your knuckles, the memory of brunch felt a million miles away. The air in the apartment felt suddenly thin, sucked out by the gravity of the blue binder resting on Jack’s knees.

He didn’t look up from what he was reading, but even from across the room, you can see his jaw is clenched, and a muscle is fluttering beneath the skin. Embarrassment floods your bloodstream. It’s not that you were ashamed to be looking into your options, but you had only told your girlfriends, and well, Whitaker, that you were considering a donor. You weren’t ready to shout it from the rooftops until you had made a definitive choice. 

You shift on your feet and call out to him. “Jack,”

He does not look up immediately, his finger tracing slowly down one of the pages. When he finally did look up, his gaze was devoid of its usual teasing or soft, comforting warmth that you had come to rely on outside of work. This look is one you are not familiar with, but it makes your toes curl into the carpet, and a flush spreads up your neck. 

“It’s… preliminary research,” you stammered, walking forward on stiff legs to set the sodas and the shrimp chips on the coffee table. You didn't know why you felt guilty—you were a single woman, you were financially stable, and you had a uterus with an expiration date. But seeing Jack, the man you had very unadvisable feelings for.

“Preliminary,” Jack repeated, tasting the word. He shifted on the sofa, causing your dog to grumble and reposition his head on Jack's ankle. Jack didn't move his foot. He looked from the binder to you, his dark eyes scanning your face with the same intensity he used when triaging a trauma. 

“Samira’s handwriting is in the margins. She gave this guy a rating of two out of five because he likes… cats?”

“Samira has strong opinions about toxoplasmosis,” you deflected, trying to grab the binder.

Jack’s hand moved faster, gently intercepting yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, but firm enough to stop you. His skin was warm, his thumb brushing over the pulse point that was currently hammering a frantic rhythm against your skin.

“You’re doing this alone,” he stated. It wasn't a question.

“I’m doing it on my own terms,” you corrected, your chin lifting slightly. “There’s a difference. I want a family, Jack. And I am terrible at dating.”

You groan and flop back, so caught up in your own head, you don’t notice that Jack is still holding your wrist. 

“Whoever X’ed out 142 was right.” He mutters, bringing a hand up to rub his jaw. “Not that the others are any better.”

Now you open your eyes and glare at him, jerking upright, your wrist falling from his grasp. “I am running out of options, Jack!” 

"This guy, Donor 456, looks like he’d faint at the sight of a placenta." He glared at the small picture attached to the paper. 

"He’s an anonymous donor, Jack! He’s not going to be in the delivery room!" You declare hotly, lurching to your feet, unable to stay still under his probing gaze. 

“He’s a liability.” He corrected firmly as you started to pace. But then his face softened. Those hazel eyes that got you every time, turning warm and soft. 

“I know you want a family, Y/N.” Jack’s voice is lower now that he is not dissecting candidates. “But, sweetheart. These aren’t choices; this is the bottom of the barrel.”

"They are the best the bank had!" you yelled back, frustrated tears pricking your eyes. You hated that he was seeing this. You hated that the one man you actually wanted was standing in front of you and sinking your backup plan like the Titanic. What do you want me to do, Jack? Wait for a miracle?”

“So, unless you have a stash of perfect, medically vetted DNA hiding in your pocket, shut up and eat your Pad Thai." You snap, now you are not only embarrassed but hungry. You scowl, pulling open the take-out bag and handing him his dragon breath special, before huddling into your corner of the sofa, with your food legs curled up and trying to disappear into the cushions. 

Jack paused the Pad Thai, warming his palms as he held it. Eyes taking you in as you silently ate your food. 

He wanted to groan. This was not how he meant for this to go. You had already admitted you hadn’t made a firm decision yet. But that angry, green-eyed fire in his chest had roared to life when he saw what was in the binder. Honestly, he hadn't meant to snoop. He had only been clearing off the table like he did every time, but under an issue of History Magazine was an open binder. What he found in there had sent him spiraling. He couldn't stop the feeling. It was a cold, dark slide of jealousy that settled in his gut.

The silence that followed was deafening—the documentary droned on in the background, something about artillery fire.

Jack looked at you. Really looked at you. He saw the fear you tried to hide. He saw the mother you would be—fierce, loving, warm. He saw the life he had convinced himself he didn't deserve anymore.

He thought about the empty side of his bed. The even emptier apartment that he had moved into nearly a decade ago after his separation, and stayed in after his wife passed. It was more a place to sleep, wash, and store his possessions. It wasn’t a home; he hadn’t had one of those in years. 

It was apparent to Jack, and everyone really, that you wanted kids. You had joked more than once with Dana, when she was covering for Bridget, that as an only child, you had missed out on the chaos of siblings. 

So did he. His house had always been loud and full to bursting with chaos.

"I don't have it in my pocket," he said, the words distinct, heavy.

You blinked, confused by the shift in his tone. "What?"

"I can do better," he said.

You stared at him. The sounds of the Battle of the Bulge faded into white noise. "Better than... the Pad Thai?"

"Better than Donor 452," Jack snapped, exasperated, though his ears had turned a violent shade of red. He gestured vaguely to himself—to his tired eyes, his broad shoulders, the hands that saved lives every single night. "Me. My history is clean—no cardiac issues. My grandfather lived to ninety. I’m not... I’m not an influencer."

Your mouth fell open. "Jack."

"I’m volunteering," he said, his voice rough and holding a slight tremor. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, as the tips of his ears turned red. "If you want a baby... use me. I’m the better option."

He paused, risking a glance back at you, his expression vulnerable and terrifyingly hopeful.

"Plus," he muttered, "I’d actually like to be in the delivery room. I’d want to be there for everything.”

You felt your brain misfire, the synapses sparking and dying like a wet fuse.

"You," you squeaked, the word coming out strangled. You cleared your throat, trying to reassemble your thoughts, though you were fairly certain they had fled the room the moment Jack said use me. "You’re tired. You had a double last night. You’re not thinking straight.”

Jack didn't look like a man in the grip of the sleepy stupids. He looked infuriatingly calm. He took a slow, deliberate bite of his extra spicy noodles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched your meltdown. That small, crooked smile curled his lips.

“But—“ you stuttered, brain still not quite processing. “You never mentioned wanting kids?”

Jack’s shoulders tensed. No, he had never mentioned. Why would he? He thought that ship had sailed when his wife kicked him out. Thought it was torpedoed and sunk to the bottom of the deepest part of the ocean when Rachel had gotten behind the wheel drunk and wrapped her car around a tree. 

He opened his food, grabbed his fork, and fixed his eyes on the noodles. “I didn’t think it was an option anymore.”

You pause, hearing the undercurrent of pain and longing in his tone. Jack had told you about his wife, how they were only weeks away from finalizing the divorce when she passed. Guilt and love had left him in limbo for a long time. Only recently did you notice that he had stopped wearing his ring. The first time you noticed was after Pittfest. That night had seemed to change everyone in some fundamental way. 

You didn’t need to ask if he knew what he was in for. If anyone knew a thing or two about spraying bodily fluids, colic, and four am feedings, it was a doctor who worked in the ED.

As you processed, you forked a large bite of noodles into your mouth. Using the time it took to chew to come up with a reply. Once you swallowed, you sat forward, inching toward the edge of the sofa to claim your soda and cracking it open for a sip. 

Your eyes shyly flickered toward him. He was watching you as he ate his spicy noodles. He waited patiently. 

"So..." You swallowed hard, trying to wrap your head around the logistics. "You... you really want to be my donor?"

Jack’s face scrunching up, as if he had just stepped in something disgusting. He shifted his weight, looking suddenly grumpy. "I didn't say 'donor.'"

"Yes, you did! You said you were the better option!"

"I meant the father," Jack grumbled, dragging a hand through his curls. 

"And I certainly didn't mean I want to go into a sterile little room with a plastic cup and a sticky copy of a magazine from 1998 while a nurse scowls at me from the hallway."

Your brain screeched to a halt. The fork in your hand, which you had unconsciously picked back up, slipped.

"Wait," you whispered, the realization hitting you like a freight train. 

"You mean..."

"I mean the traditional way," Jack said, his voice rough, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. "No cups. No doctors. Just... us."

The automatic doors of the staff entrance barely had time to part before you slipped through them, your shoes squeaking against the linoleum as you power-walked toward the locker room. Your heart was doing that thing where it tried to beat its way out of your ribcage and take flight. 

That you were sure was a physical side effect of waking up this morning, and realizing last night had not been a strange dream brought on by overeating, or falling asleep with the TV on and having the program finish and switch to Twilight. Suddenly, your dreams were invaded by sparkly vampires with a stalking problem. This was so much worse.

Jack. The Binder. The Traditional Way.

You b-lined for the women's locker room, shoving your ID badge at the scanner with trembling fingers until it beeped its acceptance. Then burst through the door to the women's locker room like a SWAT team leader conducting a raid. Hands trembling, hair unbrushed, and a smear of toothpaste on your chin. You rounded the corner to your locker bank to find the tribunal already in session.

Dana was leaning against a locker, arms crossed, looking ready to interrogate a suspect. Samira was perched on the bench, bouncing her knee. Mel was pacing. And sitting awkwardly on the far end of the bench, looking like a hostage in a hostage negotiation video, was Dennis Whitaker.

"I’m just saying," Whitaker whined, looking up at the circle of women as you skidded to a halt. "I am a male. There is a perfectly good locker room for my kind down the hall where we talk about sports and repress our emotions. I do not belong here."

He hugged his backpack to his chest, pudding cup held in one hand, like a shield, as he tried to become one with the wood grain. 

“I have a penis. I checked this morning!” Mel wrinkled her nose at this deceleration. And muttered under her breath. 

“Well, yes, they don’t typically fall off.” Then she pulled a thoughtful face. “Unless it's gangrenous.” 

Whitaker blanched at the thought, giving Mel a look of askance before steaming on his voice, taking on a panicked high pitch. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not one of the girls. I am a man. A man who would very much like to go eat his pudding cup in peace."

“Oh, hush, Dennis,” Dana snapped, not even looking at him. “No one is saying you’re a woman.” She rolled her eyes. “If you were a woman, you’d have a better haircut, and you wouldn’t buy 2-in-1 shampoo.” 

You didn't have patience for his masculinity crisis. You slammed your locker shut after tossing your bag in, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"No one thinks you're a woman, Dennis," you sighed, leaning your back against the cool metal, resisting the urge to begin banging your forehead against the surface. 

"But you are my friend. And you were there at the brunch. You saw the binder. You are an accessory to the crime."

Whitaker flushed a splotchy pink. "I was coerced into that brunch. I thought we were getting waffles."

“You did get waffles.” Mel reminded him, giving him a scrunch-eyed look of concern as if she were worried about his memory function. “You had the Honey Waffle Chicken sandwich and fries.”

"Focus!" Samira snapped, clapping her hands together. “All you texted us was SOS. So what happened?”

You moan and slide down the locker, knees bent up toward your chest, and groan. “He found the binder!”

“And?” Dana prompted, rolling a hand through the air. 

“And,” you stress. “He volunteered?!”

Silence descended. Samira perked up her dark eyes, glittering, a slow smile spreading across her face. Mel pursed her lips, pulling her glasses off and using a cleaning cloth from the pocket of her hoodie to clean the lenses. Dana wore an almost proud look, and Whitaker cocked his head to the side, squinting at your pathetically slumped form and frowning. 

“Volunteered?” Whitaker questioned. “Like… to drive you to the clinic?”

“He offered to do it the traditional way,” you whispered, the words heavy as they fell from your lips to the waiting gallery. “He said… ‘No cups. No doctors. Just us.’”

For a solid three seconds, the only sound in the locker room was the hum of the ventilation system and the distant squeak of rubber shoes in the hallway.

Then, chaos.

Samira shrieked, a sound so high-pitched it likely alerted the police canine unit three blocks down. She grabbed Dana’s arm, shaking the older woman like a rag doll. “I knew it! I called it! Didn't I call it? I said the tension was thick enough to spread on toast!”

Dana, usually the picture of stoic nursing efficiency, actually cracked a smile, looking triumphant. “Well, I’ll be damned. Abbott’s got moves.”

“Oh god,” a strangled voice whimpered from the end of the bench.

All eyes turned to Whitaker. The unopened pudding cup dropped to the bench. He was staring at the wall with a thousand-yard stare, his face bloodless. 

“I’m picturing it,” Whitaker moaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if trying to physically push the images out the back of his skull and out of his brain. “Oh god, why am I picturing it! He’s my attending. I cannot have the mental image of Dr. Abbott… deploying his troops… in my head!”

“Grow up Whitaker,” Samira snapped. “It’s biology!”

“It’s not biology, it’s a violation of my brain!” Whitaker squeaked, his voice cracking. “Oh god, I can almost hear him yelling Charge! I need a lobotomy.” He fixed Samira with a desperate look. “Does the neurology department do walk-ins?”

Samira rolled her eyes and inched forward on the bench so she could reach your knee. 

“And how did you react?” She asked as Mel worriedly stepped forward to fan a swooning Dennis with the too-long sleeve of her hoodie. 

“Not much better than that.” She hooked a thumb at the med student. Who was managing to look terrified and nauseous at the same time. "I went catatonic," you admitted. "For a solid five minutes. I just sat there holding a shrimp chip.” 

Dana dropped a motherly hand on the top of your head. Fingers slowly smoothing your hair and working out the tangles. 

“That tracks.” She nods, exchanging an amused look with Samira. “What about after you remembered you were a real girl?”

You flushed, a deep, unflattering color. “Then I went supersonic. I started cleaning. Aggressively. I think I vacuumed the same spot on the rug for ten minutes. Roxie started howling. The neighbor's bloodhound started howling. It was a cacophony of panic."

"And Jack?" Dana asked, grinning.

"He... he looked amused," you groaned, hiding your face again. "He sat there eating his Pad Thai, watching me spiral as if it were just a regular Wednesday night. He just sat there for a solid five minutes until I literally forgot how to blink.”

As you sat there, the linoleum was cold and seeped through the material of your sweatpants. The jitters began to bloom as they always did when the stress was personal. Your knee began to bounce; your finger curled the exposed hem of your shirt in tight, nervous turns so tight it was threatening to cut off the circulation to your finger. Your fleece coat, which had warded off the early December Pittsburgh chill, was now both too soft and too warm. You could handle angry patients, rowdy drunks, even the verbal assault of Myrna and the physical one of the Kraken. That was a cake walk, but when it came to your personal problems, you felt like there was a live wire under your skin—leaving you without the ability to sit still. 

You lurched gracelessly to your feet and started pacing in sharp, jerky steps. “He finally agreed that he would sleep on it.” You wince as your finger gets trapped in the twisted hem of your shirt, before yanking it free. Angry red grooves a glaring physical symptom of your panic. 

“But I’m pretty sure he only did that so I didn’t have a complete psychological collapse in my poodle pajamas.”

After another pass, you eyed your war council with wide, desperate eyes. “But he said he’d find me at the end of the shift and give me an answer. I have twelve hours to figure out what to say!”

“The last time I tried to do anything remotely ‘traditional,’ the guy literally stopped halfway through taking my shirt off because he saw the roll of fat above my waistband. He ‘remembered he had an early meeting’ and bolted.”

“That guy was a trash goblin,” Samira hissed venomously as her eyes turned and found Whitaker. As if blaming him for the spectacular failures of the whole male gender.

“Maybe,” you sighed. “But it sticks with you. Dating has been a disaster for me since the very beginning. Remember the guy from the coffee shop? The one you set me up with, Samira?”

Samira winced. “I said I was sorry a hundred times!”

“He called me ‘Mommy’ when he asked if he could kiss me,” you deadpanned. “I have never run so fast in my life. I think I left a cartoon dust cloud behind me.”

You groaned, collapsing onto the bench next to the traumatized resident. “I wish I could say that was the worst date I was ever on. But the Lizard Guy, from two years ago, will always top the list.”

Whitaker whimpered, “I shouldn’t ask. I really, really shouldn’t ask.”

“He had his tongue forked,” you said, staring at the ceiling. “Surgically split down the middle. And he spent the entire dinner hissing slightly and quoting Metallica lyrics like they were Shakespearean sonnets. When he tried to demonstrate how his tongue worked on a breadstick, I climbed out the bathroom window.”

“You did not,” Dana laughed.

“Oh, I very much did. Our waitress witnessed much of the carnage and followed me into the bathroom. And was kind enough to give me a boost and told me to run free. I gave up after that.”

“Okay, so your dating life is a dumpster fire,” Dana said, cutting through the self-pity with her usual surgical precision. She crossed her arms, looking down at you. “But Jack isn’t Lizard Guy. And he certainly isn’t the idiot who ran away. You’re scared because the stakes are real. And you have actual feelings for him.”

You know it was not dignified for a woman pushing forward to whimper like a toddler, but your dignity had decamped for parts unknown sometime in the middle of the night, when you were trying to decide if WITSEC offered private services. Becoming Lynda May Joy of Tallahassee, Florida, had sounded very good at 4 am. 

“I am not—” you started to protest, but the look on Dana’s face stopped you cold. You deflated. “That’s why this is a terrible idea,” you whisper-yelled, gesturing wildly. “If I use a donor from a binder and it doesn't work, I’m just out some money and a little dignity. If I do this with Jack—and he realizes he made a mistake? I lose something I can’t replace!”

“He’s seen you covered in a sorority girl’s vomit and didn't blink,” Mel pointed out helpfully. “That’s true love.”

You looked at Dana, desperation in your eyes. “Please. You have to help me. You’re good at terrifying people.”

Dana narrowed her eyes. “Where is this going?”

“Talk to him,” you pleaded. “Convince him to use the cup. Tell him it’s for the best! Tell him… tell him the traditional way causes… I don't know, spectral haunting! You can make anything sound scary!”

Dana snorted, pushing off the locker and grabbing your shoulders. The scent of cigarette smoke and vanilla perfume was oddly comforting. “Absolutely not. I am not telling Jack to go jerk off in a cup because you’re too chicken to admit you want to jump his bones. I have enough problems keeping Whitaker from accidentally discharging patients to the morgue.”

“That was one time!” Whitaker protested weakly as he swatted Mel’s hands away from his neck, where she was trying to take his pulse. “And the paperwork was confusing!”

“Plus, this is better than any reality TV.” Samira grinned, her eyes taking on an almost dreamy quality. Your friend has always been a sucker for romance, even if it was only in her own mind. 

"Whitaker?" you turned to the student doctor, desperate.

"Don't look at me!" Whitaker yelped, jumping off the bench and stumbling away, his backpack held up like a lion tamer with a chair; all he needed to complete the look was a whip. "I'm just a student! I have no power here! Besides the fact that he will eat me alive! Just the thought of him having human…needs,” he winces in disgust. “Or feelings gives me the cold shivers. Talking to him about his dick and where he puts it? That is signing my death warrant!” He cried, thrusting his backpack out with dramatic flair. “Dana will be discharging me to the morgue!”

Dana snorted, her amused eyes flickering from Whitaker to you. A smirk curled her lips. “He’s right, kid.” 

In Dana’s defense, she did try to smother her amusement, but a snicker slipped out as she promised you. “You’ll be fine. Just take the bull by the balls—so to speak.”

"So," Samira said, checking her watch. "Shift starts in ten. You have roughly twelve hours before he gives you his answer. What’s the plan?"

You fist your hair in your hands. "Avoid him. Hide in chairs. Pray for a miracle. Or a brawl.”

"No, you go out there for your shift," Mel said gently. Finally abandoning Dennis when she was sure he wasn’t in mortal danger, she shuffled over to pat your shoulder. "You breathe. And you see how he looks at you tonight. Really look at him. If you see disgust, you run. But if you see what we see?" Mel smiled softly. "Then maybe you buy some new lingerie."

"Please stop talking," Whitaker whispered, head between his knees. "I’m begging you. I’ll give you my pudding cup. Just stop."

The heavy steel door to the roof groaned in protest as Jack shoved it open, the sound lost to the biting December wind whipping across the Pittsburgh skyline. He didn’t need a pager or a PA announcement to find Robby. When the Chief of Emergency Medicine went MIA ten minutes before shift change, there was only one place he could hide from the patients, panicked baby doctors who couldn’t perform a central line without handholding, and specifically, Gloria, the administrative nightmare. 

Jack found him near the HVAC units, the collar of his coat turned up against the chill, nursing a large coffee and what looked suspiciously like half a meatball sandwich.

“If you are here to tell me Gloria is looking for me,” Robby called out, his mouth full, without turning around, his voice carrying over the wind's whistle and the vent fans' whirr. “I am a gargoyle. I am part of the architecture. I cannot be moved.”

"Gloria is currently terrorizing the triage nurses about printer paper usage," Jack said, his voice flat. He walked over to join the older man, leaning his elbows on the freezing concrete parapet. "You're safe for another five minutes. Until she catches your scent."

He chewed thoughtfully, then glanced sideways at Jack. The older man’s eyes, usually tired and cynical, narrowed instantly.

Robby had a radar for misery. It was a job requirement. But he also had a radar for Jack’s specific brand of stoic panic.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Robby observed casually, licking sauce off his thumb. “Please don’t do it on my shoes. I’ve already cleaned them twice today.”

“Flu season is a bitch that keeps on regurgitating,” Jack mumbled in agreement, moving up to the railing and resting his arms on the cold steel. On the wrong side of the barrier, Robby arched a dark brow. “I did something last night.”

“Yeah, was it a stupid something? Did you kill someone? Because if you did, we have an incinerator, but the paperwork is a nightmare.”Robby didn’t even blink, just took a hearty bite of his sandwich. 

Jack, having no concern for Robby’s continued ability to breathe, blurted out. “I told Y/N I wanted to get her pregnant,” 

Robby choked. It was a violent, hacking sound. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup as Robby bent at the waist, coughing spectacularly. He pounded his own chest, wheezing, his face turning a shade of purple that would usually warrant a triage tag. A harsh cough dislodged the food from his windpipe and sent the rest of his snack flying off the edge of the roof and plummeting seven stories down onto the top story of the VIP park garage. Robby peered over the edge to make sure no unsuspecting bystander and been attacked by his escaped dinner, as he coughed into his fist.

There, seven stories below, was not an injured human but a familiar sparkling silver Audi that belonged to Gloria, splattered in marinara sauce. He silently fist-pumped in passive-aggressive victory. Before he stumbled back, ducking over the rail, before another powerful hack sent him plummeting to his death. 

“You—” Robby wheezed, straightening up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes watering. “You said… what?”

“She has a binder, Robby,” Jack said, his voice rising in defense, his hands coming out of his pockets to gesture wildly. “A binder. Full of… of specimens! Men with hobbies like ‘cliff diving’ and ‘competitive dog grooming.’ 

Robby stared at him, lost coffee and food forgotten. “So, naturally, your response to her exploring fertility options was to offer your services?”

Jack felt his ears burn red. He shifted, eyes stubbornly out on the horizon. “I swear I saw one of them on America’s Most Wanted. The guy definitely looked like a serial killer who targets librarians."

"I told her I was the better option," Jack said, stopping his pacing to glare at a pigeon as it cooed on the ledge and preened its feathers. "I told her I had good genes. No cardiac history. Grandfather lived to ninety."

"Okay," Robby drew the word out, nodding slowly. "A bit clinical, but practical. You offered to donate. That’s... noble. Weird, but noble."

Jack closed his eyes. "Then she started talking about plastic cups and sterile rooms."

"Standard procedure, Jack." Robby reminded him, side-eyeing him with a growing smirk. Just by the way Jack was fidgeting, Jack never fidgeted, Robby knew what was coming next had to be good. Or humiliating but

"And I told her..." Jack swallowed hard, the memory of your shocked face flashing behind his eyelids. "I told her no cups. No doctors. Just us. The traditional way."

The silence on the roof was absolute, save for the whistling wind.

Then, Robby started to laugh. It wasn't a chuckle. It was a full-bodied, wheezing belly laugh that doubled him over. He slapped his hand against the railing, shaking his head as he gasped for air.

"Oh, you poor, dumb bastard," Robby wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. He straightened up, looking at Jack with a mixture of pity and absolute delight. "Smooth, Brother." Robby shook his head with a grin. "Truly, Casanova has nothing on you. 'Hey, I know we usually just argue about WWII logistics, but how about we skip dinner and go straight to procreation?'"

"I panicked!" Jack defended himself, though the heat rising in his neck had nothing to do with the wind burn.

“I would hope so!” Robby chortled, his earlier bad mood forgotten. Christ, Jack was the last person Robby could see this happening to. Langdon, if he wasn’t married, absolute-fucking-loutley, the kid had no filter. But Jack? No. Mr. calm, cool, and collected under pressure would not have even made the list. That’s what made this so God damned funny. 

“Fuck, man!” Robby shook his head, eyes crinkling in amusement. 

“I know!” Jack snapped, hazel eyes narrowed at his friend. "She was looking at those profiles, and it terrified me, Robby. She deserves better than some stranger’s DNA mixing with hers. Some guy who doesn’t know that she hums when she’s concentrating, or that she’s terrified of birds, or that she makes the best coffee in the tristate area? I couldn’t handle that. She deserves... better.”

Robby’s laughter subsided, though the mirth remained in his eyes. He gave the shorter man a clap on the shoulder. The humor softened into something more knowing, more grounded.

“So,” Robby said, his voice dropping the theatrics. “You finally admitted it.”

Jack looked out over the city lights, the cold air biting at his exposed skin. “Admitted what?”

“That you’re in love with her, you idiot,” Robby said affectionately. “I’ve been watching you moon over her for over six months. Honestly, man, it was getting kinda sad. But I thought you’d ask her to dinner or take her to a museum. Not the nearest flat surface.”

Jack let out a long, ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping. There was no point in denying it. Not to Robby. Not anymore.

“She deserves everything, Rob,” Jack said quietly, the vulnerability in his voice raw. “She loves kids. And she wants a family of her own so badly that she is looking at anonymous strangers instead of asking her friends.”

Robby jerked as if he’d been slapped. “That’s not just something you ask of a friend out of the blue! I mean, you do—“ he teased, ignoring the low rumbling growl directed his way. 

“If Y/N had asked me, I’d still be in the Cardiac ICU. From the heart attack.”

“You’d be in the morgue,” Jack muttered, pulling his coat tighter around him and stuffing his hands back in his pockets for warmth. “Because you’d be dead.”

“My point,” Robby said with exasperation, ignoring the threat to his life. “It’s not exactly a conversation starter.”

Jack grunted, his body bowing over the rail, his head falling to his forearms. “Yeah, I get it. But I… I convinced myself I was done with that. After Rachel… after everything… I thought that part of my life was over.”

He looked down at his hands—hands that had saved, held bodies together, had sutured, and set broken bones, hands that had been empty of something good for too long.

“But then I’m sitting on her couch, eating takeout, and her dog is asleep on my foot, and she’s arguing with me about World War II logistics…” Jack swallowed hard, the lump in his throat painful. “And I realized I don’t want just the ‘us’ part. I want to be there to hold her hair and rub her back through morning sickness, I want to go to all the appointments, and I want to argue over names. The 3 AM feedings, the sleepless nights, the messy house. I want the whole thing if she’ll let me.”

"For the record?" Robby grinned, the devilish sparkle back in his eyes. "If this works out, I’m the godfather. And if you mess it up, I’m giving Myrna the keys to your apartment."

Jack huffed a dry laugh, the tightness in his chest loosening just a fraction. "Deal."

Having a best friend is totally normal. Having a best friend that's older than you--also normal. Having an opposite gender best friend that's technically old enough to be your father--perhaps a little out of the ordinary.

But that didn't stop you from befriending Jack Abbot the second you met him on your first day as an intern at PTMC. Technically, you befriended nearly every single person you met--something about that bubbly personality of yours made it impossible to resist.

Jack would know better than most. After all, he tried to resist your charms. He lasted about an hour and a half before you'd managed to pull him into your orbit on a permanent basis.

Fast forward four years and he was now your closest confidant, your staunchest supporter, and your absolute all-time favorite human being. If someone asked him what he thought of you, he'd spend 20 minutes talking about how brilliant, competent, kind, beautiful--every positive adjective under the sun--you were.

You'd been asked countless times why you'd selected a man almost 20 years your senior as your best friend and your response never changed, "He sees my flaws and doesn't run". To be fair, Jack would never acknowledge you had any flaws to begin with, but the deeper meaning remained true--he loved the darkest parts of you no matter what. That's what friends do.

As far as you were concerned, your friendship with Jack was just like any other--the only difference was his age. Neither of you gave a damn, so it was never really a topic of conversation or concern.

Other people, however, loved to comment on it. Especially when you went out together. The initial assumption was always that he was your dad, but once that was dispelled the automatic next conclusion was that he was a creepy old sugar daddy. While he did often pay when you went out, there was certainly no arrangement--caring for people was simply Jack's love language.

He'd buy you drinks without a second thought, pay for meals regardless of how expensive, and buy you gifts when he saw something that made him think of you--it was just his way.

There was obviously nothing going on romantically between the two of you, as evidenced by the number of suitors you managed to date in all the free time you definitely didn't have.

You were more likely to swipe right than left these days, as you were convinced there had to be someone for you out there. You'd told Jack you had to take a chance on some of these guys or you'd end up dying alone. He'd been hilariously offended at the implication--as if he would ever allow you to die alone. You were best friends, after all.

It wasn't uncommon for you to waltz into the Pitt still wearing whatever outfit you'd chosen for a date, but it was extremely uncommon for you to have anything positive to say about the date itself. Everyone wanted to hear the updates as if they were living vicariously through you. Even some of the day shift staff would hang around to get the latest scoop.

"He spent an hour talking about his sneaker collection. An entire hour," you whined to Trinity as you tossed your bag into your locker.

"And you wonder why I like women..."

You rolled your eyes. "Because you were born that way?"

She laughed as she tugged her backpack over her shoulders. "That and men are so weird."

"All men?" Jack joked as he appeared beside you.

"All the ones I've gone on dates with in the past month," you confirmed with a wry chuckle.

"Honey, you've got the worst taste in men I've ever seen." He shot you a playful wink. "You can do way better than those apps."

"You try meeting someone these days outside of an app," you grumbled. "It's literally the only option."

Jack laughed and leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know I'm single too right? I've gotta suffer those apps just like you do."

"Jack Abbot you're about as likely to be on a dating app as Robby is to get married."

Jack laughed even harder, shaking his head ruefully. "You've got me there. I didn't even really know how it worked until you showed me."

"Well you are 140 years old," Trinity mumbled under her breath.

"But I'm not deaf," he sassed with a wink.

"If you're gonna flirt at least do it in front of Garcia. Maybe you'll make her jealous."

They both glared at you, but the expressions held no real malice.

You grinned ear to ear and grabbed your scrubs. "I'm gonna go change, then we can revel in the brilliant chaos of the nightshift, my beloved comrade in arms."

Jack matched your grin and Trinity just shook her head. "You guys are so weird."

"That's why we're on the nightshift, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. The rest of us want some semblance of a normal life."

"Why do that when you could experience the wilds of the night?" Jack joked, stretching his arms out to gesture around him. "This is where the fun's at." He backed up towards the nurse's station, grin never faltering.

Trinity just shook her head again with a chuckle. "Weirdos."

When you came back out dressed in your scrubs, you found Jack leaning against the nurse's station chatting with Lena.

"So how bad was this one, sweetheart?" Lena asked sweetly as you approached.

"I think I said a grand total of six words the entire date. The rest was him talking about the merits of Nike versus Adidas sneakers."

Jack wrinkled his nose and Lena chuckled with a shake of her head. "How do you manage to find so many strange men?"

"Honestly, I think it's a gift," you grumbled with a shrug.

"Or a curse," Jack muttered under his breath.

You smacked his chest affectionately. "Hey!"

"Ow. Rude."

Lena rolled her eyes at your antics. "Okay, both of you get to work before Shen comes over here and regales us with his latest story."

"Aren't you in charge?" you joked, elbowing Jack in the side.

"Yeah--you can't tell me what to do."

Lena raised a brow, a small smirk on her lips.

Jack stood up straight and saluted her. "Yes, ma'am."

You shot Lena a wink and she shook her head at you, but her smile widened. God you loved the nightshift.

A few hours later, you and Ellis were chatting instead of catching up on your charting.

"Maybe we should go out on our next night off," Ellis suggested.

"To a bar?"

"Yes, a bar."

You groaned. "I hate picking up men in bars."

She shrugged. "Pick up a woman instead."

"I'm starting to think you and Trinity are trying to convert me."

Her lips spread into a grin. "I'm just saying, if you ever wanna try something new..."

You laughed loudly enough to draw Jack's attention from the other side of the room. He smiled when his gaze landed on you, affectionate evident to anyone who cared to look.

"I promise you'll be the first to know." You shot her a wink as you stood up. "And maybe we should go out. We can drag Jack with us. I'm sure he needs to get laid too."

"Ew. I so do not need to think about our boss getting laid."

"Why not? He's a human man, Parker. He's got needs." Your teasing voice didn't stop the look of disgust from crossing Ellis's face.

"And I repeat: ew."

"What're we 'ew-ing'?" Jack asked from behind you.

"Parker suggested we go out to a bar--have a little fun, pick up some guys or gals." You shrugged. "I simply said you should come too because you need to get laid."

A look of pure shock crossed Jack's face for a split second before he burst out laughing. "Jesus, sweetheart."

"What? I'm just saying. It's been ages."

"I don't think Ellis wanted to know that."

"I truly did not."

"There's nothing to be ashamed of! We all have needs," you insisted.

"I'm not ashamed."

"You're just so...old fashioned about it. We can talk about sex without it being awkward."

Jack groaned loudly and ran his hand through his hair. "Just because you're comfortable talking about your escapades doesn't mean we are."

"Escapades?" You gave a mock gasp. "You're making it sound like I'm out whoring around."

"I so did not say that!"

You grinned and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "I'm kidding. You've heard all my failed date stories. I haven't even seen a man's penis outside of a medical context or an unsolicited dick pick in over a year."

Ellis's jaw dropped. "A year?!"

You shot her a glare. "Yes, Parker. A year. I'm a celibate monk. It's my new thing."

"Girl. You need to get properly dicked down."

"Jesus," Jack muttered, a light dusting of pink gracing his cheeks.

"You know," you leaned forward conspiratorially. "I've never even come during sex. Not once."

"Okaaaaaay," Jack muttered. "And that's my cue."

"You're no fun!" you called after him.

Laughter echoed from behind him as he walked away, a strange feeling settling in his chest. You'd talked about your dates, your exes, even sex with Jack a hundred times, but lately he's begun to feel differently about it.

He couldn't identify exactly when the shift started to happen, but the last month or two had been different for him. Two months ago, after a night out with you, he'd come home and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. Longer than he'd done in years.

He'd made a realization that night. One he hadn't been sure he'd ever reach. It had been weeks since he'd thought about his wife, months since he'd missed her so much it hurt. He would always love her, but it no longer hurt to think about her. He didn't feel lost. He didn't feel broken. He didn't fall apart on her birthday or their anniversary. Somehow, some way, his heart had healed.

He'd looked down at the wedding band on his finger--the one he'd never taken off. For the first time since she passed away, he slid the ring from his finger. He stared at his left hand in silence, processing what it meant. He'd placed the ring in a box in his safe and locked it. It felt like he was closing one chapter of his life and finally allowing himself to step into a new one.

You'd noticed the very next day.

"Jackie, where's your ring?"

He glanced down at his hand. "I took it off."

"Yes...I can see that. But why?"

"I think it's time for me to move forward with my life."

You'd wrapped him in a tight hug and pulled him close, somehow knowing he needed that hug--needed to feel the closeness of another human being. Neither of you had really discussed it since, but he finally felt like he was ready to date--to meet someone new.

Sometimes, when he laid awake unable to sleep, he'd let his mind wander. Let it explore possibilities he'd never acknowledge outside the four walls of his bedroom.

He'd imagine building a life with someone new. He'd picture meeting someone, letting himself fall in love all over again. What he would never admit, never acknowledge, was in those moments, in the darkness of his room, he always pictured you.

You were the woman he imagined building a life with. The one he wanted to fall asleep wrapped around, the one he sometimes dreamed of marrying. On his worst days, he'd even let himself picture having a family--kids--with you.

He would never tell you. Never even admit it to himself in his waking hours. You were his best friend--he couldn't break your trust by falling in love with you.

But it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Like today. When you made jokes about your love life and Jack couldn't help but think to himself that he would treat you right. Or when you joked about not getting laid and all he could think about was worshipping your body--pulling orgasm after orgasm from you until you were a satiated mess beneath him.

He hated himself for thinking those things. Each time the thought crossed his mind, he felt like he was betraying you. You were friends and that's why you shared things with him. He had no right to imagine anything with you, but he couldn't bring himself to create distance between you either. You were his best friend as much as he was yours.

He let out a groan as he sunk into a chair beside Lena.

"Leg bothering you?" she asked gently.

"Just tired."

The look on her face made it clear she didn't believe him, but she made no further comment. If he wanted to open up, he would.

"Maybe I'm just getting old," he muttered.

She chuckled dryly. "You and me both."

And there it was. The other thing he hated himself for. He was old enough to be your father, yet here he was fantasizing about you. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse that it wasn't just sex he dreamed about--but of actually being with you. It was enough to make him wanna put his head through a wall.

Being friends was perfectly acceptable. Perfectly normal. Perfectly reasonable. Wanting you, on the other hand--loving you--was not. He didn't wanna be one of those creepy men that liked younger women for whatever pervy reason their deranged brains came up with. He sure as shit didn't want you to be uncomfortable and he would rather die than lose your friendship.

The first four years had been easy. The thought of crossing a line had never occurred to him. Friendship was all he wanted from you--and it's all you wanted from him. The last two months, however, had been hell. He spent every waking moment wishing you were his, and every sleepless day dreaming of you.

So if you told him you wanted to go to a bar and find some random dude to hook up with, he'd go with you. He'd make sure whoever you went home with wasn't a total creep and he'd support you in whatever way you needed--even if it killed him.

"Jackie, can I borrow you for a second?"

He looked up, meeting your slightly nervous expression. "Sure, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

"I need your opinion on this patient, please."

He suppressed another groan as he stood up and followed after you, listening as you described the patient's symptoms. Back to work he went.

**********

"Okay, how 'bout this one?" You came out of your closet in yet another dress option you were modeling for Ellis and Santos.

"Maybe something a little sluttier?" Ellis suggested. "We are trying to attract a man here."

"What's wrong with this one?" you whined, looking down at the black dress.

"It's boring," Trinity groaned. "Let me look."

She jumped up and dove into your closet, digging through the dress options until she found one she liked. "Put this one on."

You paled slightly at the dress she held up. You'd bought it on a whim, but never wore it. It was short--like whole ass gonna hang out if you bend over short--and extremely low cut. It was a deep burgundy color that looked gorgeous on you, but it made you insanely nervous to wear it in public.

"I can't wear that."

She frowned. "Why'd you buy it then?"

"I thought it looked hot in the store!"

"It looks hot from here too," Parker commented with a grin.

You shot her a glare over your shoulder.

"Just try it on. If you hate it, you don't have to wear it," Trinity insisted.

You groaned as you grabbed it from her. "Fine."

You stepped into the closet and pulled the dress on. It was just as short as you remembered, but you'd forgotten how perfectly it hugged your curves. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, admiring how good your body looked in the dress.

"You coming out or did you get lost in there?" Parker called.

You rolled your eyes before stepping out. Both women fell completely silent as they stared at you. You chewed on your bottom lip nervously as you waited for one of them to speak.

"Fucking christ," Trinity swore under her breath.

"You're good," Parker commented, sticking out her fist for Trinity to bump.

"Damn right I am."

"So...this is the one?" you asked.

"Obviously."

"Clearly."

"It's not too much?"

"I'd argue it's too little," Parker teased.

Trinity smacked her arm. "She's self-conscious."

Parker stood up and crossed the room. "You look gorgeous, okay?" She gave you a hug. "Now let's go find you a man."

"Is Jack meeting us there?" Trinity asked.

You shook your head. "He's picking us up. He's the DD tonight."

"Bless him," she muttered.

You grabbed your phone to see if he'd texted you. Unsurprisingly, you had an alert for a text from him.

Jackie: I'll be there in 10 minutes, sweetheart.

You: See you soon! <3

The three of you were waiting in the lobby when you heard the rumble of Jack's truck as he pulled up in front of the apartment complex. You straightened your dress, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous for Jack to see you. What if he thought the dress was too slutty? Would he judge you? Say something about it?

You couldn't quite put your finger on why the thought of him hating the dress bothered you so much, but you tried to push the concern away.

"You alright?" Parker asked.

"Mhmm."

"Hey." She turned you toward her. "You look beautiful, okay? Take a deep breath."

You breathed with her, relaxing as you did.

"Excellent. Now let's go give Jack a heart attack."

You groaned, but both girls laughed. You shook your head at their antics as you followed them into the parking lot.

Unsurprisingly, Jack was standing outside his truck, waiting on the three of you. He was always such a gentleman--he never let you (or any woman for that matter) open the car door.

He opened the rear passenger door for Santos and Ellis to climb in before turning back in your direction. As soon as he did, his entire body went rigid.

You swallowed thickly as you watched him take in your appearance. His gaze traced down and back up your body, but he didn't make you feel uncomfortable. Instead you felt a surprising heat settle low in your abdomen--a heat you hadn't felt in a long time.

"You look..."

You bit your lip as you waited for him to find the adjective he wanted.

"Stunning," he breathed.

A dark blush crept into your cheeks. "Thanks, Jackie. You look handsome as always."

He rolled his eyes fondly, opened the passenger door, and helped you inside.

You hadn't been lying. He did look good. He always looked good, but you especially liked him dressed down. He was wearing dark jeans, a slightly too-tight black t-shirt, and boots. A simple outfit, but on him it might as well have been couture.

You sometimes joked about the woes of having a hot best friend. You always told him you'd have to beat the ladies back with a stick, even when he was still wearing his wedding ring.

"How much trouble are you three planning on getting into tonight?" Jack asked as he started the truck.

"That depends," Trinity answered.

"On?"

"How quickly we find (Y/N) a suitable lover for the night."

"Oh my god," you muttered under your breath.

Jack laughed loudly. "Jesus, Santos."

"What? We established that was the goal for tonight!"

"Maybe we don't word it quite like that in front of Jack," Ellis chided with a small grin.

"Thank you, Ellis. Decorum." Jack's voice was light and teasing, but you swore you heard a little undercurrent of strain.

"Decorum? Really? Sounds like we need to get you laid too."

"Fucking hell," he muttered with a laugh. "Were you pregaming, kid?"

Santos grinned wickedly. "You bet your ass I was."

"I'm so glad you're not on the nightshift." He shot you a wink and you smiled in return.

That smile stole his heart for the thousandth time. It was his all-time favorite look of yours. He'd kill to see it every day for the rest of his life.

When you arrived, the four of you immediately gathered at the bar, ready to get some liquid courage--or maybe that was just for you. You ordered a drink and dug into your small bag for your credit card to open a tab.

Before you could even get it out, Jack was sliding his card across the bar. "I've got it, sweetheart."

"I was gonna start a tab."

"And?"

"Well, I don't know how much I'm going to drink."

He gave you an odd look then turned back to the bartender. "Put all her drinks on my card for the night."

"Jack--"

"Don't complain about free drinks," Trinity muttered from your other side.

You sighed. "Fine, but I'm only having two drinks."

"Suit yourself," Ellis said with a smile. "I plan on having at least four."

Jack got himself a water and leaned back against the bar so he could look around. You were holding your small bag in front of you, hands fiddling with the strap nervously. "Gimme your bag, sweetheart. I'll hold onto it for you."

"You sure?"

He held out his hand in response and you handed him the bag. Neither Ellis or Santos had brought one, but Santos did slip off her jacket and hand it to Jack.

"Go dance and have fun, ladies. I'll be over here if you need me."

Ellis and Santos made their way to the dance floor without argument. You, however, turned to face him, concern etched on your pretty face. "Is your leg hurting?"

Jack hated how well you knew him sometimes. "It's a little sore, but I'm alright." Just one more thing he wished were different. One more reason he wasn't good enough for you.

You stepped toward him, hand coming to rest on his forearm. "Jackie..."

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he assured you softly, placing a hand on top of yours and squeezing it. "Go have fun."

"I want you to have fun too."

"I'm here with you. What could be more fun than that?"

You huffed a laugh and rolled your eyes. "Cheesy as hell."

He merely grinned and waved you off. "Go on. Santos looks like she's two seconds from stomping over here to get you."

You looked over your shoulder and both women waved at you enthusiastically. "Alright...if you're sure?"

"Very. Go."

You gave him one last look, expression soft but unreadable. Then you were walking away and it took all of his self-control to not stare at the sway of your hips as you crossed the room.

The same could not be said for most of the other men in the bar. Several were eyeing you like you were prey--and they were apex predators. Jack didn't like the way their eyes on you made him feel, but he pushed the feeling down deep.

He told himself you were a big girl and you could take care of yourself, even if all he wanted to do was take care of you himself. His protective instincts had always flared up when you were around, but lately they'd risen to a new level of intensity.

It drove him crazy watching one guy after another approach you, but you turned each one away. Some of them took it well, others looked more than a little annoyed. Ellis and Santos never strayed too far from you, and Jack felt confident they would defend you if you needed it.

About 30 minutes later, you made your way back toward the bar, assumedly to get another drink, but to Jack's surprise, you eased your way to him.

"Having fun, sweetheart?"

You shrugged. "It's not as fun without you."

He chuckled in an attempt to cover the tightening in his chest. "I'm not a very good dancer on the best of days anyway."

"Maybe not, but your presence is always a welcome one."

"You've had plenty of potential dance partners come up to you," he teased softly.

"Yeah, but none of them are--" You bit your lip, stopping yourself mid-sentence. You'd been about to say 'none of them are you' when your brain caught up with your damn mouth. You'd had one drink--what the hell had gotten into you?

Jack raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but you waved him off. "I'm gonna get another drink."

"Use my card!" he called as you stalked off toward the bartender.

Jack wondered what you'd been about to say when you cut yourself off. He knew what he wanted you to say, but odds were not in his favor. You were probably just not interested in any of the men who'd approached you thus far, and that was just fine. Hell, a big part of him hoped none of them interested you. Ever.

As the night went on, you had a couple more drinks, but you were still mostly sober. Certainly too tipsy to drive, but not too intoxicated to make decisions.

At some point, you'd lost track of Ellis, but you weren't worried. If anyone could take care of themselves, it was her. Trinity was still close by, but you could tell she was a little off.

"Trin? You okay?"

"I texted Garcia."

You groaned. "We talked about this--"

"I know! I know. I just--I miss her."

Before you could say anything, her phone lit up. You knew by her facial expression exactly who it was.

"She's asking me to come over."

"Trinity..."

"I won't go if you don't want me to leave."

Honestly, you didn't want her to go, but that was more for her own heart than any needs of yours. But you couldn't bring yourself to tell her to stay. "Do you wanna go?"

She shifted on her feet--an answer in and of itself.

"Alright, fine. Go."

"Are you sure?"

"Go before I change my mind." You gave her a tight hug. "Be safe and text me when you get there."

"I will."

You watched her make her way through the growing crowd. You still had no idea where Parker was and you could no longer see Jack sitting at the bar. You decided to start in the direction you'd last seen him when someone bumped into you from the side.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!"

You looked up at the man who'd run into you, jaw slackening slightly as you took him in. He was tall, incredibly handsome, and quite fit. You were sure your body should be responding to his attractiveness, but you felt nothing. No heat. No desire. Nada.

"That's alright," you said with a smile. "It's crowded."

He smiled back at you. "Yeah, a bit." He stuck out his hand for you to shake. "I'm Tyler."

You took it and offered your name.

"Could I buy you a drink?"

You debated it for a moment before deciding it couldn't hurt. "Sure."

His smile widened and he gestured for you to walk with him to the bar. He ordered himself a drink and then one for you. While the bartender made them, he turned his body toward you and began asking questions.

"You here with anyone?"

"Yeah, a couple of my friends." You glanced around. "They're somewhere in here."

He nodded. "Celebrating anything or just out for fun?"

"Just fun."

"It's my friend's birthday, but he's making out in a booth with some chick he met, so we've all kind of dispersed."

You chuckled, feeling slightly annoyed with yourself. The whole point of tonight was to get laid, and a perfectly attractive man was buying you a drink and chatting you up, but you felt absolutely nothing. Not even the hint of attraction.

"I saw you dancing earlier," he commented. "You've got moves."

You let out a genuine laugh. "Now you're just full of shit."

He laughed too. "I'm serious!"

You rolled your eyes with a smile. Your lips parted to make another joke, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of gray curls across the room. You felt your chest tighten as your head swung in that direction, instinctively drawn to him.

Your eyes landed on Jack as he was leaving the bathroom, weaving his way through the crowd back to his spot at the bar. You noted the slight limp in his step and your whole body ached for him. You hated seeing him in pain--you'd do anything to ease it. Anything.

Unbeknownst to you, your drink had arrived behind you, and Tyler was still chattering away. But from across the room, Jack's hazel eyes met yours and you felt your body awaken for the second time tonight. You inhaled sharply as his keen gaze swept over your face before he offered you a tight smile. You returned the expression, silently confirming you were okay.

"Your drink, madam."

You turned your attention back to Tyler and smiled as you took the drink from his hand. "Thank you."

You lifted the glass toward your lips, only to stop when you heard a sharp voice yell, "Don't drink that!"

A girl you didn't know appeared beside you and snatched the drink right out of your hand. You gasped in surprise. "Sorry?"

"He put something in your drink," she said with absolute certainty. "I saw him."

You looked up at Tyler and knew without a doubt the girl was correct. He looked angry, but beneath it was a shred of guilt you could just barely make out.

You took the drink back from the girl's hand and splashed it directly into Tyler's face. "Sick fuck," you snapped.

Tyler lunged at you, but a guy behind him pulled him back. The commotion got the bouncer's attention as well as Jack's, both of which moved toward your location with surprising haste.

The bouncer grabbed ahold of Tyler and pulled him away just as Jack reached your side. "Sweetheart--you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine." You looked toward the girl who'd saved you. "Thanks for that. Seriously."

She gave you a small smile. "Happy to help." She eyed Jack warily. "You know him?"

For the first time in a while, a genuine smile spread across your lips. "Yeah. I'm safe with him."

She nodded and gave you a squeeze on the arm. "Stay safe."

"Thanks. You too." You watched as she walked off to rejoin her friends.

"What the hell happened?" Jack asked, bringing your attention back to him.

"Can you take me home?"

He looked slightly startled. "Of course." He flagged down the bartender. "Let me close out and we can go. Grab the girls, okay?"

"Trin left to go meet up with Garcia. I don't know where Parker is."

"She's over there." He gestured off to the left past the dance floor. "She was making out with some girl the last I saw."

"Okay, let me see if she's still over there."

Jack nodded and watched you weave through the crowd. His adrenaline had spiked when he heard the girl yell and again when he saw you splash your drink in some guy's face. He knew you were okay--but he still couldn't quite get his heart rate to return to normal.

You saw Ellis sitting in a booth, chatting with a very pretty woman. "Hey, Parker, Jackie and I are gonna head out. Do you wanna come?"

She turned to you and offered a warm smile. "I'm alright, (Y/N/N)."

You nodded. "Text me when you get home. Trin went to Garcia's."

She groaned and shook her head. "Of course she did." She stood up and gave you a tight hug. "Love you, be safe."

"I'll be with Jack." As you said it, you realized it was true--Jack was safe. More than that, Jack was your safe space, the place you went when the world felt unbearable. He'd protect you with his life--you wouldn't even have to ask. No one had ever made you feel as protected as Jack did.

A surge of heat blossomed in your stomach and you finally acknowledged the feeling for what it was--desire. You wanted Jack Abbot. Badly.

Parker was watching your face as realization sunk into you. "If you're done being an idiot, I suggest you go and get your man."

Your jaw dropped. "What?"

"Oh please. The two of you have been running circles around each other for months. It's high time one of you makes a damn move."

"How the hell did you know I wanted him before I even knew?!" you asked incredulously.

She shrugged. "It was obvious to everyone but the two of you. Shen and I talk about it all the time. We both noticed when you two stopped being best friends and became something more--even if neither of you knew it."

You were shocked straight down to your core. Absolutely floored. How did you have no idea you wanted him when everyone else could see it? "I-I have to go."

She laughed and gave you another hug. "Yeah I know. Get moving."

You squeezed her tightly before turning and practically bolting back in Jack's direction. How could you have been so stupid? So blind? Everything you'd ever wanted had been right in front of you.

You were so in your head you didn't even notice he was physically in front of you until you ran directly into his strong chest.

"Woah, easy there sweetheart." His hands gripped your arms to steady you.

"Can we go? Please?"

"Yeah, c'mon." He edged his body ahead of you to make a pathway to the door.

You followed along behind him, thinking about how incredible this man was. All the small things he'd done for you over the years, all the ways he made you feel understood, all the times he'd been there when you needed him.

You couldn't identify the exact moment things had changed for you, but tonight had been eye-opening. You didn't even know when you'd fallen in love with him--all you knew was that you had.

"Sweetheart, are you sure you're alright?" Jack asked softly as he held the passenger door open for you.

You hadn't even realized you'd made it outside--too lost in your thoughts to register anything in the real world. "I'm good, Jackie. Really good."

He eyed you for a moment before nodding his acceptance. "C'mon pretty lady, get your behind in the truck."

You laughed, taking his outstretched hand as he helped you in. You inhaled deeply when he shut the door, taking in the scent that permeated the truck--his scent.

Jack climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. "Seatbelt," he prodded gently.

"Oh!" You fastened it quickly, and he stared at you for a long moment before pulling out of the parking spot.

"Did you have too much to drink?"

"I had four drinks."

"You sure that's all?"

You shot him an amused glare. "Yes, Jack. I'm sure."

He chuckled, throwing his hands in the air in mock surrender. "You're acting strangely, that's all."

"Well I did almost get drugged."

"What?!"

"Yeah, the dude I tossed my drink on--he put something in it."

"Jesus Christ." He ran a hand over his face. "That's why that girl told you not to drink it."

"Yeah."

"Fuck." Jack's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I shoulda been there."

"It's okay. Nothing actually happened."

"But it could've. If you'd gotten hurt--if that son of a bitch had done something to you..." he trailed off. "I-I don't know what I would've done."

Jack did know what he would have done. He knew exactly what he would have done. He would've broken his oath to do no harm, but he could guarantee that guy would've never hurt another girl again.

You reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. "I'm alright, Jackie. Nothing happened."

He glanced over at you and his heart ached with the need to hold you. He needed to feel it for himself--to know for sure you were okay. You were unharmed. You were safe.

"I'd do anything to protect you, you know," he murmured softly.

"I know."

The rest of the short ride to your apartment was silent. When he pulled into the parking lot, you decided to take the leap.

"Will you come up?"

Jack turned to you in surprise. "It's late--you sure you don't wanna go to bed?"

You shook your head. "Please?"

"'Course, sweetheart." He pulled into a parking spot and hopped out.

You knew better than to even try to get out before he opened your door. You'd made that mistake a grand total of one time early on in your friendship and you'd gotten an earful for it.

When the door opened, you slid out and adjusted your dress. "Thanks, Jackie."

He merely grunted quietly and shut the door. He walked beside you in silence, mind running a mile a minute as he tried to figure out what was happening in that pretty head of yours. He knew something was up, he just couldn't figure out what.

The moment the two of you crossed the threshold of your apartment, you turned to face him, eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. "I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"Do-do you wanna sit down?"

He shook his head. "Just tell me, sweetheart."

For a long moment, you said nothing. A moment so long, he began to feel real fear. Did you somehow figure out how he felt about you? Were you mad at him? Was the friendship over? Was he about to lose the only thing in his life that truly mattered to him?

You had no idea he was panicking as you tried to find the right words to say. Everything that came into your mind sounded wrong. At some point, you realized it didn't matter what you said--you needed to just say something.

"I'm in love with you," you blurted, shocking Jack to his very core.

"You-you, uh-you're what?"

Panic settled deep in your chest and you wondered if you'd just made a terrible mistake. Had Ellis been wrong? Did Jack not feel the same way you did? Did you just blow up four years of friendship?

"I, um-I--"

Jack's body moved of its own volition, taking a step toward you. His brain caught up and the most intense surge of desire he'd ever felt swept through him. "Say it again."

Your lips parted in surprise, but you complied. "I'm in love with you."

Jack took another step, leaving less than six inches between you. He reached out and placed a steady hand on your hip, tugging you closer. "Say it again, baby," he whispered, sounding absolutely wrecked.

Your heart skipped a beat as your panic subsided. You reached up and cupped his face as you leaned into his toned body. "I'm crazy, madly, deeply in love with you."

There was no fanfare. No cheering. No fireworks. Just the purest of emotions easing something inside both of you--and tying you together forever.

He was the first to move, yanking you so close your body was flush against his. His lips dropped to yours in a hungry kiss, filled with years of affection turned to love. He kissed you like his very life depended on it--like he would cease to exist without the feeling of your lips on his.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as you leaned into the kiss, allowing him to deepen it with the softest groan. His hands were hot against your hip and back as he held you--it was a feeling you'd never stop craving.

Eventually, he was forced to break the kiss to breathe, but he didn't move away. "It's wrong. It's quite possibly insane. But I don't give a damn anymore. I'm fucking crazy about you, (Y/N/N). I'm so in love with you it hurts."

You lifted one hand to brush through his curls. "Jackie..."

"I couldn't tell you, baby. I couldn't--" He exhaled heavily. "It felt so wrong to love you like this, to need you the way I do."

"There's nothing wrong with this," you whispered.

"People will talk."

"Let them."

"You're still a resident."

"I don't give a damn. I've only got four months left."

"I'm old and broken--"

"You're not broken," you insisted. "And just because you're older than me doesn't mean you're old."

He rested his forehead against yours. "Are you sure you want this?"

"I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

"Baby, I need you to be a thousand percent sure. If we do this, I'm in it for the long haul. I don't do casual. I don't do no strings. I'm all in. If you want this, you get all of me."

You lowered your right hand to rest against his chest, feeling his heart thump beneath your palm. "I want everything with you, Jack."

He exhaled a shaky breath before pressing his lips to yours a second time. He loved kissing you. He loved feeling your body against his. He loved the soft sounds you made. He loved everything about you.

His hands slipped lower, cupping your ass slightly. "Jump f'me."

"Jackie--"

"I said jump."

His tone left no room for discussion, so you did as he asked. He caught you with surprising ease and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to your bedroom, ignoring the pain pulsing from his prosthetic. He'd be damned if he couldn't at least carry his girl to bed.

When he lowered you to your bed, you pulled him in with your legs, wedging him between them as you kissed him.

He groaned lowly as his hands traveled over your soft curves. "I fucking love your body."

You whimpered softly as your hands drifted under his shirt. "Wanna see yours."

He obligingly tugged his shirt off, allowing you an unobstructed view of his toned chest.

"Fucking hell, you're hot," you whispered.

He couldn't help but laugh at the awe in your voice. "So are you."

"Shhh. This is about you." You placed your hands on his chest and slowly caressed him, feeling every ridge, muscle, and divot on his torso. "I love your freckles. They're so pretty."

He was quiet as he let you explore, but he couldn't take his eyes off yours. You were observing his body with a reverence he hadn't experienced in a very long time. He was proud of the shape he was in, but when you looked at him like that? He felt like the sexiest man alive.

Your hands brushed against his shoulders before starting down his biceps, a soft sound of need escaping your lips. "I've always liked your arms," you admitted. "You're so strong."

He felt his cheeks darken as a wave of embarrassment hit him. "Well I don't know about all that--"

"You carried me. So shush."

He couldn't help the low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "I love you."

You looked up at his face and smiled. "I love you too."

"Any chance I could see you now, pretty girl?"

You shifted slightly, head cocking to the side as you thought about it. "No. I haven't seen enough of you yet."

Your gaze immediately dropped to his pants, eyes widening when they landed on his very hard and very large erection straining against his jeans.

"Ho-ly fuuuuck..."

He laughed softly. "See something you like, sweetheart?"

"I'm about to," you muttered as you quickly undid his jeans and tugged them down. "Off. Take it all off."

He chuckled. "Yes ma'am."

He tugged his pants off first, then his boxer briefs. The moment his cock sprung up against his abdomen, your mouth began to water. It was the only thing you saw--the only thing that mattered to you in the moment.

It wasn't until you looked up to meet his heavy gaze that you realized he was nervous. "Baby? You okay?"

He nodded, but you weren't convinced.

"What's wrong?" He shifted slightly and you realized what it was. "Your leg?"

His cheeks darkened further, the red blush spreading down his neck. "I-I know it's not exactly attractive--"

"I love every part of you, Jack Abbot. Every part."

"I can't do as much as someone with both legs," he choked out. "I can't-I can't fuck you the way I want to."

You stood up then, bringing yourself a little closer to eye level with him. "I'm a doctor, Jack. You think I don't know that you come with some restrictions? Don't you dare think for one second I give a damn. I love you. I want you. I don't need tricks or theatrics. I just need you."

He melted against you, lips pressing up against yours in a desperate kiss of love and appreciation. He hadn't been with more than a couple women since his wife's death, and all of them had been one-night-stands. He didn't really care what they thought of him, not the way he cared about your opinion.

He didn't really know how badly he needed your affirmations until he heard them. His obsession with you only deepened in that moment, and his need for you increased tenfold. "Sweetheart, we gotta get this dress off. I need to see you."

You gripped the bottom hem of your dress and pulled it off over your head in one quick motion. You were incredibly thankful you'd worn a cute lace set--you had been hoping to get laid tonight after all.

Jack's eyes swept over the black lace covering your breasts with a barely concealed hunger. His eyes drifted lower, taking in the black lace covering your core and not much else. "Spin around f'me, baby."

You blushed slightly, but you obeyed, turning away from him.

"Slower."

Your body heeded the order immediately, even before your brain processed it fully. You could feel his heated gaze on you, even if you couldn't see him, and it made your skin prickle--you felt so incredibly alive.

"Can't believe you were hiding all this," he muttered to himself. "It's a shame to hide such perfection under clothes."

You couldn't help the little giggle that escaped at his compliment, a small smile firmly planted on your face as you turned back to face him again.

"Can I take this off?" he asked softly, running a calloused hand over the lace shielding you from his gaze.

You took your bottom lip into your mouth as you nodded, feeling slightly nervous for him to see all of you--completely and utterly bare.

He brushed his thumbs over your nipples through the lace, feeling them harden for him. "Use your words, pretty girl."

"Yes, Jack."

"Good girl," he murmured as he dipped his head down to mouth your nipples through the lace. His hands slipped behind your back to unhook your bra, letting your heavy breasts spill out as he dropped the garment to the floor.

"Christ have mercy." He cupped your breasts in his large hands, groaning at the feeling of their weight in his palms.

A soft gasp met his ears as he spun you around and pulled you firmly against him. His hands settled right back on your breasts as his lips pressed wet kisses into the curve of your neck.

"Jack--"

"What is it, baby?" he murmured against your skin, fingers rolling your nipples between them in an attempt to pull more of those sweet sounds from your lips. "What'dya need?"

You wiggled your ass back against him, feeling his cock press up against you--so close to where you wanted him, yet so far away. "More."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm gonna give you more," he promised, lips never leaving your sensitive skin. "Just gotta be patient f'me."

You whined desperately, reaching behind you to thread your fingers into his hair. "Please Jackie."

"Patience, sweet girl. Let me take my time."

Every brush of his lips against your skin, every squeeze of his hands, and every subtle shift of his hips felt incredible--but it wasn't enough. The ache between your thighs, the pulsing need, was becoming unbearable.

"Jack, need you to touch me," you pleaded.

He chuckled lowly as his teeth grazed your shoulder. "I am touching you."

You whined again and gripped his hand in yours, trying to pull it down to where your soaked core yearned for his touch.

"Didn't I just tell you to be patient, sweetheart?"

"I can't," you whimpered. "Need you, Jackie. Waited so long. Please."

"Hmm," he hummed. "You have waited a long time...and you've been so good...maybe you do deserve a reward."

"I've been so good, Jack--so good. Please."

He chuckled. "Alright sweet thing. I've got you."

He nipped at your pulse point before laving his tongue over it to soothe the bite. His hand trailed lower, sliding down over the soaked lace.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned in your ear. "You're soaked."

You shifted your hips, desperately seeking friction against his hand.

"Uh-uh, don't move. Let me do the work."

His fingers pressed down on the lace, pushing it between your folds as he deftly sought your clit. The second he brushed against it, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, pulling a moan from deep in your throat.

Jack's cock throbbed painfully when he was pressed against you, that sweet little sound you made shooting right through him. "Shit."

His fingers dipped beneath the lace, pushing it to the side so he could feel your perfect pussy. He dragged his fingers through your wetness before slowly circling your clit--the pressure was too soft, too light. You tried to grind down on his hand, but he pulled it away with a soft 'tsk'.

"I promise I'll make you feel good, baby. Just let me." He kissed your neck as he dipped two of his fingers inside of you. "Jesus, you're tight."

You gasped at the intrusion, pulsating around his fingers as he stretched you out. "Jackieeeee. More."

"You want more? Hmm?"

You nodded rapidly.

"Tell me what you want."

"Faster."

He obliged, speeding up the thrusts of his fingers as he pressed firmly against your g-spot. Your legs began to shake, but he held you upright, keeping you pressed against his chest.

Jack placed open-mouth kisses everywhere he could reach, no longer able to keep his own need under control. "You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my fingers?"

You squirmed in his hold, breathless moans and gasps the only sounds you could manage. Your nails dug into his forearm as you held on tightly, using him as support to remain standing.

"Go on," he murmured, thumb rubbing against your clit just the way you liked. "Let go f'me."

Your jaw dropped into an 'O' as the first pulse of your orgasm hit you. Your head fell back against his shoulder as he worked you through it, whispering sweetly into your ear.

"That's it, baby. I've got you."

His fingers only slowed as you started to come down from your high. You clawed at his arm and tried to squirm out of his grip, so he relented, pulling his fingers out of you and directly into his mouth.

You turned your head so you could watch him suck them clean, a little moan of enjoyment breaking from him as he licked them.

"Oh now I need more of that," he murmured. "C'mere."

He turned you around to face him and maneuvered you to sit on the edge of the bed. He gripped your underwear and tugged them off before dropping to his knees between your legs.

"Wait, Jack--no, your leg--"

The look he gave you silenced you instantly. "I'm fine, baby. I'm right where I wanna be."

"But--"

He silenced you by licking a fat stripe from the bottom of your pussy up to your clit. A moan escaped you as you tilted your head back in pleasure.

The position was uncomfortable for him, but it wasn't painful, so he pushed it aside and got to work eating your pussy like it was the one thing on earth he lived for.

"Oh my god, Jack." Your fingers tangled in his curls as your hips surged forward to meet his mouth.

He gave your hip a swat before laying a strong arm low across your lap to keep you in place.

The room filled with the sounds of him feasting on you--slurps, sucks, and muffled moans--mixed with the sounds of pure unadulterated pleasure escaping your open mouth.

Jack wanted to hear those sweet sounds for the rest of his life--he wanted to be the only one who ever heard them again. Those were his sounds, coming from his girl, from pleasure only he could give.

"Jack, please please--don't stop."

He groaned into you as he continued his ministrations. He had no intentions of stopping, certainly not now that he knew what you tasted like.

Your nails scraped against his scalp as your moans became louder and more frantic. He knew you were close, could feel it as certainly as if it were his own.

He wanted to beg you to come for him, to let him feel you, but he didn't dare stop.

"Oh god, oh god, ohh-ohh, Jack!"

His name was the last thing he heard before you tipped over the edge, pussy gushing juices into his waiting mouth, thick thighs wrapping around his head as he continued to lap up every drop you gave him.

"'s too much--" you whined, tugging on his hair as you tried to wriggle away from his mouth. "Jackieeeee."

He moaned into you, not wanting to leave his new favorite place. He only relented when you tugged so hard on his hair he worried you'd pull some out. He lifted his head and gazed up at you, a smug smirk settled firmly on his face.

"You taste fucking amazing, baby."

You released a breathy chuckle and shook your head.

"I would like to spend a few hours trapped between these pretty legs--but that can wait for another day."

Your eyes widened. "A few hours?"

He grinned wolfishly. "Sweetheart, I'd let you smother me with those perfect fucking thighs. I don't need oxygen--I just need you."

"You're insane," you whispered incredulously.

He pulled himself up with a groan of discomfort he tried to suppress. "Maybe a bit."

The pained sound had your expression softening instantly. "Baby--come up here and relax." You patted the bed beside you, urging him to join you.

He knew you were right and he was more than a little embarrassed by how quickly he collapsed onto the bed beside you. He watched in shock as you slid off the bed and placed a soft hand to his leg just above the prosthetic.

"Honey, what're you doing?"

"Let me take this off," you murmured sweetly. "Want you to be comfortable."

He felt the familiar embarrassment creeping up and filling his chest. No, no, no--you shouldn't have to do this--you shouldn't have to see him like this.

He reached down and grabbed your hand, stilling it before you could unfasten the socket. "Let's-let's just leave it on."

You cocked your head to the side, concern evident in your gaze. You knew it was uncomfortable, perhaps even painful, and he most certainly shouldn't be wearing it during sex.

You opened your mouth to say as much, but closed it when you caught the pained emotion in his hazel eyes. You realized there might not be anything you could say to convince him you didn't care--but you could show him.

You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the hand covering yours before lifting it and giving it a firm squeeze. You held his hand in your non-dominant one and used the other to unfasten his prosthetic.

His entire body tensed and his breathing became labored as you slowly removed the prosthetic. You released his hand and took the residual limb into both of yours, leaning down to press a kiss just above the liner.

Tears filled his eyes as he watched you, unable to fully grasp what was happening.

You slowly removed the sock, followed by the liner, soft hands massaging his irritated skin as you went. You knew residual limbs could be extremely sensitive, so you were incredibly gentle. Each touch was feather light and achingly sweet.

It filled his heart with an unnamable emotion, making his chest ache with each gentle pass of your hands.

To his utter surprise, you lowered your head again and began to place the gentlest of kisses to what remained of his lower leg. You were so incredibly reverent, so gentle, it hurt to witness.

"Baby," he whispered hoarsely. "Baby, come up here."

You looked up at him, chest tightening at the sight of tears staining his cheeks. "Jackie..."

"Please," he begged. "I need to kiss you."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you ran your hands up his strong thighs, using them as leverage to stand up.

"C'mere." He pulled you into him and kissed you deeply.

This kiss was different from all the ones that had come before. He poured every ounce of love he had for you into the kiss, along with gratitude and appreciation for what you had just done.

For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot felt whole.

"I need you," he murmured against your lips.

"You have me."

He knew it was true--knew it always would be--but right now, he needed the physical manifestation of your love. Needed it like he needed air to breathe.

He pulled away from you so he could move himself back onto the bed. Once he was comfortably situated against the headboard, he beckoned you toward him.

"C'mere sweet girl. Let me make love to you."

The smile that crossed your face was painfully soft, but he could see the hunger hidden beneath it.

You crawled across the bed before climbing onto his lap, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss him.

He moaned into the kiss when you slid your wet folds up the length of his cock, mixing with the soft needy sound you made.

He felt your hand wrap around his cock, gripping it tightly as you lined him up with your entrance. He gasped into your mouth as you began to slowly lower yourself onto him, soft whimpers escaping your lips as your body stretched to accommodate his size.

"Holy fuck, you're tight," he groaned lowly once you were fully seated.

You shifted your hips, preparing to ride him, but his grip on you tightened.

"Wait--wait. Just-just give me a second."

"Are you okay?" you asked worriedly.

"I'm about to embarrass myself by coming too fast," he admitted. He groaned when your pussy clenched around him as you stifled a laugh. "It's not funny. You just feel so goddamn incredible."

"It's kinda funny," you teased.

He smacked your ass affectionately, but with a little bit of a warning. "For that, I'm getting two more out of you."

Your eyes widened dramatically, the look almost comical. "Jack, I-I've never--"

"Come during sex? Yeah, baby I know."

"I don't really think I can," you admitted quietly.

"Bullshit. You've just never had someone willing to try."

The dark blush that crept up your cheeks solidified his resolve.

"I'll fuck this pretty pussy until I pass out if that's what it takes to make you come," he growled.

"Jack," you gasped, eyes wide once more.

"It might take me a little time, but I'm gonna learn this perfect little body inside and out--I wanna know everything you like, and I'll give you everything you need."

You bit your lip as your heart skipped a beat. "I love you."

He grinned warmly. "I love you too, pretty girl. Now why don't you move those hips, hmm? Let's see how quickly I can make my girl come."

He tapped your hip affectionately for emphasis and you started to move. You lifted yourself up and down, finding the right rhythm for both of you.

Jack's head leaned back against the headboard, but he kept his eyes locked on you. He was gauging your enjoyment, learning what made you whimper and what made you cry out. He was determined to prove to you there was nothing wrong with you.

He pulled your torso forward slightly, changing the angle his cock entered you with each downward motion. Your face changed instantly, mouth dropping open in a gasp.

Your hands grasped for purchase on his chest as the most intense wave of pleasure you'd ever felt crashed through you. "Oh, fuck--Jack!"

"Yeah? Right there?"

"There--there, there, there," you cried out. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease."

He did what he could to thrust up and meet each of your downward thrusts, gritting his teeth at how tightly your pussy squeezed him and pulsed around him.

"I've got you, baby. Just let go, okay?"

"Feels s'good, Jackie," you whimpered.

"I know. You're doing so good f'me. Just breathe. Let it happen."

Your body started to shake and you began to lose your rhythm. Jack gripped your hips tightly and helped you keep up the pace.

"Oh god-oh god-oh god--Jack!" Your head dropped back in a silent cry as your pussy spasmed around him.

He kept the pace as steady as he could, prolonging your orgasm as long as possible.

"Jack--I-I can't--"

"You're alright, baby. I've got you."

You collapsed on his chest and he wrapped his arms tightly around you to hold you in place.

"Did so well for me." He rolled his hips. "So, so good."

You breathed heavily against his chest as you placed open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat.

Jack's own orgasm was steadily approaching, but he was desperate to feel you come on his cock one more time. It very well may have been his favorite feeling in the world.

He rolled his hips up into you in a steady rhythm. He couldn't pound up into you the way he wanted, but he'd be damned if he didn't make you feel as good as he could.

"Can I try something, honey?" he whispered.

"Mhmm. Anything."

He chuckled softly, your trust in him warming something deep in his chest. He kissed the side of your head and rolled you over as best he could.

You giggled sweetly as you arranged yourself beneath him, allowing him to properly hover over you. He grabbed a pillow and wedged it under his leg, hoping to give himself some more stability.

He thrust back inside you and your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him even farther into you.

"Fuck," he groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "How're you even tighter like this?"

You blushed and tried to duck your head into his arm.

"Uh-uh, nope. Lemme see that beautiful face."

You turned back to him and he grinned, leaning in to kiss you sweetly.

"There she is."

He started to thrust into you properly, the pillow beneath his leg giving him the extra leverage he needed to keep up a proper pace.

"Tell me how it feels, baby," he begged softly.

"So good, Jack," you moaned. "You're so big."

His chest puffed out with pride, hips snapping forward with more speed and force. "Yeah? Filling up your perfect pussy better than anyone else, huh?"

"Yes!" Your back arched up into him, a desperate moan clawing its way out from deep in your chest.

"Yeah, you were made for me. Made to take my cock."

He glanced down to where your bodies met and his eyes widened slightly. He could see his cock bulging out in your lower belly with each thrust.

"Holy fuck, baby," he groaned. "You see that? My cock is so fuckin' deep."

He pressed down on your lower abdomen and you cried out as the feeling of fullness increased.

"Please, Jack!"

"Please, what baby? Tell me what you need."

"Touch me-touch me."

"Where, honey? Tell me where."

You whined, barely able to form a complete thought in your head, let alone a sentence. You grabbed his hand and shoved it between your thighs. "Please!"

Jack was so desperate to feel you come again he didn't make you say what you needed. He started to massage your clit rapidly as he continued to thrust into you.

"Don't-don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it, baby."

He was true to his word, hips never faltering, thumb moving against your clit with precision just the way you needed.

You felt the familiar tightening low in your belly, but it felt different this time--more intensity, more pressure. You suddenly weren't sure if you could have another orgasm--it felt wrong, like it was just too much.

"Jackie, I-I don't--"

"Don't what, sweetheart?"

"I-I can't."

"Come on baby, you can do it," he urged. "Just relax f'me. Let go."

"It's too-too much!"

"Shh, I've got you. Let me feel it, baby. C'mon."

Something about the way Jack coaxed you had you falling apart beneath him with a strangled cry of his name. He felt the warm gush of liquid splash against his abdomen and he realized with smug satisfaction that you'd just squirted.

"Oh fuck, yes, baby. That's it. So fucking good f'me," he praised as he chased his own high. "God, you're so fucking perfect. Gonna fill you up, baby. Make you mine."

"Yours," you whimpered breathlessly.

"Fuck," he groaned as his pace faltered and his hips began to stutter. "Gonna come--fuuuuuck."

One, two, three more thrusts was all it took for him to fall apart. Hot spurts of his cum painted your walls as he continued thrusting, desperate to keep as much of it inside you as possible.

As his high began to fade, he collapsed on top of you, whispering your name like a prayer into your bare chest.

Your brain took several minutes to fully process the intensity of the last several minutes, slowly coming back to yourself as his weight grounded you.

You felt warmer than usual between your legs--significantly wetter too. In fact, you were fairly certain you were lying in a puddle of liquid. That had certainly never happened before.

"Jackie."

"Hmmm?" he hummed against your skin.

"I--why am I so wet?"

Jack's responding chuckle reverberated through his chest and into yours. "That'd be because you squirted, my love."

"I-I what?!" Mortification slammed into you as your brain processed his words.

He could sense your embarrassment so he lifted himself up just enough to see your face. Your cheeks were burning and your head was tilted away from him. You looked like you were about ready to crawl into a hole and never come out.

"Hey. Hey, sweetheart. C'mon. Look at me."

You turned your head toward him, but your eyes didn't quite meet his.

"You went from never coming during sex, to having two orgasms and fucking squirting. Do you know how fucking proud that makes me feel? I did that. I made my girl squirt."

"Really?"

"Fuck yeah, baby. Now I've gotta make it my mission to get you to do it again."

Your blush deepened, but a little smile had softened your features. "You really think it's hot?"

"It's the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen."

"Now you're just full of shit."

"Nope. I'd chop off my other leg to see it again."

"Jack Abbot!" You smacked his chest, but the laughter that bubbled up was undeniable.

"Not even kidding. This body of yours was made for me."

Your expression softened. "The feeling's mutual, Jackie."

He brushed the hair off your forehead and offered you the sweetest smile you'd ever seen. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Jack."

"What'dya say we get cleaned up, hmm? Take a nice shower and maybe get a snack?"

"That sounds nice."

"I'll help you change the sheets too."

You smacked him affectionately. "I hate you."

He grinned. "No you don't."

"You're right. Not even close."

He kissed you again and you lost yourself in the feeling of his lips against yours. You still had plenty of things to discuss, but they could wait. For now, all you needed was his arms around you and the knowledge that no matter what happened, you had each other.

the snowflakes keep sticking to your eyelashes, which doesn’t help with your eyesight much. you try to blink them away and keep walking.

except your boot hits something. was it ice? a ridge of snow? who knows? but that’s not important.

what matters is your body decides it needs to try out a new sport called "slipping."

safe to say, you don’t fall elegantly. there’s no graceful little yelp or cinematic spin.

you just lose all vertical rights in one go. your foot skids forward, your center of gravity taps out, and the grocery bag slips out from your hands.

all you’re bracing is for the ground, for cold wet slush soaking through your clothes.

what you don’t expect is an arm. a surprisingly gentle, solid and a very warm arm to catch you by your waist. you don’t expect your back to collide with a chest that feels like it was carved from moonstone. and you definitely don’t expect the most warm voice behind your ear saying,

“whoa—got you.”

you just freeze. literally and metaphorically.

blinking snow out of your eyelashes, you tilt your head just enough to see who your savior is.

holy mother of jesus. that’s… that’s bucky barnes.

this man isn’t avenger bucky barnes, isn’t the man plastered across newspapers after saving half the world, isn’t the congressman barnes you keep seeing on the television.

this man right now is bucky barnes in a dark coat dusted with snow, cheeks pink from the cold, looking at you like he’s checking for injuries. like he actually cares if you’re okay.

a tiny sound leaves you. god knows if it was a laugh or a squeak or something that might come from a barely wounded animal.

“hi,” you manage, which is not the worst thing to say in this scenario, but let’s face it, it’s not the best either. but your brain is currently rebooting, so.

he lets out a soft breath like he’s amused. “hi.”

your legs are still slightly bent, your boots half-slid forward in the stupidest possible angle. his arm is still around your waist, preventing you from falling once again.

hyper-aware of the heat of his body pressed behind yours, your pulse is doing something which could only be described as tachycardia.

when you try to straighten, your boots betray you again and you wobble yet again.

his grip tightens around your wais, like steadying you is as natural to him as breathing.

“easy,” he murmurs. “ice is bad on this stretch. you okay?”

“yeah. i mean. mostly. i think my dignity is scattered somewhere in the snow, but my legs are fine.”

the corner of his mouth lifts. it might not be a full smile, but close enough to make something ridiculous spark under your skin.

“we can go look for your dignity if you want,” he answers diligently. “might be tough to spot. it’s all white out here.”

laughter bubbles out of you because you just cannot help yourself. you did not expect this super soldier to match your humour sense. “that’s mean.”

“it’s accurate,” his brows lift like he’s surprised he said it too. “you almost ate it pretty hard.”

“i know,” you whisper.

and that was the moment you realize he still has an arm around your waist. you realize you’re not asking him to let go. you realize you’re leaning into him a little, just enough to feel the warmth of him under the coat.

you probably should stand on your own, but your brain is like, no, wait, let’s stay here, this is nice, we like this spot, don’t ruin this.

which, in your brain’s defense, is a very very nice spot.

staring at the snow collecting on your boots, you stutter, “um. my groceries.”

he bends down, scooping the escaped paper bag up with his other hand like it weighs nothing. “i got it. you sure you’re steady?”

even though you are absolutely lying, you nod. because what else can you do?

you don’t know how to explain that the moment he lets go, the cold will hit you twice as hard.

he notices something on your face. something in your eyes, maybe. and his voice softens a tad bit. “here,” he loosens his hold on you but does not step away entirely. “i’m not letting you fall. promise.”

you feel your cheeks flaming hot. and it has nothing to do with the cold.

carefully you straighten yourself. but still, his hand hovers close, ready to catch you again. you somehow feel ridiculous and safe at the same time.

“thanks,” you mumble when you’re fully upright.

“no problem.” he hands you the bag. “where you headed? i should probably walk you. unless you wanna take your chances with more surprise ice.”

you squint at him, feigning a look of disbelief but absolutely failing. “are you saying i can’t walk?”

“i’m saying you just tried to body-slam the sidewalk.”

“that was one time.”

“it was thirty seconds ago.”

you try and roll your eyes at him, but the smile sneaks out anyway. “okay, fine. maybe a little walk-along wouldn’t hurt.”

he gestures forward with his flesh arm. “lead the way.”

you start walking, a bit more carefully this time. bucky keeps pace beside you, the furthest thing from pushy.

he walks like he’s making sure he’s close enough to catch you again if you stumble, but far enough to give you space if you want it. it’s stupidly sweet.

you sneak a glance at him. the snow settles on his hair, on his shoulders, melting in little droplets on the collar of his coat. he looks… soft. approachable. and so painfully human. it’s nothing like the headlines ever made him look.

he catches you staring and gives you a small, almost shy smile.

you can feel heat coil in your belly and you immediately look away, cursing your brain for sneaking a glance in the first place.

“so,” he clears his throat a little, “do you always do grocery parkour in the snow, or was this a special occasion?”

you nearly snort. “i was just trying to get home before the milk froze.”

“that a thing that happens?”

“i think so? actually i don’t know. but i don’t want to find out.”

s surpassingly warm laughter from him fills the air around you. “that’s fair.”

the wind isn’t harsh yet, just cold enough to nip at your nose. your boots squish softly in the snow as you walk further, and bucky’s footsteps fall in an easy rhythm next to yours.

he clears his throat like he’s gonna say something. but then stops, and speaks again. “for what it’s worth… you didn’t look as ridiculous as you think.”

you narrow your eyes, clearly caught up with the way he stopped whatever thought formed in his head first. “you hesitated.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“you totally did. you were gonna say something else.”

a faint pink climbs into his cheeks and he looks away from you. “i wasn’t sure if you’d take it weird.”

“take what weird?” you feel yourself getting breathless that has nothing to do with the climate.

his jaw works for a second, like he’s choosing between lying or telling you the truth.

his voice is small when it does come, “you looked… cute.”

your heart skips so violently you almost trip again.

bucky notices that and instinctively reaches a hand toward you — like it’s just second nature now— and then pulls it back when you steady yourself.

you force your brain to form words, but it somehow keeps buffering. “you—uh—you—uh think someone flailing through snow is cute?”

his eyes on the ground now. “it was less the flailing. more the way you laughed at yourself.”

oh. oh god.

your stomach does a slow, embarrassing flip. and you don’t know what gave you the courage but you find yourself utter, “well, you’re not exactly unpleasant to look at either.”

he stops walking. swear to god, he just stops right in his tracks, it takes you a second to notice that he had.

a little confused, you look back at him from one step forward, until you see the expression on his face. he looks surprised, a little caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to say anything back.

“i mean,” you add quickly before your cheeks flare up again, “you know. objectively. from a scientific standpoint.”

“scientific,” he repeats your word.

“yeah. i’m very scientific.”

“right.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too hard. you haven’t felt this happy or floaty in a long time.

bucky looks down at the snow, then back at you, then huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh he’s trying not to let loose.

disappointment appears when you reach your building faster than you want to. bucky stops beside you, hands tucked in his pockets now, his breath fogging between you.

“this you?” he asks softly.

“yeah.” you rock on your heels, trying to stall. “thanks for walking me. and for… catching me. and not letting me die dramatically on the sidewalk.”

he lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “happy to help.”

there’s a very pregnant pause.

you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “um. if you ever want to… you know. walk through snow again. or catch people falling. or, like, just talk. i’m around.” you know it’s downright a criminal way of asking someone out, but you just cannot help yourself.

your hopeful eyes find his, and they soften. really soften. like he wasn’t expecting you to say it, but really glad that you did.

“i’d like that,” his voice is barely a breath but you hear it anyway.

you smile and try to keep your voice neutral, but it betrays you makes you sound excited anyway. “cool.”

“cool,” he echoes, and for the first time since he caught you, he actually smiles. a full one. it’s bright and warm and stupidly charming, and you can practically feel each one of your organs shutting down in succession.

you turn toward your door before your knees forget how to function.

“hey,” he calls after you, immediately making you look back, like a moth drawn to a flame.

“be careful on the stairs,” he says. “i’m not there to catch you this time.”

your grin breaks free completely, and his mirrors it. it’s soft and fond, almost like he’s storing the moment somewhere safe.

bucky lingers for a moment before walking away, hands deep in his pockets. there’s a faint smile still tugging at his mouth like he just can’t help it.

you close the door behind you and lean against it, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

thank god you fell at the exact minute he was there to catch you.

my masterlist!

Kid, so he could look away.

Kid, so you'd stay safe.

You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it.  Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.

You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.

Watched him, lately, watch you back.

It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.

The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.

What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.

When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.

"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.

You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.

"Where's dad?"

Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."

"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself? 

"Well, he's busy." 

"So, he sent you?"

"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.

The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time. 

The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.

His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"

"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.

Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.

There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.

"Thanks." 

Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.

"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees. 

"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.

Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.

The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.

The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.

"It's your dad."

The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth. 

Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."

When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.

Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says

"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."

His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."

"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"

Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you. 

"Why?" You prod. 

"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"

"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."

"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."

Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.

A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.

He doesn't.

Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.

It doesn't work.

You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.

On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.

But he shows up at yours.

It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container. 

The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.

The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand. 

And there's Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour. 

"Hey," he says.

"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together. 

His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"

"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow. 

"Not until you let me talk."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."

A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."

You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."

"Can I come in?"

Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in. 

"You can apologize from right there." 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."

"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"

The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.

You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.

"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"

Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."

"That's not okay."

"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."

Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."

"It does have that smell."

His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."

"What kind of things?" 

"Don't ask me that."

"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"

His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."

"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."

His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.

"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.

Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."

"Not tonight. In general."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.

"Say my name."

He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."

"That's not my name."

"Please." His voice is rough, pleading. 

"Say it, Bucky."

"Please don't make me."

The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"

"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."

"So you do want to walk away still?"

So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.

"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Saying my name is hard?"

"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."

"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"

"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.

"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"

"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"

Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."

"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."

That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.

When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.

He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.

"Still time," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me to leave."

You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."

Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.

"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth. 

"Like some what?" You prod. 

"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."

That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say. 

"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real. 

"Who isn't what?"

"Too old for you. Too —"

"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."

His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"

"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"

"Sounds terrible."

"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.

Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."

His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."

"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly. 

"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this. 

His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"

"A little."

He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."

"You sure?"

"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."

His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses. 

The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.

"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.

"How long?"

Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."

"How long is that?"

"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."

"That was July."

"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."

You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans. 

Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.

"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."

His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.

You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.

"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"

The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you. 

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Are you just gonna stare, or —"

Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.

When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"

"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root. 

His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.

"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."

He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"

He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.

You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.

You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.

Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.

Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."

He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Since July, apparently."

His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."

"What changed?"

"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."

You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.

"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.

"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.

When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.

You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."

You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you. 

That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."

The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."

Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart." 

Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness. 

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."

"You're fishing for compliments now?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."

"Annoying?"

"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"

"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."

Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'. 

Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.

"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."

"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.

"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."

He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot. 

"Have you taken cock before?"

The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help. 

"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."

The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.

His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"

"No. I haven't."

Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"

No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."

"We can't —"

"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."

"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"

"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."

"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"

"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."

Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press. 

A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."

That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.

Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — a lot."

"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."

He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else. 

Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"

"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"You're crying."

"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."

Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"

"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it. 

Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"

"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole. 

"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours. 

"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."

That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.

"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"

"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"

"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."

Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened. 

"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."

You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting. 

"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"

"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"

The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."

"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please. 

"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."

The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.

"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."

That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"

He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out. 

Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.

"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.

Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."

"All summer?"

"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."

The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.

He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck. 

For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm not —"

"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."

Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.

"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."

Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. 

You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."

You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.

You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."

He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.

"You just what?"

"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."

The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.

"So that happened."

"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go. 

The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."

"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."

"Small comfort."

"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply. 

"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"

"Fell in love with me?"

The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"

"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"

"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

"It's what?"

"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."

"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.

"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"

"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."

"I know that. I do. But —"

"But what?"

"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."

You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."

A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."

"Let me worry about that."

"When your dad finds out —"

"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."

That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."

"I'll teach you."

"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."

"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.

"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"

"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"

"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"

"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."

"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."

"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."

He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."

"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry. 

"Not funny."

"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."

"Can you walk?"

Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"

Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."

"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.

"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."

"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."

"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."

"Want me to pinch you?"

"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.

"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."

"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too. Just so you know."

For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."

"I wasn't broody."

"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."

He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"

You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."

"Everything else like what?"

"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget." 

"You noticed all that?"

"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."

"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."

"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."

A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland. 

MY MASTERLIST!

You smile, a flutter of butterflies filling your stomach. Rolling onto your side, you face him…Noah, blissfully asleep, hair a mess, mouth slightly open. You poke his nose, stifling a giggle through your own. He scrunches his face, half‑asleep, rubbing at the spot with a lazy hand.

“Noah,” you whisper.

“Nouhhh,” you try again, dragging out the sound. He doesn’t budge.

Then the door creaks open, and before you can blink, Theo launches herself onto the bed like a tiny rocket. She crawls between you both, hands planted on Noah’s chest. “No‑uh! It’s time to wake up!” she declares, her face inches from his.

Noah’s eyes flutter open, meeting hers instantly. A slow smile spreads across his face before he sits up, scooping her into his arms. “Good morning, Theo,” he murmurs, blowing a loud raspberry on her cheek.

Theo squeals, kicking her feet, and you can’t help but laugh. Noah tilts his head toward you, still holding her close, his hair sticking up in every direction. “Should we go get breakfast?” he asks, voice rough with sleep but smiling all the same.

Theo shrugs dramatically. “I wanna watch cartoons.”

“How about cartoons and then breakfast?” Noah counters, pressing his forehead to hers until she giggles.

You stretch, rubbing your eyes. “How about I make breakfast and we can relax? I need coffee before I do anything. I’m too old to be staying up as late as we did.”

Noah chuckles, nodding. “I’ll help. Theo, are you gonna help too?”

She wiggles out of his arms and stands up on the bed, bouncing like a spring. “Nope!” she declares, then hops off and scurries out of the room, her little feet pattering down the hall.

You laugh, shaking your head as you pull the blanket aside. “She’s got more energy than both of us combined.”

Noah grins, following you toward the door. “That’s because she didn’t have to clean up the popcorn explosion last night.”

You glance back at him, smirking. “You mean the one you caused?”

He raises his hands in mock defense. “Hey, gravity’s the real culprit here.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile stays. The two of you trail after Theo, the sound of cartoon voices already filling the living room. She’s curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes glued to the screen.

Noah passes behind you, brushing his hand lightly against your back as he heads for the kitchen. “I’ll start the bacon,” he says softly.

You pause for a moment, watching him move around your kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times before, as if he belongs there. The smell of coffee begins to fill the air, and Theo’s laughter mixes with Noah’s humming.

He gets the bacon sizzling in the pan, the smell filling the kitchen as he turns toward you. You’re at the counter, whisking eggs in a bowl, sunlight catching the strands of your messy hair.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Sorry I crashed. I did mean to go home.”

You glance up, smiling. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind. The company was nice.” You tilt your head, teasing. “Plus, the snoring wasn’t that bad.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I was out cold. Haven’t slept like that in ages. Theo was right—your blankets are ridiculously soft. And that princess canopy? Top‑tier comfort.”

You smirk. “Stop staring at me and focus on your bacon, you’re burning it.”

He grins, flipping the strips with exaggerated care. “But you’re sooo pretty with your messy hair and tired eyes.”

You raise a brow. “You’re not one to talk.”

He chuckles, turning back to the pan, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its own little world.

Theo perks up, eyes bright as she peers out the window. “Lyla’s here!” she shouts, voice bubbling with excitement.

“Why?” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Theo, can you get the door for her?”

“Yes!” She springs off the couch and flings the door open. “HELLO, AUNTIE!”

Lyla’s laugh rings through the entryway. “Hi, sweet girl.” She scoops Theo up, kissing her cheek as the door swings shut behind them.

You turn from the stove, waving your spatula like it's your hand. Lyla’s gaze catches Noah standing next to you, and her eyebrows shoot up.

“Well, well, it’s the famous Noah.” She says with a wide smile, on that might break her face. Theo giggles as they walk to the kitchen.

“Lyla, this is my best friend Noah,” Theo squeals proudly.

Noah stands, offering his hand with a shy smile. “Me—uh, I’m Noah.”

She sets Theo down, crouching to meet her gaze with a teasing grin. “Good thing he’s your best friend and not Mommy’s, or I’d be very offended.”.

“Looks like I made it just in time for breakfast. “I’ll just– wait in the living room with Theo. Come on.” She says, holding her hand out for Theo to take. “Mommy and Noah have it under control in here.”

Noah smiles at you, sidling up next to you at the counter. “She doesn’t like me, does she?” He whispers.

You bump his hip with yours, “Whats not to like?”

“I was thinking we could go to the aquarium today.” Noah says as he plates the bacon.

“Aquarium? I haven’t been to one of those in years.” You say with an excited smile.

“Perfect. I want you to meet my roommate and one of my best friends, Jolly.” He smiles. “He’s gonna go I already asked and you know meet each other and maybe I can have you and Theo over sometimes. Then we don’t always have to make messes at your house.” He teases.

You nod, “ That sounds wonderful.”

Theo clings to your hand, her small fingers wrapped tight as she studies the man walking beside her. He’s tall, dressed head-to-toe in black, his long hair brushing his shoulders as he strides ahead with purpose. She stares up at him, curiosity practically buzzing off her.

Jolly feels the weight of her gaze and glances down, his mouth curving into a smile.

“Why is your hair so long?” Theo blurts out.

Noah snorts from your other side, clearly enjoying not being the one under interrogation for once.

“I just like it that way,” Jolly replies with a shrug.

Theo squints up at him. “Why do you talk that way?”

“I’m not from here,” he says, amused.

You exchange a look with Noah, the kind that says please, someone find a fish tank fast, but the hallway stretches on, empty and echoing. No rescue in sight.

“Where are you from?” Theo presses.

“Sweden,” Jolly chuckles, glancing between you and Noah. “Man, she’s gonna end up in the FBI. She’s asking all the right questions.”

Noah laughs, shaking his head. “That’s Theo for you, she doesn’t miss a thing.”

You smile, watching your daughter beam up at Jolly, her curiosity unfiltered and fearless.

“You know…” Theo pauses mid-step, then reaches out and grabs Jolly’s free hand like she’s known him her whole life.

Jolly flinches, not in discomfort but surprise , his brows lift, a quick flicker of oh, okay crossing his face before he relaxes.

“My mommy’s really good at braiding,” Theo announces with confidence. “She could probably braid your hair. She braids mine all the time, ‘cause sometimes when she brushes it, it gets fluffy.”

She lets go of your hand, now swinging Jolly’s pinky. “Can I put your hair in pigtails?”

Jolly’s laughter bursts out, “Maybe someday,” he says, still chuckling.

Theo beams, clearly taking that as a yes. “Do you like movies? Sometimes we have slumber parties in Mommy’s bed. Me, Mommy, and Noah had one last night…but Noah got to stay in Mommy’s bed. Probably ‘cause it’s so big. You could probably fit too!”

She says it proudly, like she’s offering him an invitation.

You close your eyes, silently praying that when you open them, Jolly’s laughter will have vanished.

Noah’s cheeks flush red. “Oh, look—” he blurts, swooping Theo up and settling her on his shoulders. “I think I see the slimy sea anemones! Let’s go poke ‘em!”

You exhale, half mortified, half amused. Oh, perfect, you think. Leave me with Jolly. The man I just met.

Jolly’s still smiling, eyes crinkled with amusement. “She’s got no filter, huh?” he says softly, glancing at you.

You manage a laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “None whatsoever. She gets that from her father.”

Noah balances Theo on his hip, her sneakers tapping lightly against his leg as he lifts her toward the shallow touch tank.

“The water’s cold!” Theo squeals, her voice echoing off the glass. She dips her fingers again, eyes wide. “Why are they so squishy? I don’t think I like that.”

She yanks her hand out and immediately wipes it on Noah’s t-shirt, leaving a wet streak across his chest. “It’s sticky, Noah!” Her face twists into pure disgust.

“Hey, keep your sticky hands to yourself,” Noah teases, grinning as he tries to dodge her next swipe.

You and Jolly hang back a few feet, watching the chaos unfold.

Theo suddenly cups Noah’s cheeks in both hands, squishing them together until his lips pucker. She furrows her brows, nose scrunched, and presses her forehead against his. “They’re icky!” she declares at full volume.

“Oh lord,” you mutter, stepping forward before the entire aquarium hears her. “Theo, we can’t yell in here, you’ll scare the fish.”

Noah chuckles, still holding her close, his shirt damp and his smile unbothered. Theo giggles, her earlier disgust forgotten as she points toward the next tank.

“Jellyfish!” Theo gasps, spinning around to look at you, her expression caught somewhere between excitement and uncertainty.

Noah sets her down gently, and she immediately clutches your leg, pointing toward the glowing tank. The jellyfish drift like slow-motion ghosts.

You crouch beside her, the two of you framed by the shimmer of the tank. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?” you whisper. The light washes over you both, painting your silhouettes.

Theo wraps her arms around your neck, eyes wide, completely mesmerized. “They look like floating dresses,” she murmurs, her voice full of awe.

Behind you, Jolly smiles as he catches Noah sneaking a photo.

“You’re in deep,” Jolly mutters under his breath, amusement tugging at his mouth.

Noah doesn’t look up from his phone. “It’s a good picture,” he says, trying to sound casual.

Jolly raises a brow. “I’m sure it is, Noah.”

You glance over your shoulder, half expecting the two men to have wandered off. But they’re still there. Noah’s smiling at you, that easy, unguarded smile Jolly hasn’t seen in a long time. It’s the kind of smile that says I could live like this forever.

Jolly watches him for a moment, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “You’re in trouble, man,” he murmurs.

Noah doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he says, grin widening. “The good kind.”

Theo decides she’s officially done with the jellyfish. She spins on her heel, curls bouncing, and waves her whole arm at Noah and Jolly like she’s directing traffic.

“Come on! Mommy has to see the sharks!”

The two men fall into step immediately, because when Theo gives an order, apparently everyone listens. Noah comes up beside you, slipping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you gently into his side.

“You excited for the sharks?” he murmurs, voice warm against your ear.

“No.” You try to keep your face neutral, but your smile betrays you, tugging at the corners anyway.

Behind you, Theo is still rapid‑firing questions at Jolly everything from “Do sharks sleep?” to “Why are your shoes so big?” and Jolly, bless him, answers every single one like he’s being interviewed on live television.

Your breath catches as you step into the glass tunnel. The world shifts into shimmering blue, light rippling across your skin. A tiger shark glides overhead, massive and graceful, and you stop walking entirely, head tilted back, eyes wide. Noah’s arm slips away as he watches you drift forward, completely mesmerized.

“Mommy, that one is fat!” Theo announces, pointing at a passing shark with zero hesitation.

“That one’s actually pretty small,” you say, scooping her up. “Some get over a thousand pounds.” You carry her to the side of the tunnel, both of you pressed close to the glass as sharks of every shape and size drift by like slow, ancient ghosts.

“That one looks silly!” Theo taps the glass. “Its nose got squished.”

“That’s a lemon shark,” you say, brushing your nose against hers until she giggles.

“She’s pretty and she’s smart,” Noah says as he steps beside you again, his hand settling on the small of your back like it belongs there.

Jolly, standing a few feet behind, sees the moment, the way you’re holding Theo, the way Noah is looking at you like he’s already lost. He quietly lifts his phone.

He snaps the picture.

A perfect little family photo he fully intends to brag about later on in life.

“Now that Theo’s in bed… I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Noah drops onto your bed like he owns the place, stretching out horizontally with a dramatic groan. You roll your eyes but lie down beside him, mirroring his position.

“What’s up?” you mumble through a yawn. Then it hits you. “Wait—are you staying tonight?”

He lets out a soft laugh, eyes half‑lidded. “Do you want me to?”

You nod, small and honest. “Kinda.”

He turns his head toward you, hair falling into his eyes. “Alright, alright—stop begging. I’ll stay.” He grins, but you’re already scrambling off the bed toward your dresser.

“What’re you grabbing?” he calls after you.

“Pajamas.” You disappear into the bathroom. You change into your shorts and tank top—simple, comfortable, nothing dramatic. You fluff your hair once, mostly out of habit, then head back in.

Noah lifts his brows. “Oh look at you.”

You strike a goofy pose because that’s safer than acknowledging the way he’s looking at you.

“I’m not sleeping in jeans again,” you say, climbing into bed and nudging his legs out of your way. “That was torture.”

“So does that mean I don’t have to sleep in my sweater and pants again?” he asks, sitting up and tugging the sweater over his head. He pauses, checking your face like he’s waiting for a signal. “I can keep them on if you want.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, grabbing the remote and pretending to focus on the TV. You flip to something random, barely registering what’s on. Your attempt to not stare at his tattooed…hot body.

Noah slides under the blanket beside you, careful not to brush against you. He looks unsure, like he’s trying to follow rules no one actually wrote down.

You both turn onto your sides, facing each other. The glow from the TV washes over his face, but neither of you is watching. You smile. He gives you that big, toothy grin that always knocks the air out of your chest.

“What did you wanna talk about?” you whisper.

He inhales slowly, bracing himself. “I… have to leave for a little bit. In a couple days.”

Your eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair, nerves written all over him. “For tour. It’s a small tour,” he adds quickly, like he’s trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling.

“I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming,” you say with a tiny laugh, more air than sound. “I mean… it’s your job. I get it.” You nod to yourself like that’ll make the sting behave.

Noah watches you carefully, eyes soft, searching. “I know our situation is… different,” he says slowly, “but I wanted to tell you so it doesn’t feel like I’m just disappearing. I’m not. I’ll come back. Obviously.” He rambles the last part, words tripping over each other.

You nod again. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

You try to sound steady, but something wobbles underneath. You’re not together, not officially…but the thought still creeps in, would he get swept up in the attention, the noise, the girls who practically launch themselves at him? You shove the thought away before it can settle. It’s not your place to ask. Not your right to care. But it still stings.

“The only thing I ask,” you say, forcing a small smile, “is that you tell Theo before you leave.”

“Oh, yeah. I planned on it. I’m not gonna ditch my bestie.” He laughs, and the tension loosens just a little.

You flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You’ve gotten used to him being here. his laugh, his presence, the way the house feels lighter when he’s in it. Sure, work and Theo and Lyla will fill your days, but it’s different when Noah’s around. It’s easier.

He notices the shift instantly. His fingertips trail gently down your arm, feather‑light. “Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What’s going on in that head of yours.”

You smile, warmth where he touched you. “I’m allowed to have inside thoughts I don’t have to share.”

“Well, I’m not gonna make you say it,” he says, eyes softening. “But… I’ll miss you too.”

“Noah?” you say, turning to face him again.

“Yeah?” His voice is already drifting toward sleep.

“Try not to snore loud tonight.”

You lowered the mirror in your hand, meeting Noah’s gaze. He was half sitting on the sofa across from you, phone almost falling from his limp hands. He grinned when you looked over at him with one eyebrow raised. ”Okay, I might be... But who can blame me when I have my pretty girl with me on tour, huh?” 

You huffed, focusing your attention back to the mirror. ”What do you think, is it a lipstick or no lipstick kinda day?” 

”I think it’s a… whatever doesn’t get all over your boyfriend's face hours before he headlines a festival-kinda day.” 

”No lipstick it is then!” 

”No lipstick. You done? Wanna grab lunch somewhere?” 

”You’re asking me on a date?” 

Noah smiled at you. ”Am I asking the prettiest girl at this whole festival on a date? Fuck yeah I am.” 

”Got any place in mind?” You stood, smoothing out the skirt of your dress. Noah mirrored you, but almost froze in place when he fully saw what you were wearing. 

”Fuck baby that dress… I could just…” he reached out for you in the confined area, his long, tattooed fingers skimming the hem of your dress where it met your thighs. 

”Don’t even think about it Noah. I’ve just done my hair and makeup. And I’ve got a pair of biker shorts and panties underneath!” You laughed as you playfully swatted his hand away. 

”Cockblocked by my own girlfriend…unbelievable.” he huffed as you made your way through the front lounge of the bus. 

Noah squeezed past you to exit first, his hand reaching for yours as you stepped down. The soles of your boots met the gravel outside and you squinted up at the sun, letting the rays warm your face and body. The atmosphere around the buses was electric. There really was nothing that came close to the feeling of festival season. ”Did you have a place in mind? Or are we going to the catering tent?”

Noah gave you a mischievous look ”There’s this one place… it’s outside the grounds though.” He glanced down at his phone. “There’s an uber picking us up at the back entrance in 15 minutes.” 

As the driver pulled up right next to one of the smaller entrances of the shopping mall you used to work at, Noah pulled on a hoodie and a cap, sunglasses already perched on his nose. He was now wearing a pair of shorts, long tattooed legs exposed, paired with a black hoodie - tattoos on his neck and hands spilling out of it. The icing on the cake was the fact that both the cap and hoodie were Bad Omens merch. You couldn’t help but giggle. 

”What?”

”Oh, nothing, nothing!” You snorted. 

”Whaaaat?” 

”Your little ensemble…” you said, making a swirling motion with your pointer finger in his general direction. ”It’s giving… Clark Kent. Very anonymous!” 

”Oh shut up.” He mumbled as he got out of the car, walked around it to open the door for you. ”You think that coffee shop is still there?” He said, taking your hand in his. Oh how you loved the feeling of your own hands disappearing in his big ones. ”Can you believe it’s been two years already?” 

”No…” you admitted, “I honestly can’t. Marie is still mad at you, you know. She’ll never forgive you for whisking me away.” 

Noah smiled. ”That’s a price I’m willing to pay.” 

—--

You rubbed small circles with your right hand at your lower back. Re-filling a display case certainly wasn’t ergonomic. You stood up, admiring your work. You were just about to turn around and go on your lunch break when he caught your eye, standing by the men’s perfume section of the store looking a little unsure. He was tall, very tall. Dark hair falling into his brown eyes. He had a little crease between his eyebrows from furrowing. He was casually dressed in a pair of black jeans and a black hoodie paired with plain white vans. A bit warmly dressed for the scorching heat outside, you thought. He was heavily tattooed, judged by the fact that both his hands and neck seemed to be covered in ink. Your mouth went dry. He was, hands down, the most attractive man you had ever seen in your life. 

Crouching down to glance in the mirror by the lipstick display you wiped away a bit of eyeliner that had smudged under your eyes. Standing up straight you began to walk over to him. But Marie, your boss, looked to be a few steps ahead. ”Marie!!” You all but yelled, making her stop in her tracks. She slowly turned to face you, evidently enraged by you yelling inside her store. But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures! You jogged up to her, flashing your most innocent smile. ”I thought maybe I could help the customer by the fragrance section?” 

Marie lifted a well-manicured eyebrow at you. ”Why? Aren’t you supposed to go on your lunch break?” She glanced over at him. ”Or does this have anything to do with the fact that Mr. Tattoo over there looks like the man of your dreams?” 

”Oh!” You blushed. ”I just… We don’t get all that many, you know, male customers so uh… I thought it’d be good practice?” 

”Practice?” 

”Yeah! You know. Men’s perfume… cologne… practice!” 

Marie shot you a most unconvinced look, obviously seeing right through you. ”He’s all yours.” And she walked away. 

You took a deep breath before approaching him, steadying yourself. 

”Hi! Are you just browsing or do you need any help today?” 

He turned to face you and oh my god. He was even more beautiful up close. You flexed your knees to make sure you wouldn’t just collapse at the spot. 

”I think I could use some help actually. I forgot my usual cologne at home and thought I might as well try something new. I’m just not sure where to start.” 

Oh… even his voice was beautiful. You told yourself to pull it together. He’s just another customer. The most handsome, gorgeous, beautiful man you had ever laid eyes upon - but still just a customer. 

”What are you usually drawn to? That’s usually a good place to start. Do you like muskier, heavier scents or are you more of a fresh, citrusy kinda guy?” 

”I’d say I’m more of a fresh, citrusy kinda guy.” He smiled down at you. Okay, this was getting ridiculous! He even had perfect teeth! 

”Oh! There’s this one…” you walked over to pick up a bottle and a test strip. ”It’s actually my favorite. It’s very citrusy and fresh, but still has that manly kind of depth.” You sprayed the test strip, wafting it in the air before handing it over to him. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled. 

”It’s actually the male version of my most used perfume! I’m wearing it today!” His eyes shot up at you. Oh no… why would you say that?! You could’ve just told him you wanted to get matching tattoos and that you wanted to have his… ”Well… I did notice that you smelled amazing as you walked over. And this…” he wafted the test strip in the air, ”smells pretty damn good.” 

You felt the heat creeping up your neck. You were most definitely blushing. Hard. ”Oh! Thank you! I- did you maybe want to try it on? It’s sometimes hard to get a good feeling for the scent without trying it on the skin! If you’d just… roll your sleeve up?”

He squinted a bit at you. ”I don’t even know your name and you’re already trying to get into my clothes?” 

Your tummy did a flip and you were now certain you resembled a tomato more than a human. “I didn’t-“ He laughed softly under his breath as he started to roll his sleeve up. “I’m just kidding. I’d like to know your name though. I’m Noah, by the way.” 

“I’m Y/N.” 

“Y/N…” he said, like he was tasting it. “That’s pretty. Suits you.” 

“Thanks.” You said with a small voice. You held the bottle out to him, hand shaking slightly. Noah sprayed his wrist once before bringing it up to his nose. “I think it’s pretty good. What do you think?” He held his wrist out to you, clearly wanting you to smell it. So you did. If you thought it smelled good in the bottle you were not prepared on how it would smell on him. It mixed perfectly with the scent of his skin. “It’s really good. And I’m not just saying that because I want to sell it to you.”

He let out a bark of a laugh. “You know what, that’ll do it! I’d like to buy one, please.” 

“Great! I’ll just go ring that up for you!” 

A few moments later you were standing by the register. “Are you a rewards club member?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe?” 

“I can check for you… phone number?” 

Noah smirked. “You know, if you wanted my number you could’ve just asked.” You lifted your gaze from the computer in front of you, meeting his eyes. With great effort you prevented your jaw from falling open. “Have you had lunch yet?” He asked before you could say anything. You shook your head slightly. “Look… I’m not usually this forward, but I’d like to buy you lunch. If you want to?” 

You could feel a grin spreading over your face as you put his bottle of perfume in a paper bag. ”Yeah, I’d love that.” He smiled back at you, your fingertips brushing his as you handed over the little bag. 

”I’m just gonna go get my phone and my wallet.”

”Absolutely not.”

”Huh?” 

”I mean, you can obviously go get your phone. But not your wallet. I said I wanted to buy you lunch, didn’t I?” Once again you felt the heat rushing to your face, and all you could do was nod. ”I’ll wait just outside.” 

A few moments later you had quickly freshened up in the staff room, sent a very excited text to your best friend and stepped out of the store. He was leaning against a wall opposite, phone in his hand. He shot you a quick smile as he slid his phone into his jeans pocket. 

”So… what’s good here?” he asked. 

”Oh yeah, I just realised. You left your usual at home - you’re not from here? There’s this one coffee shop with really good sandwiches.” You pointed to your left and started making your way over. 

”I’m from Richmond originally, but I’ve lived in Los Angeles for a few years now. You’re from here?” He fell into step beside you, a bit closer than a stranger usually would. 

”Yeah. Born and raised.” 

—--

”So,” you say, folding the paper napkin in half for no reason at all. “What brings you here?”

“The festival, mostly.”

“Really?” You glance out through the window. “You’re a little early, aren’t you? It’s only Wednesday, it starts on Friday.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

”Maybe?” 

”Yeah. Are you going?” 

You tilt your head slightly. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You look like someone who’d go.”

“That’s a surprisingly specific assumption.”

“I’m trying not to make any hasty conclusions. But the tattoos… the hair. The makeup. You kinda look like the target audience.”

You let out a breathy laugh. ”You’re not wrong… Well, for what it’s worth, I was planning to. Couldn’t get tickets, though.”

“Oh.”

You pick at a piece of lettuce sticking out of your sandwich. “Yeah. Sold out before I even had a chance. I do usually go with my best friend. She thinks it’s this band who’s headlining… Omens something. They apparently blew up on TikTok recently.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I’ve heard of them… they’re okay. I could probably get you and your friends tickets. For Saturday, at least.”

You blink. “What?”

“Yeah. Two tickets. For Saturday.”

“How?”

He looks briefly uncomfortable, like he’s already regretting mentioning it.

“I sort of work there.”

“At the festival?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Yeah with… sound.”

“Sound?”

Noah shrugs again. “Microphones. Sound. Live stuff, you know.”

”That’s… I mean - that would be incredible. You don’t have to though!” 

He smiles. ”Don’t worry about it. I want to.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, ”I however need your phone number to make it happen.” He unlocks it and hands it over to you. You quickly save your number to a new contact and hand it back to him. 

”Moment of truth.” he says, looking up at you. You feel your own phone buzz in your pocket and pull it out. There’s a new message from an unknown number. 

You raise one eyebrow as you look up at his grinning face. ”Eggplant emoji? Really?” 

He puts both hands up, palms facing you. ”Hey! It’s just my latest used one!” 

”Do I even want to know?” you say as you save his number. 

”Probably not, no.” 

—--

Two days later, on Friday, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. A smile immediately crept across your face. You and Noah had been texting all through Thursday. He was funny, attentive and had a deeply sarcastic streak that you really appreciated. 

Noah: I’ve got two tickets for you! 

You: No way! 

Noah: Yes way! 

You: Oh my god! Thank you thank you thank you! 

Noah: Could you send me a picture of yourself? 

You furrowed your eyebrows and were just about to ask him why when he texted you again. 

Noah: I realise that sounded creepy as fuck. 

Noah: I’m not going to be able to meet you until later in the day. My buddy Bryan will meet you outside. I’m afraid he didn’t think that my description of you as ”the prettiest girl” would suffice. 

The prettiest girl? Okay, goodbye! You could actually die right then and there. You sent him one of your favourite pictures of yourself. It was from a night out with your friends, you had been dancing all night and your hair looked a little messy, but your outfit and makeup looked really good. You had a drink in one hand, leaning against a balcony railing. Huge smile plastered on your face, eyes a little glazed over. 

You: You’re making me blush. 

Noah: Well that’s just wildly unfair. Good lord.

You: Stop it. 

Noah: Mind you, I had a perfectly productive day until you sent me this. 

You: YOU ASKED FOR IT! 

Noah: I know. But still. You chose that photo. Dangerous decision. 

—--

To say that your best friend was ecstatic that you had somehow met a guy that could get you tickets to a sold out music festival was an understatement. Makeup, clothes, shoes and jewellery was littered all over your small apartment on Saturday morning.

”Let me get this straight…” she said as she put on another layer of mascara, ”This super hot, tall, tattooed stranger comes in to buy cologne. You help him, and out of the blue he asks you out. You have been texting since then, he’s been super flirtatious and has managed to get us both tickets for today? And you still don’t really know what he does for work?”

You shrugged. ”Something like that. What do you think, dress or skirt? Or shorts? Or pants?” 

”Dress or skirt for sure. Preferably short. But what do you mean? You haven’t asked him what he does for a living?” 

”I mean not really. He said he works with microphones so I guess he’s like a sound engineer?” 

”But aren’t you curious?” 

”I mean yeah of course, but I guess we’ll find out today.” 

You’d changed outfits four times already. The black dress felt like trying too hard. The band tee felt like trying too hard in the opposite direction. The skirt somehow managed to do both.

”I have nothing to wear!” you cried. Your friend threw her head back in hysterical laughter.

After forty minutes of changing outfits, you ended up right back where you started.

The black dress ultimately won.

It was simple enough not to look like you were trying too hard, which was ironic considering you’d spent nearly an hour deciding on it. Your wonderful friend had finally convinced you that the little black was the safest bet and that ”your ass also looks unreal in it”. You paired it with a pair of chunky platform Dr. Martens, more jewelry than should be allowed and a slightly smokey eye with winged eyeliner.

The festival grounds were already crowded by the time you arrived. Your boots kicked up little clouds of dust with every step. You’d spent thirty minutes curling your hair only for the wind to undo half of it before you’d even made it through the parking lot.

Sunglasses perched on top of your head, phone clutched a little too tightly in your hand.

Because despite telling yourself you were here for the music, there was a very specific reason you’ve had butterflies in your stomach all day.

”So…” your friend said beside you, ”where are we going?” 

You opened your phone to the last text Noah had sent you. ”To entrance C. That’s the one furthest away, I think.” You looked up to scan the scene in front of you. There was a large printed map on a sign. You pointed at it. ”Looks like the one that’s gonna be closest to the main stage.” 

A few minutes later you stood outside entrance C. It was much calmer than the other entrances to the festival area. You vaguely had time to notice that it was the VIP-entrance when you heard someone call your name. 

A guy with shoulder-length hair, a beard, and tattooed arms waved at you nearby, a camera hanging from his neck.

”That must be the friend.” 

You made your way over. ”Hi! You must be Bryan?” You shook his hand. ”This is my best friend Y/F/N.” 

”Nice to meet you ladies!” He handed over two laminated passes. Two letters stood out to you: AA.

”Wait a minute… all access?” You shook your head. Your best friend's jaw dropped. ”He said he could get us tickets? This is something else.”

Bryan chuckled. ”They’re way better than tickets. Gets you backstage and all.” He winked. ”Noah is busy working for a few more hours. Meet me back here at 7 PM and enjoy the music.” And with that Bryan walked away, leaving the two of you standing with open mouths. 

”Okay, Y/N… whoever this Noah guy is, I have a feeling he’s not just a sound engineer.” 

You looked down at the all access pass in your hand. ”You know what? You might be right.” 

Your friend let out a tinkling laugh. ”At least this means we won’t have to use porta potties this time!” 

You just looked at her, and she looked back at you. ”Oh my god.” you said. ”Oh. My. God.” She repeated. And then you both burst out laughing. The kind of hysterical laughter that mostly resembles a pack of hyenas. 

”Well… let’s go!” You pulled her with you by the hand as your laughter subsided. 

You had been to this festival many times before, but this time it somehow felt a lot bigger. 

Your first taste of what all access actually meant was how you could just enter every VIP area without anyone batting an eye. 

”I swear I just saw Kellin Quinn.” 

”No way!” 

”Yes!!! Look over to your left!” 

You practically swung your head sideways, and yup. There was the singer of Sleeping With Sirens, just lounging on a chair. 

”Very subtle!” 

You looked back at her, giggling. 

”Holy shit.”

”I know. Holy shit.” 

After watching the first set of the day, and after a beer or two, you had to visit the bathroom. 

”You think there’s real toilets in the VIP-section?” you asked. 

”I bet there is.” 

And so there was. 

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“There are mirrors in here.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m serious.”

”I’m texting Noah.” 

You: Noah. This is insane. I’m at a festival and I’m standing in a toilet with running water AND mirrors?!

Noah: I absolutely love the fact that you seem most excited about the toilet situation. 

You: You know how many times I’ve been able to wash my hands with warm water at a festival? 

Noah: I’m gonna hazard a guess at none. 

You: Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! 

You: These passes are ridiculous, you know? 

Noah: Only the best for you.

Noah: Now go watch a set and have fun! :)

”You’re blushing.” 

”I’m not!” 

”Oh you so are!” 

”Actually shut up.” 

The next few hours passed in a blur.

One minute you and your best friend were wandering between stages, the next you were squeezed into a crowd, singing along to songs at the top of your lungs. You bought overpriced drinks, took approximately two hundred photos you would never look at again and somehow ended up making friends with a group of girls who complimented you on your dress.

Every now and then your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Noah: Having fun? 

You: The most! 

Noah: Good. 

You danced. You laughed until your stomach hurt. You got dust all over your newly polished boots and didn’t care.

Time was ticking down to the headliner of the day. ”They must be really popular,” you stated. 

”Who?”

”Bad Omens. Everyone is wearing their merch.” 

”They ARE really good. I can’t believe you haven’t checked them out yet!” 

”Let’s see after their set. If they impress me I promise I’ll add them to my playlist.” You could practically hear your friend roll her eyes. 

At some point you completely forgot about checking the time. The sun slowly began to sink lower in the sky, painting everything gold. Before you knew it, your phone read 6:42 PM.

“Shit,” your friend said, glancing at the screen.

“What?”

“We have to meet Bryan in eighteen minutes.”

Your stomach immediately filled with butterflies.

”Okay, let’s go!” 

Bryan stood just where he said he would be. He grinned at the sight of the two of you. ”You ladies had fun so far?”

”So much fun!” You said in unison. 

He laughed. ”Good. Ready?”

“Ready for what?”

Bryan grinned.

“Noah told me to bring you backstage.”

Your friend looked sideways at you. Backstage? 

”Like… backstage-backstage?” 

”What other backstage is there?” 

”Like… where all the bands are?” 

”…Yes?” 

Before you knew it you were right in the middle of it. You had gone past security, showing your passes. There were crew members and security all around you. Band members from acts you’ve danced to earlier in the day all nodded at Bryan like they knew who he was. 

You walked past a large line up poster. The name Bad Omens was printed in large letters on it. Your friend did a small double take before typing something on her phone. 

”I just googled them.” she whispered, ”The singer of Bad Omens is called Noah.” 

You just looked at her.

“Lots of people are called Noah.”

“Y/N.”

“It’s a common name.”

“Y/N.”

”It’s very common actually.” 

”Yeah, and every Noah can get you all access  passes at festivals? It’s him, I know it.”

Wait, what? That just couldn’t be possible… 

Or..? 

No. 

No way. 

Absolutely not. 

I sort of work there… microphones… I’ve heard of them… they’re okay. 

Before you could even wrap your head around the possibility that Noah could be the lead singer of the headlining act, and not a sound engineer, you had come to a stop. 

”We’re here.” Bryan stated, pointing to a door with a piece of paper on it. BAD OMENS. 

Bryan opened the door and you realised you were in a dressing room. There were a few people in there, and they all looked like rock stars. Bryan pointed them all out to you, introducing them with names and what instrument they played in the band. This was them. The headlining band, just lounging like this was no big deal. Noah was nowhere to be seen. You felt your heart drop for a second. 

Then you heard a door to an adjacent room open. He was wearing black jeans, a black tank top, and a silver chain resting against his chest. For the first time you realised just how heavily tattooed he was. A pair of in-ear monitors hung loosely around his neck, the cables disappearing down his back. His attention was fixed on a piece of paper in his hand.

“I still think we should swap Just Pretend and Miracle,” he said as he walked in. “The transition would work way better if we—”

He stopped as his brown eyes spotted you.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

A smile spread across his face.

“Hey.”

You stared at him. The same man you’d had lunch with. The same man who’d spent three days texting you. The same man who was apparently headlining one of the biggest festivals in the country.

“You lied.”

“What?” Noah laughed.

“You absolutely lied.”

His smile widened, arms crossed over his chest.

“I did not.”

“You told me you worked with microphones!”

“I do work with microphones.”

“You neglected to mention the part where you’re the one singing into them!”

He had closed the distance to you, one large hand gently holding your wrist. “I genuinely thought you knew.”

“How would I know?”

Noah opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You know what? That’s fair.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Ten minutes,” someone called from outside. 

He gave you an apologetic look. 

”You should go.” 

”I should.” 

There was a small silence. 

”You wanna watch from side stage or front of house?” 

”I- I don’t know.” 

”I’d recommend front of house. Sounds better over there.” 

”Okay.” 

He gave you a look.  

”You okay?” 

”I’m a little bit shocked.”

At that, he pulled you into him, wrapping his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. He was wearing the cologne you had helped pick out. You felt like your heart was about to burst, and you could swear you felt his lips ghost over the top of your head. 

”I’ll see you after, yeah?”

You smiled at him. ”Yeah.” 

He gave your shoulder a little squeeze before walking away, putting his in ear monitors in. 

You turned around to find your friend gawking at you. ”Well…” 

”Yeah.” 

Her expression changed into the biggest grin you’d ever seen. ”I TOLD YOU!!!” 

One moment you were standing backstage with your best friend, the next you were being led to front of house. Standing in front of mixing tables and laptops you watched as the lights suddenly illuminated the stage. 

The other members, who you now knew as Folio, Nick and Jolly, walked out on stage. The crowd erupted as a heavy guitar riff was accompanied by a bass line and drums. 

And then Noah walked out. The crowd went, if possible, even more wild. 

And you almost didn’t recognise him as the guy you had lunch with only a few days ago. And the sound he made as he lifted the microphone to his mouth made your jaw drop. Gone was the sweet man you had gotten to know. This man was something else. The way he commanded the stage was mesmerising. How he went from sounding like a demon to singing like a siren was unbelievable. 

The crowd knew every word. Thousands of voices sang back at him. And all you could think about was how he’d been sitting across from you in a coffee shop three days ago.

You could’ve swore he was looking at you more often than not, and you couldn’t peel your own gaze away from him. Beside you, your friend just had to take one look at your face to realise how gone you truly were for this man. 

Their set ended and you felt rooted to the spot. 

”I think you might have to add them to your playlist.” 

You just looked at her and she could do nothing but laugh at the way your eyes sparkled. 

Bryan appeared beside you with a grin.

“Come on. Rockstar’s waiting.”

Noah was leaning against a wall inside the dressing room. The rest of the band was nowhere to be seen. Bryan gave your best friend a look. ”Wanna grab a beer?” 

”Yup!” 

And just like that you and Noah were alone. You closed the door behind you, the ringing in your ears growing louder as you turned to face him. 

He had both of his hands behind his back, shoulder blades resting against the wall. His tank top was clinging to his sweaty skin, wet strands of hair hanging down his face. Chest heaving with heavy breathing, adrenaline still pumping in his veins. A grin spread over his face as he looked at you. You felt your mouth go dry. 

”So?” He said, pushing himself off the wall. 

”Noah…” you started, ”I think that was the best live performance I’ve ever seen.” 

He had made his way over to you, standing almost impossibly close. 

”Yeah?”

”Yeah.”

He moved even closer, forcing you to take a step back until you were pressed against the door. He placed a hand next to your head, the other gently pressing against your hip; caging you in with his body.

You looked up at him, swallowing slightly. His pupils were blown wide. 

”I didn’t tell you how absolutely gorgeous you look tonight, did I?” 

”You didn’t.” 

”I’m telling you now.” 

The hand beside your head moved to gently grip your chin, tilting your face towards his. ”May I?” he asked. You nodded. 

Noah’s lips found yours. They were surprisingly soft against yours, his grip on your hip tightening a little. He kissed you softly, reverently, like he wasn’t entirely sure whether this was real either.

You felt like you could’ve stayed in that moment forever. The warmth of his hand against your hip, the faint scent of cologne you’d helped him pick out days earlier. The way he smiled against your lips when you instinctively moved closer.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. 

”Hi.” He mumbled, fingertips trailing over your jaw. 

”Hi.” 

”I’ve wanted to do that since the coffee shop.”

”Noah, that was three days ago!”

”Longest three days of my life. I’ve been suffering.”

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