Jack's tactical vest is draped over the side of the railing, the metallic flecks in SWAT catching the light of the setting sun. Golden hour makes the silver in his hair brighter. His shoulders are rigid, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn't turn around when the rooftop door creaks open. You're not even sure he knows you're there. Not at first. 

"Not in the fuckin' mood, Robby," he snaps.

"Not Robby," you reply gently, unaffected by the bite in his tone. 

He turns around and softens at the sight of you, some of the tension bleeding out of him. "Sorry, sweetheart," he sighs. "Didn't know it was you."

"You're on the wrong side," you say. "You could fall."

He laughs bitterly. "Not worried about it."

"Well, I am," you argue, your voice shaking ever so slightly. Then, "Please."

In most of the time you've known Jack, he's never once faltered. You imagine it takes a lot to shake him, like he's this unbreakable mountain of a man. Yet somehow, as you're pleading with him to take a step back, he looks surprised. His brow crinkles, and then slowly, he throws one leg over the railing and comes back to the other side of it.

You all but sag with relief. 

"I wasn't gonna jump," he tells you.

"I know," you murmur. "But you're acting like someone who wants to see how close he can get to the edge without breaking."

The sun dips lower in the sky, and a breeze chills your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms. You shiver. Suddenly, your scrub top feels like it's made of paper, and when Jack looks at you, you feel stripped bare, like you're naked and under the hot lights of an examination room, every secret painted in your skeleton. It occurs to you, for a second, that maybe he feels that way too; you don't run from connection because you're comfortable.

"So why're you here?" Jack asks, not unkindly, but not mincing his words either.

"Robby wanted me to get the contact information for Wayne's next of kin, and your sergeant."

"I'll handle it. That all?" He's never spoken to you so coldly before, using indifference as a shield, retreating behind his defenses instead of falling apart. Instead of feeling. 

You shake your head, tugging your lip between your teeth as you find the confidence for words. "I wanted to see if you were okay."

His reply is too clipped to be convincing. "Peachy." 

"Bullshit," you reply, sighing with exasperation. "Your friend just died in our trauma room. We cracked his chest. We did everything we could, and it wasn't enough—"

Jack doesn't have to shout when he cuts you off. The cool, flat delivery is just as precise as a razor. "I was there." Your name follows, trembling from his lips. "I don't need the play-by-play." 

"We couldn't do anything else," you reason. 

You haven't read over the chart a second time or given the books another scan, but you took every cue in that trauma for Robby, who's been around the ER for thirty years and most definitely knows what he's doing. Hell, even Dana said you handled it well, and you can't think of a single thing that could've changed the outcome. Deep down, Jack knows that. He must. 

"What do you know?" he spits. "You're an intern!"

You bristle, but you don't lie down and take it. You push back, because that's all you know how to do when it comes to him. Push and pull, give and take. "And yet, you let me do the chest tube, so clearly you do trust me," you argue. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. This isn't fair of me. I just wish…"

You step closer, until you're separated by a couple of inches. Not even a whole foot between you. Close enough to count his freckles, to memorize the lines in his face. There seem to be new ones. Or maybe they just disappear when he smiles. 

God, you'd really like to see him smile. To know he's alright. 

You ramble, to fill the space, "With my memory, I never forget anything, so I remember every moment of my day, every second, every procedure. I run them back in my head and follow all the moves I could've taken, until I'm sick of it—"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Like playing chess."

"Like chess," you confirm. "I keep turning this one over, and I can't think of a single book or case study where the outcome was different. He was gone en route. We did everything right, and you gave him a chance before you even made it past the ambulance bay. You did good, Jack. And you taught me something. That matters. In that room? Down there? That's everything."

He scratches his jaw absently. "Too bad we couldn't save him."

"Not this time."

Those hazel eyes shift downward, to the paved surface of the roof, then up at the golden hour sunset. When they finally find your face again, he's looking at you like he isn't sure you're real.

"You're a good doctor, sweetheart," Jack says. 

"Learning from the best," you return. 

When you finally tear your eyes away from his, you see the sweat staining the grey of his undershirt, which clings to every muscular curve of his frame. Beneath it, a few red spots have started to bleed through. Fresh blood. Not Wayne's.

"Jack, you're bleeding," you say. "Let me see."

He reaches up, absently touching his shoulder. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn't fight you when you wrap your hand around his elbow, turning him to use the fading sunlight to inspect the wound. You push his sleeve up, realizing he's already plastered a gauze pad to his skin with medical tape and a prayer. The bandage is soaked through.

"You need stitches," you say calmly, as you peel away the remnants of the dressing. "At least four."

"I can do them."

"But I need to practice my suturing," you reply. According to Robby, you don't, and while you're sure Jack is more than capable, thinking about him doing his own stitches, without anesthetic, or letting the wound sit and fester, makes you ache like the pain is your own. 

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"Just let me help," you insist. 

He nods. "Fine."

"Come down with me."

He shakes his head. "And deal with the paperwork from SWAT and the heat from Robby? No thanks."

"Then I'll get a suture kit and come to you," you say. "While there's still light out."

"Don't need the novocaine," he adds as you turn to go. 

You roll your eyes, throwing your response over your shoulder. "Alright, tough guy, your macho card won't be revoked if you let me numb it. You got shot. You've suffered enough. Give it up."

There it is again, that almost-smile. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

You run down a couple of floors to get a suture kit, and then take the stairs two at a time to get back to the roof. You're a little out of breath when the metal door slams open ahead of you. Even though you believed him when he said he wasn't planning to jump, a small part of you was still terrified you'd come back and find him gone. 

In your experience, people you care about tend to disappear in the blink of an eye. Once, you thought he'd be the exception. Now you're not certain of a damn thing.

He sits down, and you curl up beside him, folding your knees under you as you hold up the fabric scissors. "You want to sacrifice the sleeve or lose the shirt?" you ask. Your pulse thrums in your throat, heart fluttering as if reminding you what a spectacular view it is to see Jack Abbot shirtless.

"You trying to get me naked, doc?" He raises a brow.

"Already have," you reply breezily. Then, realizing what you've just said, your eyes widen. "You know what? I'm sorry—"

He chuckles. "I got plenty of shirts. Just cut what you need to."

It's probably best that he preserves his modesty anyway. You might be a little distracted by the view, which means sloppy suture work. You snip away the fabric, about six inches up to his clavicle, exposing the laceration. It's not too deep, but definitely a gash. 

"How'd this happen?" you ask. A million scenarios run through your mind, most of them involving needing to update his tetanus shots. You're trying to fill in the blanks, imagining a warehouse shooting or a car chase. All of them terrify you. 

You shouldn't care this much about Jack. You spent enough years trying to forget that summer, how you fell for him, how you never stopped falling, because now you're looking at him and it's like no time has passed at all. 

"Bullet just grazed me," he says dismissively. 

That stops you cold. "You got shot?" 

"Shot at mostly. It happens."

You're torn between your professionalism and the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his good sense is restored. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you demand. 

"Sweetheart, I've been taking bullets since you were learning the ABCs," he drawls. 

Oh, you definitely have issues of the Freudian variety, because that turns you on a lot more than it should. What the hell is wrong with you? 

You distract yourself with the task at hand. Irrigate, cleanse, prep for stitching. You know how to do this like the back of your hand, so you focus on the steps, and not the heat of Jack's skin, the heady blend of sweat and cologne and his detergent.

Your brow furrows as you blot gently at the edges of the wound. "Doesn't it scare you?"

"It scared my wi—" He cuts himself off. You fill in the blanks, but you don't push, don't ask too many questions. "I could've done another tour, even after I lost my leg, if I really wanted to, but we had a deal. So instead, I bought a house in Pittsburgh and started playing it safe again."

Playing it safe. Is that what this is? Safety? "That's what SWAT is for you?"

"The SWAT thing is new. Only been doing it about, uh, four years?" he guesses. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."

The timing isn't lost on you. Did he start the SWAT thing after you slept together? Is it some kind of self-flagellation? A new reckless behavior to substitute the stupid fling he had with you? Your ego is probably making this seem bigger than it is. It probably has nothing to do with you. 

But what if it does? A small part of you whispers back. You shake it off. Steady your hands. "Hell of a fucking hobby, Jack."

"You got a filthy mouth, kid."

You roll your eyes as you finish cleaning the wound. "I'm not a kid."

"I know," he murmurs. And somehow? It feels loaded, the way he says it. 

You inject the lidocaine without warning, and he doesn't so much as flinch. As you thread the needle for suturing, you realize he's not looking at your hands—he's looking at you. At your face, carelessly falling loose from the braid you put it in twelve and a half hours ago. At the curve of your neck, the way you tilt your head as you concentrate on placing the sutures.

"You're not gonna check my work?" you manage to ask, voice quiet, as if afraid speaking louder will make your words shake. 

He shrugs his other shoulder. "Don't have to. Steadiest hands in Pittsburgh, right here."

"Ha."

"I'm serious. You're good," he assures you. "Real good."

You tie off the last stitch and dress the wound again, wrapping the bandage around the meat of his thick bicep. "All done. Avoid getting it wet, come back for removal in a few days, avoid strenuous activity, blah, blah, blah."

"Fantastic beside manner. I'll be sure to leave an excellent patient satisfaction survey."

"I'm just glad I don't have to chart this," you reply, gathering your things and placing them back into the suture kit. 

"Hey." His fingers brush your cheek, following the curve of the bone down to your jaw before tilting your chin up. Your eyes meet his. "Thanks," he murmurs softly. 

"You're welcome," you whisper back. 

There's a heartbeat, where you almost lean in a little closer, where you almost cross another line and kiss him, or maybe he's thinking about kissing you already. You've gotten pretty good at reading all of Jack's microexpressions, learning everything that makes him tick, but there's still so much you don't know. But you'd like to. Until you have your own language, until you drown in him. 

He clears his throat, pulling back just enough to draw the line in the sand. "You better get back downstairs. Robby probably needs you."

"And you have to call the family and your sergeant."

"Right," he says. "Yeah."

"Yeah," you echo. 

You walk away first, while you still can. 

You take the first elevator back down to The Pitt, and Jack waits for the next one. Even though Dana knows where you went, and Robby told you to follow him, there's still the imaginary standard of propriety to follow. Roles to stick to, and all that. Not that anything happened on the rooftop, not strictly anyway, though the vibes of a cataclysmic bad decision were there. Still, you're pretending.  

The more you see of Jack, the more confused you feel. Sure, he runs hot and cold, and whenever you think you're getting close, he pushes you away. His actions are loud, though. He cares about you, enough to teach you, to assemble your furniture, and take you to baseball games. So why would he take your virginity and leave? He probably doesn't even know he was your first, but he also doesn't strike you as a guy who just takes what he wants and leaves. It's a piece that doesn't fit, but no matter how much you want an answer, you're terrified to ask.  

You sit down next to Trinity at the computers, working on your charts. She's dictating, rubbing her temple with the telltale slump of her shoulders that signals a bad day.  

You nudge her shoulder with yours. "You good?"  

  She nods, yawning. "How was the GSW?" she asks. "Heard you got to put in a chest tube." 

"He had DIC. Bled out." 

"Damn. Still, you got to be in the room." She's doing her best to hide her jealousy, and guilt swims in your stomach. You'd tell her you tried to get Robby to switch you out, but she'd probably hate the pity. "Triage sucks balls. The most exciting thing I did was fish a condom out of some poor girl." 

"What?" you sputter. 

  "Two virgins walk into a gas station..." Trinity sing-songs. "Guy bought some Magnum XLs, so I had to go fishing. What a magical V-Card experience, right?" She snorts derisively. "McKay gave them some freebies in the right size. Thank god I'm a lesbian." 

You're tired, half paying attention, and your filter is shot to hell, which is why you let the comment slip without realizing you're opening the door to follow-up questions. "My first time wasn't that bad." 

As if the universe needs to mock you with more ill timing, Jack walks back behind the Central desk, passing some contact information to Dana while he dials. Your cheeks burn, and you look away.  

  Trinity pauses her typing, intrigued. "Sounds like there's a story there." 

  "No, Trin, we're at work. Jesus." If you could kick yourself without drawing more attention, you would. Central is already buzzing with energy since hand-offs are still underway. Some of the day shift staff have left already, but you're still hanging around, working on your notes and keeping an eye on Jack.

She raises her eyebrows. "Come on, don't be such a nun. How old were you?" 

You sigh. "We're not doing this." 

Trinity Santos is nothing if not relentless. She's got a massive heart to back it up, and a bit of an ego too. She's also terribly nosy, and that's why she's not going to let this go. You gave her the inch, and she's swooping in for the mile. "If you don't tell me, I'm just gonna keep nagging you until you give up." 

Part of you wants to tell her. She's your first female friend, a true friend, in your life besides Ashleigh, and Ashleigh, being your stepmom, isn't someone you can compare notes on sexual experiences with. For more reasons than one.

"Fine. I was twenty," you answer.

"TWENTY?" Trinity gasps, like you've scandalized her. 

You could die, right here and now. "Dude, keep your voice down."  

She seems to realize where she is, and as the nurses shift their attention away, she lowers her voice. "Sorry, I just... Twenty as in 2-0?" 

  "Uh-huh. I was a late bloomer. It was the summer before med school." 

You watch her process the information, silently doing the math in her head. "So you're...?" 

"Twenty-four." 

She whistles. "Jesus, you're like a baby. Can't even rent a car."  

"I'll be twenty-five soon," you reply, a bit defensive. Sure, you are one of the youngest people here, and you've gotten used to being the youngest person in most academic settings. You don't advertise it, mostly because you're so aware of how naive you must seem in comparison. "Besides, you're, like, three years older than me, not a fossil." 

She nibbles on the end of one of the PTMC ballpoint pens, scanning your face like she's reading your secrets. There may as well be a cartoon sign over your head that reads, 'I had sex with Jack Abbot, and I liked it'! "So you waited until you were twenty to pop your cherry?" she prods.

  "I just didn't find anyone I wanted to do that with," you explain, your face heating further and further, veering into fire-engine red territory.  

  She leans forward, her stool creaking. "So who was he?" 

  You decide the best way to handle the situation is to answer her questions as directly as possible with as little detail as necessary. "A friend of my dad's." 

She chokes on her next breath. "What?" 

"Trinity, I swear to god—" 

  She doesn't let you finish, because she's rambling now, like this gossip session gave her a second wind even espresso couldn't compare to. "My bestie, the Doctorpedia, good girl protégé, lost her V-card to her dad's friend? How old?" 

  It takes everything in you not to look at Jack. You refuse to turn around and glance over your shoulder, out of fear you're going to spell it all out and expose the truth. "Forty-ish." 

  Trinity guffaws. "Ish? Holy shit, you just got a lot more interesting. Maybe I should call you Lolita instead."

  You bury your face in your hands, groaning. "Trin, stop. Please. Doctorpedia is bad enough." 

  She raises her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, no new nicknames, but you have to admit Doctorpedia suits you, and it's catching on. Besides, this is way better than a chest tube procedure. I expect details later. Over tequila." 

  "I'm not telling you anything else." 

She pouts. "Come on. You're the only one getting to play doctor for real. Give me something—" 

You shake your head, deflecting. "I should go find Robby, ask what he wants me to add to the chart for the trauma—" 

"Robby's tied up," Jack says, and you startle, nearly falling out of your chair. "I can help you finish the chart, if you need help." 

You don't know how long he's been off the phone, standing within earshot of the two of you, possibly hearing every word of this conversation. You won't be shocked if Princess and Perlah start circulating it through the rumor mill. You're just praying they don't discuss it.

"Oh," you squeak. "Um, it's fine—" 

  Jack leans over you, hand gently pushing yours out of the way as he finds the mouse and scrolls. He squints for a moment, reading, and if you were alone, you'd joke about him needing reading glasses like Robby does. Finally, he hums in approval. "You have everything here, just need the attending's notes. It'll kick it to him once you hit submit." 

"Thanks," you manage, before clicking the green 'submit' box. 

  "Sure," he replies. "Got all your other charts done?" 

  You nod. "Langdon told me to stay on top of them, so I wouldn't be here all night." 

"Must be nice," Trinity mumbles. 

"Your supervising resident should handle most of the heavy lifting," Jack tells her. She opens her mouth to respond, but Jack just whistles before shouting across the room. "Hey, McKay!" 

"Yeah?" Cassie asks, her backpack slung over her shoulder. Her hair is loose, down from her usual ponytail, and you realize Trinity is definitely checking her out. "Harrison has a soccer game tonight. I'm trying to catch the end of it—" 

"Charts aren't done," Jack interjects. 

"Santos said she's got them," McKay replies, winking at Trinity. "Right, Trinity?" 

Trinity, for the first time ever, seems flustered. It might be a trick of the light, but you're pretty sure she's even blushing. "Yeah, uh, totally. Have fun at baseball." 

  "Soccer," McKay says, eyes bright. "I'll come in early tomorrow, Abbot. Swear." 

"I'll hold you to it," he warns. 

She waves over her shoulder as she leaves. Jack, satisfied, turns back to the pair of you. You gather your things, swiping your badge to log off before letting it reel back to your hip. You're still not used to seeing your name and photo tagged Doctor, Emergency Resident.

  "Just a few more notes," Trinity says. "I was just complaining for no reason. Don't wait up for me. Seriously. I'm good." 

  "You sure?" you ask again, shifting from foot to foot and awkwardly hovering. 

  "Yes, so stop asking. Shoo. Be free or what-fuckin-ever." 

  You take only a couple of steps before pausing. "I'll make you dinner. Text me when you're off." 

"Yes, yes, you're wifey material," she says, returning to her dictations and shooing you off. "Patient presented with—" 

You stop listening after that, making a 180 toward the locker room. You don't make it far before Jack calls your name. Last name, like a professional. Like he doesn't know what you taste like or what you sound like when you come.

"Hey, hold on a sec!" he calls after you, jogging to keep up. His weight drags a bit, and guilt twists your stomach. His leg must hurt. You notice the momentary wince, so brief anyone else would miss it.

The two of you are alone in the hallway by the lockers. Even without the eyes on you, you feel exposed, vulnerable to gossip or worse, something intimate. You busy yourself by fiddling with the combination, like avoiding his eyes will mean he doesn't ask what you know he's going to.  

  "How come you didn't tell me you were...?" He trails off, but the unspoken part of the question hangs there, like a cloud of smoke.  

"Wasn't important." And because he probably wouldn't have done it if he'd known. Maybe he could negotiate with his antiquated sense of duty without your virginity factored in. Truthfully, you didn't want to make it a big deal. You never believed in the Puritanical importance of your maidenhead, or whatever, and you weren't holding onto it by choice, so much as lack of opportunity. That much was true. Sure, a small, romantic part of you wanted the whole nine, but Jack took care of you, and for that hour or so, it was almost love. It felt like it, at least.  

  "It's important," he insists. "If I'd known—" 

"You wouldn't have bailed without leaving a note? Or you wouldn't have used me for sex?" You hiss the words, but they land as hard as they would've if you shouted them.  

"It wasn't my choice," he replies. "Sweetheart, believe me, if I could take it back—" 

  One of the night shift docs, Ellis, comes running into the corridor, out of breath. "Abbot, we need you in Trauma 2. Penetrating trauma. Two guys Shish Kebab-bed. Some Final Destination type shit. It's nasty." 

  "Say no more," he calls back. "Grab Santos. She looks like she needs to see some action."

Ellis nods her chin in acknowledgement. "You got it, cap!"

You fight a smile. Thank goodness Trinity will finally see a trauma room. You know she needs it. And of course, Jack sees it too. He's so perceptive and thoughtful, and it makes you want to throttle him and kiss him all at once. 

"Later," Jack promises you, squeezing your shoulder before he's gone too. The Pitt waits for no one, and everything moves at a thousand miles an hour. 

As you settle into your car for the drive home, you decide you won't hold your breath about finishing this conversation. No good ever comes from dredging up the past. 

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THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m always posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

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"I think I'd be happier in geriatrics," Trinity says, over shots of tequila and light beer in her apartment. "Seriously. What the hell was I thinking?"

"I coded a toddler for half an hour, and Abbot knew it was hopeless."

"Fuck, dude," she mumbles. "I'm so sorry." 

"It's the job. I mean, I did a pediatric oncology rotation, and I helped with a couple of trauma cases with kids in the ER, even did a family medicine rotation. I love peds. I know I'm good at it, but this…" You trail off, shaking your head. "This was terrible." 

She tips her beer in your direction. You switched to beer after the second shot, for the sake of work the next morning. "Heard you had a good save, though." 

"Pretty sure Langdon hates me for it. I kinda went around him. Collins backed me up, but still."

"Men are stupid, and I don't respect them," Trinity remarks. 

You stifle a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. Your back is sore, but it's a welcomed ache, like breaking a gym PR. It's the discomfort that comes with working hard. "We should be sleeping. Gotta do it again tomorrow."

She shrugs. "Or, we can keep drinking."

"I think I'm gonna call it, actually."

Trinity nods. "You good?"

"Yeah, I will be."

You let yourself out and head back into your apartment. When you switch the lights on, you're surprised by the sight of an assembled coffee table. When you run into your bedroom, your bed frame is put together too, and your bookshelf is assembled in the office. Did Ashleigh send someone? She's the only person you complained about your Ikea woes to, but it doesn't make any sense. Momentary panic hits you like a train as you contemplate calling the police. 

What would you even say? "A burglar put my furniture together?" The cops would laugh at you. Nothing is missing, and if anything, it's cleaner in here than it was when you left for work. 

It takes you a second to see the note on the dry-erase board you have stuck to your fridge.

Ashleigh gave me the door code. You can change it if you want. Let me know if you need help with anything else. —J

It's so hard to hate him. Even when you should.

You mean to unpack more of your things, but the second you get into your bedroom, you collapse in bed like a puppet with the strings cut. You drag yourself out of it just to brush your teeth and change out of your scrubs. The only shirt you can find is the Pirates tee, and you ignore the pang in your chest as you pull it over your head and bury yourself under the covers bare-legged and exhausted. 

Before you can overthink it, you send a text to Jack. 

You: thanks for setting up my furniture

You: you didn't have to do that.

He replies faster than you expected he would: a chime twinkling from your phone speakers. Old Man Asshole DO NOT CALL: You're welcome.

You: And I'm sorry about earlier. I should've been more professional.

You change his contact name back to Jack, just because your anger has faded, and he is your teacher, at the end of the day. You'll be working in close proximity for several years, so you need to get over yourself. Put it away. Shove your feelings down. 

He types for a few seconds, the three telltale dots appearing on your screen. They appear and disappear, like a flickering light. Finally, he replies. Jack: It's okay. It was a rough case. Get some rest, sweetheart. 

You give the message a thumbs-up and shut off your phone before crashing into an exhausted slumber.  

The next morning goes the same. Your alarm startles you awake, you peel your drool-covered cheek off the pillow, do your yoga flow, and then shower, dress, and make coffee for you and Trinity. 

When you get to the hospital, you're right on time. Frank is waiting at Central, talking to Ellis about a patient in Curtain Four. When he sees you, he pauses, and then goes back to the conversation. After a moment, he walks over to where you're standing, surveying the board.

"I wanted to apologize about yesterday," he says. "I can own it when I'm wrong. I shouldn't have dismissed you so quickly. Could've cost the patient his life."

"And I should've talked to Robby about it," you reply. "But hey, today's a new day."

He nods. "You do have to trust your instincts, you know? When it comes to this job, your gut is usually right. And when you're not sure, there's nothing wrong with checking in with an attending. It takes a village. Real kumbaya shit."

You snort. "Well, the Fourth is coming up. I'm sure we'll get a fire or two to sit around."

Frank laughs. "Yeah, you'll fit in just fine."

Jack comes out of one of the trauma rooms as a patient is being wheeled upstairs to the ICU. He stops when he sees the two of your standing together, the proximity between you and Frank, and the fact you're both smiling. His jaw clenches for a moment before he barks out, "Langdon, walk with me. Need you to take over for the med student in Exam Two."

"Disimpaction? Isn't that an intern job?" Langdon replies.

Jack crosses his arms. "I asked you. Move." 

"What about rounds?" 

"I'll let Robby know." Jack hikes his thumb in the direction of the small room. "Don't make me ask again."

Trinity walks by, muttering, "What crawled up his ass and died?"

"No idea," you say, but if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was jealous. 

Logically, you know that doesn't make any sense. Frank is married, and he told you about his two kids yesterday, a proud smile lighting up his face. You know he's not flirting with you; every other sentence is Abby this or Abby that. Maybe Jack just had a bad night. Rough shifts are part of the job, and you can tell his leg is bothering him. His steps are a bit slower, his weight favoring his good side.

Jack calls your name, pulling you into an exam room. The curtain squeaks on the rod as he pulls it around. You were expecting a patient to be occupying the bed, but the room is silent. 

You frown. "Why…?"

Jack's tone is flat at first, revealing almost nothing. There's a slight edge when Frank's name comes out. "How's Langdon treating you? Heard you butted heads yesterday."

"It wasn't a big deal." At least, you're pretty sure it's not. You already moved past it, and with the hundreds of patients who roll through the Pitt on a given day, it's not constructive to dwell on any cases. 

"Ended up being a good pick-up, I hear," he adds. "Type-A aortic dissection. Nasty work. Good instincts."

"I was looking for a zebra and stumbled onto it. Could've easily been nothing."

"With you? No. I'd trust you sooner than anyone," Jack replies. "You're certainly the most well-read, and came into the program with the highest honors."

"Those are books, not practical skills," you argue, cheeks hot. The flush spreads down your neck. "But I'm glad we were able to help him."

"You wanna know how he's doing?" he asks.

You nod. "How'd the surgery go?"

His dimples make an appearance, a proud twinkle in his eye. "Excellent. When they got in there, they said it was a miracle he was still alive. He's sporting a new titanium valve, but they extubated him an hour ago. It's gonna be a long road ahead of him, but he's still here, thanks to you."

"And Dr. Collins."

"Dr. Collins," he echoes. "She's very good. Gifted physician. Robby's got his eye on you, too, you know. He's impressed. Keep it up." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing, and the heat of his palm sears through your scrub top. All at once, you're doing the math, every square inch of his hand, the layers dividing his touch from your bare skin. 

You're dizzy, but you blink away the haze and say, "We should get going. Rounds."

"Sure, sure," he says. 

The moment you're outside of the quiet exam room, back into the chaos of the Pitt, the game begins. You get through rounds, and thankfully aren't the only person answering Robby's questions this time around. Trinity is sent out to sutures, where four patients are waiting. Her shoulders slump as she walks away. 

"I want you with Dr. Mohan today," Robby tells you. "Fair warning, she's got a tendency to spend too much time with her patients. With your pick-ups, I think you'll help her get some good momentum. Keep the ball rolling." You don't miss the visible annoyance underlying his words. You don't know Dr. Mohan well yet, but she seems sweet, thoughtful, in a way that almost feels out of place for a cutthroat arena like an ER. 

"Yikes. Good luck with Slo-Mo," Frank mumbles, picking up another chart. 

You shake off his words and follow Mohan to triage. 

As hectic as it was running trauma cases yesterday, triage is much easier. You see what Robby means about Mohan's pace, but she accomplishes something a lot of doctors don't—she makes patients feel listened to, not just heard. It's an important distinction you heard several times in med school, but watching it be put into practice is a different matter entirely. 

Shortly after noon, Collins pulls you away for a dislocation, walking you through the procedure. From that moment on, Trinity takes your place in triage, and you're running procedures for the rest of the shift. You even get to assist in another trauma, which floods your system with that jittery adrenaline you can't get enough of. Even if you're being run ragged, you're kicking ass. 

You can tell Trinity wants to be in the center of the action, to prove herself, and you feel a little guilty for all the hands-on experience you're getting and she isn't. When things seem a bit slower, you approach Robby nervously. His readers are sliding down the bridge of his nose, his eyes warm but discerning.

"You need something?" he asks, without pausing his charting.

"I was hoping I could do some suturing, actually. Maybe trade out with Dr. Santos? I, uh, want to keep up my skills."

Robby stops, folding his glasses as he leans back in his chair. "What's the ideal suture material for the face?"

"5-0 or 6-0 Nylon or Prolene. I prefer Prolene." 

He considers this. "What about deeper wounds? On the limbs or torso?"

"3 or 4-0 Nylon has greater tensile strength."

He hums, nodding. "You're fine. Look, I know you two are friends, but this is my ER. So far, you're showing me you're right where you belong. She'll get her trauma experience when she's ready. Okay?"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he replies, "but prioritize your education. We have another trauma coming in, a third-grader hit by a car coming home from school. I want you with me."

He stands up and walks without looking back, expecting you to follow. You do, of course, trying to shake off the guilt for Trinity's sake. You're finally making friends and finding your people, and the small child inside of you that claims shameful, suppressed feelings in your vulnerable moments is scared you'll lose them. 

The little girl is terrified. Open fracture, displaced pelvis, internal bleeding, and a budding tension pneumothorax. 

"On my count, one, two…" The medics transfer her from the gurney to the bed, rattling off her vital signs. Right away, you notice the deviation in her neck, the way her oxygen seems to be rapidly plummeting. 

"What first?" Robby asks.

"Pain management and breathing. We have to relieve the air in the pleural space and intubate to get her Sats back up."

Robby lifts his chin. "Do it."

You pause. "You want me to…?"

"I'll walk you through it. What drugs for sedation?"

You step closer to the bed. "Let's get some morphine on board. Hey, sweetheart, I'm gonna take care of you, okay? Just calm down, let's get the pressure off your lungs." 

Her hand shoots out, and you hold it gently, smoothing her hair as Princess passes you the tools for decompression and the thoracostomy. She takes over the hand holding, and you watch the pain medicine start to take effect. 

You've read about this procedure a hundred times, and when you did your ER rotations in the past, you witnessed plenty of chest tubes placed for a variety of purposes: air, fluid build-up, all of the above. You never actually placed one. You intubated a few cadavers, but never someone so small. Not in a trauma case anyway. Once or twice in pediatric oncology, with your mentor guiding your hands. This time, you're the doctor, and all you have is a teacher speaking to you, but you're in charge of your own hands. 

Robby speaks softly, but firmly, shadowing your movements. "Slow, steady hand, there you go. Perfect." 

The air hisses as it begins to pull from her chest, allowing the lung to inflate. You place the tube under Robby's supervision, and move to address the other issues. She goes under, and you intubate her as you stabilize the pelvic fracture and restore the blood flow to her leg where her femur has been displaced. Robby asks you what labs and films to order, and he has nothing to add to your assessment. 

By the time surgery comes in, Dr. Garcia and Dr. Park both seem impressed with your performance. You rattle off the details of the case without missing a beat, catching them up at rapid speed. 

"You know, I've heard good things about you," Dr. Garcia says. "Have you considered a surgical elective?"

You hesitate. "I mean, maybe? I'm already double-boarding in peds."

Garcia nods. "Just a thought. You could be a good surgeon. Sharky here even thinks so."

"You handled the fracture work well," Dr. Park admits, his face stony with a hint of begrudging approval. "Not bad for an intern."

"On day two, no less," Robby calls over his shoulder. "I think we'll keep our Doctorpedia down here."

The surgeons leave with the little girl. At the nurse's station, Perlah is searching for the girls' parents, combing through the school's emergency contact list. You wish you could do more to help, and part of you wonders what'll happen to her next. If she'll be okay. 

"They don't call him the Shark for no reason. Most of the time he eats interns for breakfast," Collins tells you. "Don't let them poach you. You're doing great where you are."

You've always been a little sheepish when it comes to praise and accepting positive feedback. Probably more side effects of the raging daddy issues. No amount of healing now can fully take that back, but you're trying your best. You're centered, and even if it's only the second day, you know this is the right choice for you. You belong in the ED, helping kids. 

You think back to the girl you were when you were a wide-eyed virgin, thinking you'd become an oncologist or something quieter. When Jack was a stranger, and his gentle suggestion of becoming an emergency doc was just an abstract maybe. Now? You're in a place that's entirely unexpected, and it's okay. All the best-laid plans fall to pieces, and the point of it all is to build them into something better. Bigger. 

"SWAT called," Dana announces. "GSWs, one stable, one trauma. Abbot radio'ed it in."

"Just when I thought I'd get a chance to piss," Robby grumbles. "Tell Jack to take it to Mercy next time."

Dana rolls her eyes. "You tell him that yourself."

My Jack? You wonder. Since when does he work for SWAT?

Then you realize you've started to consider him yours, and it's a dangerous, dangerous feeling. 

You barely have any time to process, running over the steps of a GSW trauma in your mind, before the doors of the ambulance bay burst open, and in comes Jack, dressed in camo, his tactical vest emblazoned SWAT in huge letters. He's bagging a patient bleeding profusely from several holes. 

Jack's rattling off his vitals, estimating the amount of blood volume lost in transit, approximating what kind of rifle at what caliber created the wounds. Even with the leads attached, and his clothes cut out of the way, there's so much blood. You gown up, gloves snapping into place as you stand closely behind Robby. 

At any time, the human body of an adult man contains about 5-6 liters of blood, culminating in 7-8% of total weight. You're not sure how much has already been lost. He's already losing the color in his skin, shaking as he slips closer and closer to hypovolemic shock. 

Robby's saying something to you, but the words don't land. The sound doesn't register. 

"W-What?" you stammer.

"What do we do first?" he asks.

"Central line and set up for a transfusion. O-Neg, type and cross for exact matching, get a full panel, CBC, Chem 7," you rattle off the checklist from memory, thankfully not missing anything. 

"BP's crashing!" Jack announces, his voice shaking ever so slightly. It's a tremble most people would probably dismiss, if they even noticed it. You don't miss the crack in his composure.

This is his friend on the table, you realize.

Robby's voice is gentle, but firm. "Brother, maybe you're a little too close to this one. We should get you checked out."

"I'm fine!" Jack snaps. "Keep bagging for me. We need to reduce the bleeding in the chest cavity or he's never going to make it up to the OR. Get me a rib spreader, let's get a chest tube tray. Doctorpedia!"

You still, almost surprised that he's addressing you directly.

He hooks a finger in your direction, ushering you over. "Come here, I'm gonna teach you how to put in a chest tube."

"An intern doing a thoracostomy?" Princess whispers under her breath in Tagalog, her gloved fingers rhythmically squeezing the bag to keep the airflow steady. 

Perlah replies with visible surprise as she watches you take your position beside Jack. "Guess so," she replies, in the same language. 

You noticed the nurses who gossip in Spanish stopped promptly after you translated for Trinity's patient weeks ago. You decide not to reveal you've picked up quite a bit of Tagalog, not when it might mean information later. Maybe it's a little shady, but you have to keep some cards close. 

"Scalpel," Jack says.

Dr. Abbot, you remind yourself. Right now, he's your teacher, and you can't think about how close he is. You can practically taste the sweat on his brow, feel the heat of his breath across your shoulder. You grab the blade, positioning it accordingly. Mid-axillary line, one thing at a time, cracking his ribs to spread them just enough to place the tube. Jack's behind you the whole time, one hand on your wrist, guiding you, his voice a rasp in your ear.

You can feel him shaking as he talks you through the thoracostomy. 

But the second his bag is hooked up, blood starts pouring from the chest tube like a faucet. The monitor starts beeping frantically, a run of V-Fib flashing over the screen. Everything feels so loud, like a cacophony forged by an ER orchestra, moving at an accelerated pace that defies reason. 

But you can't freeze. You can't stop. 

"He's in V-Fib, start compressions!" Jack shouts. "Let's push some epi. Now!"

The nurses move, pushing the drugs into the line. You see them in your periphery, but you don't turn your head. You can't stop looking at the patient's face, gaunt and slack, a tube helping him breathe. He's cold too, the same way the kid was: a cold that crawls through the gloves and chills your veins.

You step up, over the patient, hand over hand as you deliver compressions to the chest. There's a crunch of his sternum giving way under your hands. If you keep going, you're going to break some of his ribs. It's nothing like the dummies in labs, or other codes. You've never been covered in blood like this before, feeling it coating your gown, spilling from the three wounds along his body. His leg is tourniqueted, blood sluggishly pulsing from a wound on his thigh. There's a shot to his abdomen, another to the chest, just narrowly missing the heart. 

"Paddles!" Robby calls out. "Charge! Clear!"

You step back, and Robby shocks the man on the table. The whole room seems to hold its breath as you glance at the monitor. 

"No change," Jack grunts. "Charge again. Clear!"

The defibrillation dance continues with the same steps: compressions, meds, charging the paddles, placement, the shout, the jolt, and then, the waiting. Watching a monitor to see no change. 

"There's oozing coming out of the IV," Robby reports. "What does that indicate?"

You're out of breath, continuing to press against the patient's chest, remembering the pace they taught you in health class freshman year of college. All the signs are bleak. The patient has long since crashed, and every spot on his body is oozing with blood. What little he has is slipping from his wounds, and the transfuser can't keep up. 

 "His body is having trouble producing clotting factors," you answer. "He's in DIC."

DIC. Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation. It happens after severe traumatic events, like gunshot wounds. Uncontrollable hemorrhaging is bleeding him dry. You scan your brain for all the studies, everything you've learned and read about, hoping to find a way to counteract the DIC. 

"More epi. We should do a clamshell thoracotomy, get me more blood!" Jack shouts. He hovers over the man on the table, his chin quivering ever so slightly as he steels himself and looks at his closed eyes like they'll magically reopen. "Come on, don't do this, Wayne. Come on, man. Don't die on me now."

"Abbot," Robby says. "He's not clotting. There's no change on the monitor. Not even with the epi."

"We just need to give him more blood. Get him more blood!" shouts Jack. Sweat continues to trickle down his temple. "Charge again. Now!"

"Jack," Robby says, more firmly this time. "We have to call it."

"No," Jack replies. His voice cracks. "No, come on. His wife is pregnant. He's got two kids. One more round of epi. One more shock."

"He's in Asystole, man," Robby tells him, his hand on Jack's shoulder. "Call it."

Jack pushes Robby away with a hard shove, shaking his head as he removes his gloves and storms out of the trauma room. Robby blows out a breath, snapping off his gloves. "Time of death, 19:02." 

The nurses start in on the death kit. Dana runs in before you can get your bearings, a little frantic, "Shen's got his hands full in Trauma One. We need you in Two."

"Where are the residents?" Robby asks.

Dana crosses her arms. "Langdon's running a code, Collins is elbow deep in Shen's massacre. Come on. With the turnover happening, it's a jungle out there." Someone calls her away, and Dana's gone just as quickly as she came. 

"Never gonna get to fuckin' piss," Robby mutters as he hustles towards the next trauma room. "Doctorpedia, find Abbot, get the contact information for Wayne's family and radio his sergeant!" He's gone before you can say another word. You peel your gown off, unsure where Jack even went, or if it's a good idea to approach him this soon after a code.

You step out into the corridor, the smell of blood burning under your nostrils. 

"Pro tip," Dana yells from Central. "He's probably on the roof, getting air."

"Thanks," you say.

"Don't mention it," she replies. "You did good in there."

And you still couldn't save him. You don't want to argue with her, even if you don't know how to take the compliment, so you just give her a brisk nod and take off for the elevators. You hit the Roof Access button on the panel, sucking in a sharp breath.

You have no idea what state Jack will be in when you get there, and frankly? You're scared you'll cut yourself on those sharp, exposed edges.

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“Mrs. Abbot?” The pharmacist waves their hand in front of your face. “Are you feeling alright?”

You're staring down at your phone right now. At the bounty your company just set out on your burner. 

For a man named Andrew Cody. 

Better known by his call sign “Pope”. 

Who looks exactly like your husband Jack…

“Hmm?” You glance up from your phone, remembering for a moment where you are. “Oh, right. Sorry, just got a business text. A little distracted.” 

A clever excuse, like always, given your formal attire and the fact that you do actually work for a Fortune 500 company. You look like any corporate executive would if they were in line for a prescription at a pharmacy. Definitely not like an assassin for hire staring at a kill order…

“Do you need me to explain the medication to you before I sign off on it?” They show you the bottle of sleeping pills you always take on the nights Jack isn't home. 

Because it's always hard for you to sleep when he's not there next to you… 

“No, I'm alright.” You tell them and they nod, handing you the medication once they've signed off on it. 

You take it out of the paper bag when you get to your car and stuff the pill bottle into your glove box. 

You can't possibly take those now.

Not when you have no idea who your husband is…

So, you call your handler. “Who is this guy?”

“Competition.” The robotic voice on the other end answers. 

“Last known?” 

“Oceanside, CA.” 

You and Jack are a long way from there. On the complete opposite coast…

“Time frame?” 

“ASAP.” So, that's why it was sent to you…

You have the highest record of kills done in the shortest amount of time. Always so efficient. You knew it would bite you in the ass one day… 

“I'm retired, though.” 

“You're the only one capable of doing this within the desired time frame.” 

“Why?” You know they're not going to answer but you ask anyway, clarifying, “what's the rush?” 

“We have intel he is planning to kill one of our own.”

You wonder who it can be. 

Because you would've never guessed that it would be you.

Pope stares down, much like you had earlier, in disbelief at the photo on his screen. 

That's you, his wife, on his burner beneath the bounty just sent to him. 

But that isn't the name you gave him. 

Call sign “Pearl”. 

Because you excel under pressure. 

A top assassin. Clean kills. Perfect record. 

Just like Pope… 

“Jack?” Robby tries to glance over Pope's shoulder but he shoves his phone in his locker and shuts it before Robby can see anything. “Alright, keep your secrets.”

“My wife just sent something I shouldn't open at work.” Pope lies through his teeth but Robby always believes it. 

Since Pope talks about you all the time at work. He loves you, after all. 

He loves being a doctor, too. 

He hates being an assassin. He had quit when the two of you got married. 

So, why is he getting sent a bounty now? 

“She's a high priority target.” Pope's handler tells him when he calls after his night shift. Call sign “Smurf”. “We need her dealt with, so we need our best.” 

“Why the urgency?” Pope wants to know. 

Smurf replies, “we have intel she's after one of our own.”

He wonders who it could be. 

Because he'll never guess that you, his pretty wife waiting for him at home, are supposed to be going after him. 

You've been sitting at the dining table, nursing a glass of wine, since you got home from the pharmacy. 

You haven't eaten. 

You couldn't sleep. 

You can't even stomach the wine that's sitting untouched on the table. 

You keep thinking about your husband Jack. 

But you know that's not his real name. 

Andrew is his real name. Though, everyone in the world of hitmen calls him Pope. 

The ever elusive Pope. An elite assassin who has been out of commission for years now. 

Around the same time the two of you got married…the same time you retired too…

You blink back more tears because you're trying to convince yourself that the foolish thoughts in your head can't possibly be true. 

That maybe he quit killing people because he's actually in love with you. 

Like you're in love with him. 

Fuck. You know that can't be true. 

Pope is known to be heartless. Ruthless. A born killer. The best of the best at torturing his targets for information.

Nothing like the man you married, Jack Abbot.

Decorated veteran. Emergency medicine doctor. Caring, kind, loving husband of yours… 

How much of that was real? 

And how much of it was a cover?

Does he know…who you are? 

There's no way. And if he did, what's the goal of playing the long game? 

If he wanted you dead, why would he go through all the extra hoops of taking you out on dates? Marrying you? Making love to you? 

Because he loves you. Your mind tries to feed you delusions.

You are delusional…because you can't find it in you to kill him. 

Even though you have to, before it gets reassigned and someone else does. 

And they won't be so merciful…

“Honey?” You hear your husband's voice call out to you. 

Is it really morning already?

“What's wrong?” Pope sees the untouched wine glass and your puffy eyes. 

So, you make something up quickly. “The pharmacy didn't have any pills left in stock to fill my prescription. Couldn't sleep without them.”

Couldn't sleep without him. You hate that you love sleeping next to Jack—Pope. 

His name is Pope. Jack doesn't exist. 

The man you love was just a cover…

For what? You might never find out. 

“Come on, let's go to bed. I'll go get your pills for you after a nap.” He puts his hand out for you to take. 

And you take it without hesitation. Force of habit. 

Pope doesn't notice anything off about you, which is good. He is used to you not sleeping well without your pills. You get bad nightmares if you sleep unmedicated. 

That's why you like sleeping next to him. You never get nightmares for some reason. Probably because his warmth comforts you. 

The thought of feeling his skin cold because you had to kill him makes you want to throw up… 

You actually do throw up, right into the toilet in the bathroom. Pope gently holds back your hair, helping you with a light shoulder rub. 

“Are you alright, honey?” Now Pope is worried. 

Because the two of you were trying for a baby. And if you're pregnant right now…with his child…how is he possibly supposed to kill you? 

“No, I'm not alright.” You wipe the tears that are dripping down your face uncontrollably. “I'm scared.” 

“About what?” He kneels down next to you. “Talk to me.” 

You look him in the eyes, in those beautiful hazel eyes you fell in love with, and you want to tell him the truth. 

That you're supposed to kill him. 

Before he kills you. 

But instead, you tell him, “that you won't want to kiss me now, after I just threw up.” 

The concern on Pope's face washes away, replaced by a chuckle. “I'd kiss you no matter what.” 

“Yeah?” You look at his lips. “Are you sure?” 

He leans in to prove it, kissing you. And you kiss him back. 

You do more than just that. You pull him against you, wanting his body flush with yours. 

“Let's get ready for bed first.” He smiles at your eagerness. “Then I'll help you fall asleep like always.” 

Your skin heats up from his words and he nuzzles your nose while holding back an amused chuckle, liking how flustered you look.

It's hard for him to believe his adorable wife is an assassin. One of the best in the business too. 

And yet here you are, your hand holding onto his so nervously as he walks the two of you to bed after you both washed up and brushed your teeth. 

Who is the real you? 

The one who is looking up at him all bashful the moment he climbs on top of you in bed? 

Or the stone cold killer Pearl that he has heard echoes about slashing her way through target after target without a shred of fear? 

Does it matter right now when you pull him down to kiss you, lacing your fingers in his soft curls and grinding your hips up against his? 

“Someone's being impatient.” Pope nips at your bottom lip, drawing out a whimper from your lips. 

“Please, sir.” You beg of him because you need to feel your husband's body against yours right now. “Please touch me.” 

“How do you want me to touch you?” His hands slide under your shirt, lifting it up over your chest so he can see your lovely breasts. 

“Make me cum, sir.” You want to remember this feeling, in case you never get to experience it again. 

“Lift your arms up.” Pope instructs and you listen, letting him tug your shirt up over your head. 

But he doesn't pull it off. He instead ties your wrists to the headboard, securing them in place there. 

“What's your safe word, honey?” 

“Your name.” 

“That's right. Do you remember why?” He asks as he kisses down the length of your body starting from the arms he just bound. 

You swallow back gulps of air before his lips hover over yours and you breathe, “because I only get to call you “sir” in bed.” 

“Good girl.” He leans down, sealing his lips around yours, trapping the moan that wants to escape when you feel his hand slipping between your legs. “Do you still want me to make you cum?”

“Yes, sir.” You tug at your restraints when you feel his fingers graze your clit. So lightly, so purposefully weak to get you wriggling for more. “Please.” 

“My wife is so needy tonight. I love it.” He really does love you so much. 

That's why in bed, he doesn't want you calling out some fake name he made up. When you call Pope “sir”, he knows you're talking to him and not the fictional persona of Jack Abbot he created to be free from the world of assassination. 

It's hard for him to think that you've been hiding the same secret as he has been all this time. 

Is that why you told him you like being called “honey”? So you could enjoy his attention without the constant reminder of your fake identity? 

What would you do if he called out your real name right now? 

You're restrained. You wouldn't be able to do anything to him. Though, if you are Pearl, then he's sure you could get out of the loose knot he made with your shirt. 

Why does that thought make his cock twitch? The sight of you showing him how skilled you truly are at your work. You have to be skilled to hide this well. 

It would be betraying your trust, though, to use this vulnerable moment of yours for more than just sex and pleasure. 

You trust Pope, maybe not fully but definitely in bed. You've given this part to him. He knows that well. 

You wouldn't show this side of you to just anyone, the side so desperate to cum on his fingers that your hips are grinding against his hand now that he's stripped you completely naked.

Would you be this eager if you knew that he's supposed to kill you? 

Maybe you wouldn't care. 

You just want to cum. 

His spoiled wife, who he takes great care of. 

“Beg for it, honey.” He pins you down to the bed by your lower belly, stopping you from squirming so much. 

“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead with him and nearly cum when he spits so harshly on your clit. 

“Be specific.” Pope wants to see what you ask for today. 

“Please make me cum on your fingers, sir.” You feel so empty inside. 

Your heart aches and you want to have him inside of you any way you can.

“Are you going to be a good girl and cum hard for me?” He asks as he slips a finger inside of you for just a second before popping it back out, pulling a whine from your lips. 

“Yes, sir.” You definitely will. 

“Let's see it.” Pope dips two fingers inside of you then and curls them, grinding them right up against that spot that has your body trembling all over. He keeps thrusting them right there, reveling in how tight you're squeezing his fingers as he fucks you with them. 

He knows you're about to cum because you're looking at him with those pleading eyes of yours. You don't want him to stop. 

He always stops though. Because he likes seeing you on the edge of an orgasm, panting, reeling from getting so close before his fingers slow completely. 

“Please, sir.” You don't know how much more you can beg for him to make you cum. 

Pope likes torturing you. It's what he's good at. Always has been and he takes a lot of pleasure from it. From seeing you so helpless and in need of his assistance.

“Tell me you love me.” He doesn't know why that's what he asks in this moment. Usually he asks you to tell him something filthy, to leak out a dark desire of yours he'd be happy to fulfill. 

But right now, all he wants to hear is your beautiful voice telling him, “I love you.” 

“I love you too, honey.” He says, then drives his fingers back inside of you without warning. 

You cum instantly, the sheer force of his sudden movements causing you to squirt uncontrollably. You're gasping for air and crying out because he won't slow down. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers until you're squirting like a fountain for him, drenching the sheets with your orgasms.

“Oh god, sir, I can't—” You dig your nails into the fabric of the shirt binding your wrists when Pope leans down to seal his lips on your aching clit. “Wait, stop, I'm going to cum again if you—”

You cum so hard that your eyes roll back and you can't seem to pull enough air into your lungs with every heavy breath. Pope slides his fingers out of you, licking them clean while he stares down at the sight of you so thoroughly dazed. 

He strips off his clothes then, and that's when you ask him, “will you please untie me, sir?” 

And he's tempted to tell you to do it yourself. 

You can, of course, but in this scene, you've relinquished control to him. You've let him restrain you, so you aren't going to undo them yourself unless you absolutely have to. 

Should he give you a reason to? 

Should he wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze just to see if you're afraid of him enough to show your true self?

His body moves before he can think his actions through. 

Pope sinks his cock into you, filling you up completely before his hands wrap around your neck. Your eyes widen when you feel him tighten his grip around your neck. 

Tighter than he's ever choked you before.

Pounding into you with his cock rougher than he ever has before too. 

“Say my name.” He keeps squeezing more and more, ramming his cock into you harder and harder, trying to scare you. “Do it.” 

The wires are crossed in your head. You don't know what to think or what to do. 

So much pleasure is flooding your system but there's a backnote of genuine fear. 

That maybe Pope is trying to kill you. 

Would he? 

Should you let him? 

If you did, then you wouldn't have to kill him. 

Then your last memory could be him fucking you like this. 

That's not a bad way to go. 

Especially not when you're cumming your brains out on his cock, feeling so lightheaded from the lack of air, your mind spinning from cumming so much over and over again. 

“Say it!” He shouts at you, shaking you by your neck. “Make me stop. Don't let me…”

You lock eyes with him and it's only when you see the tears building in corners of his eyes that you have to put a stop to this. 

Not for your sake, but for his. 

So, you slip out of the fabric tied around your wrists with ease then you reach up, cupping Pope's face before meeting his shocked gaze with your eyes as you call out his name, “Andrew.”

He blinks at you, the grip around your neck stilling completely, no longer actively squeezing. Tears drip down his face and you can feel them hitting your own face. Though, maybe some of those are your tears. 

“You were going to let me kill you.” He lets go of your neck entirely, holding himself up at either side of your head now. “Why?” 

“Because they want me to kill you.” You don't need to explain much else. “And I can't do that to you. I love you, Andrew. Even if you don't—”

“I love you too.” He says, followed by your real name. 

And despite all the orgasms you've had, nothing could compare to the pleasure of hearing your real name come out of his lips after being told that he loves you. 

“I wouldn't have killed you.” He swears to you. “I would've let you kill me if you had to.” 

“Till death do us part.” You pull him in for a kiss then, like you're making that vow again. 

Only this time, as your real self. 

“Death will have to wait.” His words are so warm on your lips that your heart skips a beat. “Because I finally get to hear my wife call out my name while I'm fucking her. I'm not dying today.” 

You chuckle, smacking him on the chest, “Andrew!”

He smiles back at you, nuzzling your nose so affectionately before kissing you. 

You meet his hips halfway as he starts to roll them against yours, fucking you nice and slow. Making love to you, like always. 

Making you laugh like always. “Are you really Pearl?”

“Are we seriously talking about this while you're fucking me?” You gasp when he buries his cock as deep as he can and then lays all of his weight on you, trapping you beneath him. “Andrew!” 

“Fuck, you sound so good screaming my name.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek and you glare at him when he pulls away. “Answer the question.” 

“Yes.” You answer then yelp when he thrusts his cock inside of you all of a sudden.

“Yes what?” He smirks at how annoyed you look. 

So there is a side of you he hasn't gotten to enjoy fully yet. The little brat hidden beneath the usual submissive. 

“We are not doing this!” You shove at him so he pins your arms down with his hands. “Stop it!” 

“You're good at pretending, honey.” Because if the stories are true, you definitely can get out of his grip right now.

Pope wants to see it. See you in action. 

You huff through gritted teeth. “I am not doing this with you, Pope.”

Oh, now you've pissed him off. 

Pope slips out of you completely and before you can stop him, he opens the secret compartment he built into his bedside table and pulls out his revolver. 

Then, he shoots you. 

You narrowly avoid it, your reflexes kicking in immediately so you can dodge it, rolling off the bed and to your feet in an instant. 

He laughs so hard that you want to punch his teeth out. “So you are as good as they say.”

“Fuck you, you just shot at me, you motherfucker!” You press your hand against the nearby wall, activating the biometric lock that opens up the hidden compartment you made and pull out your glock. 

Then, you shoot him. 

And Pope narrowly avoids it, before firing another shot at you that you dodge with ease so you fire back at him quickly.

Clipping his arm. 

You suddenly feel a weight sink in your stomach at the sight of the thin line of blood that darts across his bicep. But that uneasy feeling washes away when you hear Pope chuckle so happily.

“Nice shot, honey!” He tells you before he fires another round and you almost get clipped in the ear. “Hey, stand still. I need to even the score.”

“What are we doing right now?!” This has to be the strangest foreplay ever! 

“Having fun. And getting some practice in.” He says before shooting at you again, this time by your feet, hoping to nick your ankle but you're too slippery. “Looks like my wife doesn't need the exercise though. Good reflexes.”

“I will shoot your fucking cock off if you don't stop whatever the hell this is!” You shout at him before he aims another bullet at you. “Andrew!” 

“You wouldn't dare shoot my cock. You'd miss it if it was gone.” He smiles so mischievously at you that you are actually tempted to shoot him there. 

“I don't miss your leg.” You say then instantly regret it because you feel like that might've been too harsh, given the prosthetic he has.

Until Pope starts laughing again and goes, “that's why you won't take out the one hanging between my legs, right?” 

“Oh my god!” You groan at the horrid joke. “Who the fuck did I marry? Have you always been this irritating!”

“Pretty much.” He nods with a shrug. 

So you shoot his gun out of his hand. 

Pope is actually startled by that, his revolver dropping to the ground. 

Right before you pin him down to the ground in his distraction.

You point the gun to his head then tell him, “I always knew I'd be better than you.”

“Oh yeah?” Pope suddenly grabs you and pushes you down onto your back, then shoves his cock into you in a single smooth stroke. “I always knew you had it bad for my cock.” 

“I will fucking shoot you!” You point your gun at him as he rolls his hips, grinding the tip of his cock deep where you like it. “Stop it!”

“You'll have to shoot me if you want me to stop fucking you.” He digs his fingers into your hips for leverage before he starts pounding his cock into you at a pace that has your back arching and your orgasm building too quickly. “That's it honey, cum for me.” 

“Andrew, you can't—” You literally have a gun trained on him and he's fucking you right now?!

“I can't what? Fuck my wife? Watch me.” He slips his hand between your legs and rubs your clit while he finds the right angle to drill his cock into you until you're cumming all over him. 

You toss your gun aside, not wanting to accidentally shoot him, as your orgasm shoots through you in intense waves of pleasure that has you pulling him in for needy kisses. He smiles so beautifully against your lips as he kisses you back.

“Tell me you want my cum, honey.” He massages your lower belly with his palm while his fingers play with your clit and his cock pounds you into the ground. “Tell me you want to have my baby.” 

And it's like you snap right back into that submissive space in your head because you nod and tell him, “please, I want to have your baby. I want your cum, sir.” 

“Good girl.” He gives you the sweetest kiss on the forehead before saying your name and telling you, “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too, Andrew.” You pull him back for a kiss, pleasure surging through you as you cum again. 

That's enough for Pope to cum, when he feels you tightening up from your orgasm, milking his cock dry. You lay your forehead against his, breathing heavy as he fills you with so much of his release.

“What do you usually say after you've gotten my cum deep inside of you?” Pope nudges your nose, waiting for your response. 

“Thank you, sir.” You tell him, grinning when he grins back at you. “You are so lucky I love you.” 

“I am lucky, because you definitely would've been able to kill me before I could kill you.” Pope can tell your reflexes are much better than his. 

“We should get that cleaned up.” You point to the slight cut from the bullet. 

“I'll be fine.” He waves off your concern, since it's not even bleeding anymore. “In case you forgot, I am actually a doctor.” 

“How does an assassin have time for medical school?” You raise an eyebrow at that.

For you, it was easy to forge an impressive resume to land you an incredibly easy corporate executive job where all you do is answer emails all day. 

Pope actually went to medical school and served in the military. 

All under his fake identity, Jack Abbot. 

“How do you think I paid for medical school?” He laughs at his own joke and then laughs some more when he sees you glaring at him. “You are so cute, honey.” 

Before you can say something back in retaliation, Pope kisses you with so much affection that you melt in his arms. 

The two of you lay there on the ground, kissing until he's soft. Then, you both take a nice shower together, which really ends up with you riding him in his shower chair until the two of you cum again together, and then get redressed for bed after swapping out the sheets.

“There's bullet holes in our walls.” You gesture at all the work that will need to be redone. “How are we supposed to explain that to a contractor?”

“We have lots of fun in the bedroom?” Pope chuckles when he sees how annoyed you are with his antics. “What? It's true—”

The doorbell rings, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

Pope rolls over to his bedside table, grabbing his security tablet so he can check who's at the door. 

It's the police…

“A neighbor probably called when they heard the gunshots.” You hold back a groan. “What are we going to say?”

“Misfire?” Pope says with a shrug. “I'll just say my silly wife wanted me to show her how to shoot and you accidentally pulled the trigger.” 

“I can accidentally shoot off your balls. Don't test me.” You shove at him. “You go answer them. I'm staying here where it's cozy.”

Pope hands you the security tablet and then gets up to go to the door. He tells the officers the explanation but they want to step inside to look around, which Pope allows. 

Though, his eyes drift to the two cops that walk into the house once their backs are turned to him. He doesn't recognize either of them from the local police force and since he does SWAT work every now and then, he should have at least seen them once or twice. 

They wouldn't send newbies out to check on gunfire. 

And those guns they have holstered aren't police-issued…

Fuck. Pope can't tell if they've figured out that he knows yet. 

So, he slowly walks over to the bookshelf by the living room television, where he has a gun. 

But before he can fire a shot, a bullet flies through the air. 

And one of the cops drops dead. 

Then, Pope shoots the other one down before that one has a chance to react to you killing their partner. 

He walks over to meet you as you both stare down at the dead bodies. Then, you each take a body to check for a burner. 

“How'd you know they weren't real cops?” Pope finds the burner phone on his dead cop’s body, seeing the bounty for you and him on the screen with your current house address listed for last known.

You pull out your dead cop's burner along with some keys then say, “no cop car outside. But a very nice getaway vehicle.”

“Want to take a ride, honey?” Pope puts his hand out for you to give him the keys. “You got a go bag?” 

“Of course I have a fucking go bag.” You want to beat him up for even asking. You know he's just messing with you, though. “I have one made for the two of us too.” 

“Really?” Pope finds that oddly sweet. 

“In case my life ever caught up to yours.” You wanted to make sure that wherever you had to hide, he could come with. 

“What are our new identities then?” 

You go to unseal one of the floorboards in the living room and pull out the go bags. They're filled with untraceable cash and other necessities like weapons and new identities. 

You pull out Pope's new driver's license and hand it to him. He looks at it and goes, “seriously? You couldn't pick a better name than “Titus”?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes at him, throwing the heavier go bag at him. “Go pack the car, Mr. Danforth.” 

“Maybe I should have you call me “mister” instead of “sir” from now on, Mrs. Danforth.” He says with a smirk on his face, swinging the bag over his shoulder with ease before putting his hand out for you to take. “Ready to run away together?” 

You let out a light chuckle then nod. “Yes, sir.”

“So we're keeping the “sir”. I'll allow it.” Pope leans over, giving you a loving kiss on the temple. 

The two of you start packing the car but then you remember the pills so you quickly go and grab them from your car. Pope furrows his brows at you. 

“You got them already? Why didn't you take them last night?”

“You know why.” You shove them in your go bag. 

“Tell me.” He makes you stop your fussing.

“Andrew, we have people after us, who wants us dead. Can we talk about this in the car?” He really has such poor timing sometimes!

“I promise I wouldn't have killed you. Even if they tried to make me, I wouldn't. I love you, truly.” He says your name too, just to confirm it, giving you the reassurance you didn't know you needed to hear. “Come here.” 

Pope pulls you into his arms, giving you a warm hug that you gladly accept. 

“Till death do us part.” He tells you before lifting your chin up to look at him. “And I promise you won't need those pills for a while. I'll make sure you sleep real good from now on.” 

You glare at him, knowing what he's insinuating and when he laughs, you giggle with him before leaning in for a kiss. 

“Now let's go make sure the world knows not to fuck with Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.” Pope says against your lips before giving you another loving kiss. 

You're certain they won't once they realize the two of you are a pair.

Because why would any assassin risk going head to head with you and Pope? 

It'll surely be a death sentence for them, and a lot of fun for you two. 

a/n: aw, this one turned out so much more fun than I originally planned! I will say that I hope this version of pope sort of makes sense as like a blend between him and jack, since technically he is jack too! I thought it would be fun to explore the idea that pope created the persona of jack abbot as a cover and then grew to love being jack! and now he's titus hehe ~

I decided to keep this one short and sweet. I was originally going to write the whole backstory of how they met, etc, but sometimes I like leaving things up to the imagination, I find that more fun and it allows for a little more wiggle room for any future installments! 

The original Post by Spookypeachpitt13

And what if Robby accidentally sent you two texts back to back that he meant to send Jack.

And what if those texts were not only sexual, but possessive and fucking borderline

And what if they turned you on?

And what if the texts said:

-There’s just something about those handful tits and those fucking hips that make me wanna keep fucking babies into her, man. Jesus Christ…imagine her breasts all fucking full…her belly all swollen? And I have to watch these small dick EMTs fail to hit on her all day?

- one night, that’s all I need. I’ll fuck into her so deep, she’ll be calling me in 5 weeks telling me she’s late …those fuckboys won’t look at her ever again.

You sat cross-legged on your bed in your old PITT t-shirt and a pair of pajama shorts. The phone burned in your hand and every time your thumb woke it up, the two texts from Robby filled the screen. They weren’t meant for you, you knew they’d probably been intended for Abbot. And nothing said they were about you. He didn’t mention your name or even that you were a resident but somehow you knew. You’d caught the older man staring at you one too many times for it to be innocent. And then there was the glare he’d given the two idiot EMTs that had flirted with you yesterday.

You read the first message again, biting your lip. The way he said it—fucking babies into her. Breasts full. Belly swollen. Jesus fucking Christ. You’d been the kid who’d googled ‘pregnancy kink’ at thirteen and hated yourself for it. You’d apparently evolved only far enough to know to delete your search history. Heat started low in your belly and climbed up, prickling your skin and making your neck flush with color.

It would be so easy to ignore. Pretend you hadn’t seen it. But the way your nipples pressed against your threadbare bra and the sweat slicking your palms told the truth. You were incredibly turned on.

You hit reply, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Nothing.

You tried again, deleting every attempt. Sorry, wrong number lasted all of three seconds before you erased it. You weren’t sorry. You were fucking thrilled he’d sent them to you, even if you were trembling with nerves because of it. What would the right response be? What would make Robby see you as the perfect little slut? You’d never been that kind of girl, had never even been tempted. Until now.

Robby glanced at the time to find the end of his shift was creeping ever closer. His phone buzzed against his thigh and he thumbed open the lock screen. Three new messages, your name at the top. He licked his lips as his brain immediately turned to the rather vivid fantasies he’d been having of you all day.

The first five words were enough to spike his blood pressure. I want that so bad.

He sucked in a breath and scrolled through the previous messages. Shit. Those hadn’t been meant for you. He’d been blowing off steam to Jack after walking around half-hard all shift thinking of you. Jesus, you could have ended his whole career with one screen shot. But you’d replied. Holy shit, you’d replied.

He scrolled to the bottom, desperate to see all your messages.

I want that so bad.

I want you to do it all. I want to feel you dripping out of me.

Make me yours.

His cock hardened with one involuntary twitch, sending a surge up heat up his spine. His brain short-circuited. You wanted this as much as he did.

God, I’m dripping just thinking about it. Never been this wet before.

He had to move. Now.

He told Dana he was taking ten and hurried down the hall before ducking into the supply closet. He braced both hands on the shelving and sucked in a deep breath. His cock was straining, so fucking hard it hurt. He wanted you under him, over him, straddling his lap, bent over the bed in the on-call room, biting your own hand to keep from screaming as he drove into you. He wanted to ruin you. Make sure you never thought of anyone else ever again. Shit. Fuck.

He reread your last message. Never been this wet before.

His hands shook with need as he composed his response.

You have no idea what I want to do to you right now. How bad I want to fuck you. To put my hand around your throat and my mouth on your tits while my cock is so deep that you can’t think. I won’t stop even if you beg. You’ll be full of me for days.

Your response was simple and did absolutely nothing to calm him down.

Please

He had to keep pushing, to know you wanted this as badly as he did.

I want to see all of you. I want your tits in my hands, your mouth on my cock. Want you begging me to put a baby in you like I need to breathe. I want you to ride me until you can’t take anymore then I’ll hold you down and fuck you until you cum again. You’d look so perfect. Fucked out. Messy. Mine.

A beat passed then two as Robby pressed the heel of his hand into his erection, feeling the throb with every heartbeat. Then your response came, stealing his breath. Nothing more than an address, your address he assumed. Fuck yes.

Oh baby. You’re mine now.

By the time the knock came on the door, you’d cleaned your apartment twice, and given yourself a lengthy peptalk in the mirror. You’d dug out the lacy black underwear and bra you’d bought for a date you never went on then dispensed with the bra completely. You debated on what to wear before just slipping your t-shirt and shorts back on. Robby might as well see the real you, the comfortable you. Besides, you hoped you wouldn’t be wearing them very long.

You licked your lips and took a deep breath before swinging open the door. You had half a second to run your gaze over him before he stepped into your space, crowding you backward until he could kick the door shut and flip the lock. His hair was wet and his scrubs were clean so he must have showered in the on-call room and come straight from work.

In a blink he was on you, your shirt fisted in his hand as he used his grip to slam you into the wall, the air whooshing from your lungs. You made a sound, part gasp, part nervous giggle. His kiss landed hard enough to hurt, all teeth, tongue and bruised lips, like he was daring you to fight back. You moaned into the kiss, letting yourself sag against him. His beard rasped against your chin as his hand left your shirt to curl around your hip, thumb digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise.

He tasted like coffee and that nicotine gum he seemed to always be chewing. He pushed in closer, pressing his body to yours, every inch of him against your curves. You felt the heat of him, the way his chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts. He caught your wrists and pinned them overhead with one large hand, flattening you to the drywall. His other hand slid under the hem of your t-shirt and traced your side, palm greedy, warm, catching the underside of your bare breast.

You whimpered, twisting in his grip, wanting more, needing more. He smiled slow and dangerous at the sound. “Is my poor baby feeling needy?”

You nodded frantic.

He kissed you again, rougher. His hips pressed forward, pinning your pelvis, the length of his hard cock sending heat straight through your core. You writhed, helpless, needy, and his hand shifted to cup your breast, cradling the weight of it. His thumb circled your nipple until it peaked so hard it ached.

“Fuck,” you gasped, arching your back.

He grinned, nipped your lower lip hard enough to sting then growled in your ear. “Say it again. Louder.”

You barely managed it. “Fuck.”

“That’s more like it.” He shoved your legs apart with his knee, making room for himself. “I want to hear every filthy thing you utter.”

His mouth worked down your throat, biting and sucking a path from your jaw to your collarbone. He was marking you up and just the thought of him being that possessive over you lit up every nerve in your body. You wanted to mark him back, to claw at his back until red furrows colored his skin, but he had you trapped, your wrists pinned.

“Let go,” you protested but didn’t mean it.

“No.” He nipped at your neck again before spinning you away from the wall. His grip on your wrists never faltered as he walked you backward down the hallway, his body pushing you. Your bedroom was easy to find and he paused just inside the doorway to take everything in. You’d left the bed unmade, hadn’t seen the point after the texts.

He pulled you close, hips grinding into yours. His lips found your ear, voice gruff and low. “Did you touch yourself after you got my texts, pretty girl? Did you think about me while you did it?”

Your face burned. You tried to shake your head but he caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at him. “Liar.” His mouth crashed against yours again. His free hand squeezed your ass, the grip tight, bruising. He bit at your ear. He let go of your wrists, just for a second, and your hands immediately found his waist, pulling him closer. His cock, hard as steel, pressed into your belly and your body went molten at the thought of it finally inside of you, filling you. It took everything in you not to whimper.

He pushed your shirt up and over your head. His gaze feasting at the exposed the flesh. “Fuck. Look at you. Fucking beautiful.”

You wanted to cover yourself, suddenly shy, but he caught your wrists again, pinning them behind your back this time. He pressed them against your back, making you arch into him. He dropped his head, sucking one erect nipple into his mouth, his beard irritating the skin around it. His tongue lapped the tip, once, twice. Then he bit down, gently at first then harder until you gasped at the flood of pleasure that went through you with the pain.

He released you only long enough to strip your shorts and panties in one swift movement. The heat in his eyes burnt away every ounce of your self-consciousness. He leaned in, hand sliding up your inner thigh and dragged two long fingers along your slit. “You are fucking dripping.” He gave you a smirk full of evil intentions. “You are such a mess.”

You trembled. “Only for you, Michael.” You’d never called him by his first name before but it felt wrong to call him Robby when you stood nude before him.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a groan. When he looked at you again, his eyes were nearly black with want. He slipped his fingers into his mouth, tasting you, then smiled wide.

“Pretty girl,” he said, “you have no idea what I’m about to do to you. He pulled off his scrub top, revealing a chest lightly dusted with hair. He peeled off the pants and boxer briefs, cock springing free, long and thick. Saliva pooled in your mouth at the sight. You’d always assumed, imagined he was packing, but damn.

He steered you to the bed, following you down and caging your body in with his. He hovered over you, breath fanning your face. “This what you wanted?”

You nodded.

“Need to hear you say it.”

“Yes. God, yes,” you stuttered out.

He kissed you again, gentler this time, then trailed his lips down your throat, over your breasts and down to your belly. He paused at the curve of your hip and gave you a wicked grin before hooking your knees over his shoulders. His lips grazed the thick, swollen heat of you. His tongue was rough, practiced, relentless and you cried out loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Not that you gave a shit.

He worked you with his mouth and fingers until you were begging, clawing the sheets and rocking your hips into his face. “Please. Please. Please,” you repeated over and over, unsure what you were even asking for. Release. Mercy. More. You’d take it all.

His beard glistened when he looked up at you and smiled. “Louder.”

You obeyed.

He continued with his exquisite torture until you broke apart with a shuddering, gasping breath. He watched, eyes bright, grin feral as if this was everything he’d ever wanted. He moved up your body, lining himself up with your entrance. “Ready for me?”

“So ready,” you breathed.

He smiled, cruel and sweet at once. “Good girl.”

He filled you slow, savoring the slide, the way your body struggled to stretch around him. He was thick. God, he was so thick. A stinging ache filled your core as your body accommodated him. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, biting deep. Robby braced himself above you, face so close you could see flecks of gold in his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted, the words barely more than a breath. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You swore you could feel him in your belly by the time he bottomed out. His hips were flush to yours, pelvis grinding into your clit. You moaned at the feeling of him so deep inside. You expected him to fuck you hard. To take what he wanted. Instead, he held you down, pinning you to the mattress with the full weight of his body.

He pulled out, then drove back in slowly, making your feel every millimeter. You squirmed and he just smiled before setting a punishing rhythm. He leaned down, bracing on one elbow and captured your nipple between his teeth, biting just shy of too hard, then soothed it with his tongue. His other hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging in, spreading you wider for him.

He fucked you like that for what felt like forever, always slowing his pace when you neared the brink of release. Denying you the one thing you craved. You whined, writhing under him as he did it again. He grinned and shook his head as he pulled out. “Not yet, pretty girl.”

He flipped you easily, rolling you onto your stomach and dragging your hips up so you were braced on all fours. He knelt behind you and you swore you could feel his eyes raking over you. He ran his hands over your curves, squeezing and spreading, thumbs digging into the dimples at the base of your spine.

“Fuck, look at this ass.” He sounded almost reverent. “It’s even better than I imagined.”

He bent over you, beard scratching as he bit the soft flesh of your ass hard enough to leave a mark. You yelped, the sting blooming into heat. He laughed, low and delighted, then slid his fingers between your thighs, spreading you wide.

“Fuck.” His voice was ragged. He traced circles around your clit, teasing, never giving you enough to let go, keeping you right at the edge. He shifted, his large hands wrapping around your hips, and drove into you with enough force you swore you could feel his cock in your throat. You released a strangled cry. He pounded into you, obscene sounds filling the air. “You ready to cum, baby?”

“Yes,” you panted. “Please.”

He chuckled, then reached around to rub your clit fast and rough. The sensation toppled you over the edge. You screamed, body convulsing, muscles clamping down so hard you felt him shudder and curse behind you. He fucked you through it, relentless. One hand traced your spine and slid around to your throat. Not choking, just holding, reminding you who was in charge. “Want me to cum in you?” he demanded, voice gravel. “Want me to fuck a baby into you, like I promised?”

You moaned, a desperate plea.

“Say it.” The fingers at your throat tightened just a little.

You gasped. “Want you to—fuck—fill me up. Want you to—ruin me—please, Michael, please.”

He groaned, the sound half animal. “You’re going to take all of it. Every fucking drop. You hear me?”

You nodded, tears blurring your vision. “Yes. Yes, please. I want it.”

He kept fucking you, harder, faster. He let go of your neck just long enough to reach around and rub your clit again and you shattered. You screamed his name, raw and helpless. He came a second later, hips jerking, cock throbbing inside of you. Hot liquid filled you and Robby stayed buried deep inside. His forehead pressed against your back as he panted, both of you shaking.

When you collapsed, he followed, not letting go. He kissed your shoulder, gentle now. “You’re mine.” It wasn’t a question.

You turned your head to look at him. “All yours.”

His smile was radiant. “Good girl.” He pulled out slow and careful and wetness dripped down your thigh. You shivered, already aching for me. Wanting him to fill you until you barely remembered your own name.

He rolled you onto your back, then leaned down and kissed every mark he’d left on your skin. He kissed your lips last, soft and sweet then rested his forehead against yours as the two of you waited for your heartbeat to return to normal.

You looked at this man, who had ruined you in the absolute best way and grinned.

It had been six weeks since Dr. Michael Robinavitch ruined you for all other men and you hadn’t spent a night alone since. He was doing his best to be a man of his word, filling you up at every opportunity. You’d done your best to remain professional at work, not wanting to deal with Gloria and her HR bullshit, but he didn’t make it easy.

Stepping up behind you while you were charting, lips centimeters from your ear as he murmured a correction or asked a question.

Placing a hand on your back as he passed behind you, or reached for something. Never necessary but he did, palm heavy and hot enough to be felt through two layers of clothing. The heat lingering long after he’d moved on.

Dark eyes, following you as you moved through the department. Winking when he caught you watching him.

Hands on yours, body curled around you as he guided you through a procedure.

He did not play fucking fair.

You stood at the hub entering information on a patient waiting for a bed upstairs when two EMTs approached you. You’d seen them before. Both of them quick with an easy smile that said they were sure they were god’s gift to woman. Both of them wrong.

The first one, buzz cut and blond, leaned on the counter beside you with one elbow. There was that stupid grin. “Some of the crew is getting together at Duke’s for drinks tonight. You should come. Unless you have plans with someone less interesting.”

You didn’t look up, just signed off on the chart before flipping to a new patient. “Not really my scene.”

His partner leaned in from beside him. “Come on. You’ll have a good time. Promise.” His eyes made a slow crawl from your head to your toes, pausing on your tits and licking his lips. “I wasn’t aware you could get scrubs that fit like that.”

You forced a smile to keep from kneeing him in the groin. “Maybe you should get back to work instead of spending your time gawking at me.”

He put a hand to his heart, mock offended. “I’m a professional. I never gawk, I admire.”

Buzzcut butted in. “Seriously though, you should come tonight. Bring a friend if you’re worried.”

The air changed before you heard the footsteps, the entire hub going suddenly quiet. You didn’t have to look to know who was there.

Robby didn’t say a word at first, just braced one hand on the counter as he loomed behind you. The medics shrank back half an inch. Not far enough.

He spoke in a low rumble. “You fellas need something or are you just bored?”

Buzzcut coughed into his hand. “Just being friendly, doc.”

Robby’s gaze never left his face. “Uh huh. Well, we have patients to see and I don’t see any point to you loitering here.”

The partner tried to protest. “We were just chatting, man. Didn’t mean to clog your workflow.”

The smile that covered Robby’s face said that something very, very bad was about to happen. “Glad to hear it.”

He turned to you and his eyes softened. “You good?”

You nodded, but before you could say anything, the buzzcut idiot put a hand on your arm to get your attention. “Don’t forget, sweetheart, we’ll be at Duke’s anytime after six.”

Robby moved faster than you thought possible. In one motion, he had shoved the idiot’s hand off of you and stepped between you and the man in question. “Don’t fucking touch what’s not yours.” His voice was glacial. “She’s not your sweetheart, she’s mine. Find someone else to hit on.”

Their hands were up in a flash as they backed away. “No offense. We didn’t know.”

Robby leaned in. “Now you do.”

He didn’t even look at you, just staring them down until they retreated, not relaxing until they were gone. He turned to you then, running his gaze over you as if making certain you were okay. “I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry in the least.”

You wanted to be mad at him for destroying any semblance of privacy you’d had left. Instead, you only felt elated that he had so publicly claimed you. You glanced at Dana to find her watching the two of you with an amused smile playing on her lips. “We’ll be right back.”

“By all means take your time,” she said as she waved you off. “It’s not like we have beds to clear or anything.” You cringed but there was no heat in her words.

You grabbed the front of Robby’s hoodie and dragged him behind you to the supply closet. You pushed him inside and followed behind. As soon as the door clicked shut, his hands were on your hips—gripping, kneading.

“What the hell was that, Robby?”

He blinked, obviously not expecting a lecture. “He touched you.”

You huffed a laugh. “You just made a scene in the middle of the Pitt. HR is going to have an aneurysm.”

He stepped forward, crowding you. “I’m tired of pretending you’re just another resident.” He ran his nose along your neck, nipping your ear. “You’re not.”

You braced a hand on his chest, half to steady yourself, half to keep him from coming closer. “I’m just saying I would prefer not to be fired, thanks.”

He scoffed. “They wouldn’t dare. I’d go with you and they can’t lose me.”

You let him stew for a second then sighed. “You’re so fucking impatient,” you said with a roll of the eyes. “If you’d just waited a few more days, you could have announced our relationship with a lot more style.”

He pulled back, brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

You hesitated, unsure if you wanted to tell him here. Fuck it. “I’m late.”

He stared. “For what?”

You laughed. “Not for an appointment, genius. Late-late. As in you finally fulfilled your promise to fuck a baby into me.”

His eyes went wide and his hand found your stomach. “You’re pregnant?”

You shrugged. “Bought a test. It’s in my locker.”

He exhaled, shaky, His hands slid around your waist, firmer this time. “Holy shit.”

You reached up and traced your thumb along the crease in his brow. “Don’t act so surprised. This was your whole goal, wasn’t it?”

He chuckled. “Are you sure?”

“Test first, but pretty sure.”

He nodded, breathing hard. “Okay.” A wide smile covered his face and he kissed you again, softer this time before leaning his forehead against yours. His hand covered your stomach again. “Mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, daddy.”